Dear Quarantine Diary – Week 40

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covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, faith, family

Dear Diary – It’s Week 40, the same number of weeks as the average gestation period for humans. Even though I might feel like it, I am not a sleep-deprived new Mom. I’m slowly recovering from the Death Flu of last week. In addition to regaining some energy (and sadly, appetite that wants dessert), I’ve been left with a burning chest. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon and I’m simply sitting on the couch. I was very fortunate to speak to my Dr. and I’m on an inhaler. This happened last time I tried this new medication and I’m going to go out on a limb and say, this one is NOT for me!

Last Thursday, I crawled from my bed…to the couch, where I consumed gingerale, crackers, and the entire mini series “Angel of Darkness”.

Since then, I’ve banished the “darkness” and have tackled multiple piles of crap and corners of crud. I’m reclaiming the house after all the in-house shuffling during covid to accomodate work, school, and whatever it is that I do! With some shuffling in the office, I made room for the desk that was in the middle of the bedroom. Now all my sewing is in one room, and my bedroom is once again a bedroom. Plus I have a trunk full of crap to donate. Just in time for a new furnace (hopefully tomorrow – he has yet to confirm but we agreed to his suggeste date, so he might just show up. And, hopefully, I will be dressed). Also just in time for Thanksgiving. Eldest Son might be bringing his girlfriend for a night and I couldn’t let her see the house in the shape it was in. Between covid, illnesses and sewing my brains out, the house is clean, but not tidy.

But it’s well on the way!

You never get a second chance to make a first impression.

Will Rogers

Dear Diary – Do you ever get the feeling that something isn’t right? Intuition? Premonition? Sixth Sense? Nonesense. Whatever you call it, I starting feeling it Friday morning.

Normally, I drive Youngest Son to school, but I was still nursing a headache and had told him the night before he was on his own. I planned to get up in time to say “bye”, but he left 15 minutes early. I only know this because I heard the door slam on his way out. I raced to the window but by the time I got there, he was already out of sight. I went back to bed and thought nothing of it.

Until lunchtime, right around the time he’d be leaving the school.

And then he didn’t come home.

I dismissed the feeling and tried to reason why he’d be so late. But he isn’t a doddler and the time for his online co-op placement was fast approaching. Was the timetable impacted by an assembly? Was co-op in-class today? Had he been kidnapped by pirates and sold into slavery?

The school confirmed no assembly. I left a voicemail for his co-op teacher puttered aimlessly the rest of the afternoon.

The teacher called after school. It was business as usual, so where was Youngest Son? The teacher contacted his placement supervisor and called me back. The Supervisor had received a message from Youngest Son saying he would be late because he had “taken the wrong bus and was a long way from home”.

My heart sunk. He could be anywhere in the city…in any direction. I had no way of finding out!

Except…

I had received a text from an unknown person, which I had to tap to open so I completely ignored it. I opened it now. While I couldn’t read the full message, I saw a couple street names, my home and cell number and phrases like “bus left”, “Hudson” and “their son is there”.

I grabbed my keys, slapping a “Call me!” note on the front door, and headed to the nearby Mall with a Hudson’s Bay store.

Inside I was racing to that store. Outside, I was crawling because it was Friday afternoon in the city. I prayed between heated sighs and low growls. I sounded like Marg Simpson. I knew it; I didn’t care! DIdn’t these stupid people know I needed to get my child?

I frantically hobbled around the store several times, then the Mall. I don’t know if there were even any good sales on! I even had a salesclerk try paging him several times. The first time, she asked him to come to the Estee Lauder counter. I rolled my eyes. I don’t know too many teenage boys who know what Estee Lauder is?

But after nearly an hour, no Youngest Son. With a knot in my stomach the size of a basketball, I called Hubby to come home, and crawled my way there too. I hit every red light. When I got stopped by a freight train, just blocks from home, I actually screamed. Not a high-pitched scream like I’d been frightened by a spider, but something ferocious and feral. The intensity of it scared me, but I once again felt more in control of the terror clawing on the periphery.

My heart sunk when I saw my note still on the door. One more tour of the neighbourhood, then I called the police.

I had just started to reheat a cup of tea in the microwave (since tea is stereotypically consumed by those in distress), when the police officers arrived. The microwave continued to snark chirp throughout the first phase of questioning.

It wasn’t until the officer opened the weird message fully, that I realized it was from Youngest Son on his computer, and I knew exactly where he was. I had gone to the wrong mall! It had crossed my mind, but in my haste, I had stupidly dismissed it and wasted so much time!

The officers asked for a recent photo so they could share it with mall security and police in the area. Youngest Son has resisted having his photo taken for years. Any “recent” photos would have a hand, a burger, something over his face.

Hubby arrived home and we found a photo. We texted a few folks who we had informed so they could be praying. Our pastor and long-time friend called to say he was on his way…to the mall.

And we waited. I rocked in the rocking chair, squeaking a 4/4 rock beat, irritating everyone in the room.

After about 40 minutes, the phone rang and I heard the sweetest words: “I’ve got him!”

He had been lost for 5 1/2 hours. When the officer stepped outside to tell his partner, I burst into tears.

This has always been one of my greatest fears…that my child would find himself frightened, alone, and hurt, at the mercy of a stranger. If God should choose to take him home, I want to be there. I want to hold him and comfort him, and usher him into the arms of Jesus. It’s an irrational fear, maybe even a selfish one. But whoever said fear was rational?

It’s an instinctive part of being a parent, to want to safeguard our children against the monsters that really do exist and to stand in the gap to protect them. With everything we’ve got…

It’s a fear that shifts even when they’ve grown and are on their own, but it will never really go away.

Like the story of the prodigal son, we feasted to celebrate his return. Instead of the fatted calf, we had pizza, chips and chocolate (O Henry!) Youngest Son has had to patiently endure several discussions, and lots of hugs and kisses. He made up his co-op time on Saturday. We will be getting him a cell phone and this time, he promises to keep it charged and take it with him!!

I read Psalm 121 to Youngest Son almost every day when he was on the way. It reminded me that God would watch over him always, from the moment he was conceived to the day he takes his last breath.

We are so thankful for a caring friend, who literally hopped in his truck to bring him home. We’re thankful for all the people who, hearing what was going on, prayed with us. We are thankful for a loving Heavenly Father who watched over him.

We have so much for which to be thankful every day.

The Lord will keep you from all harm- He will watch over your life;  the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.

Ps. 121:7-8

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week 22

Tags

covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, faith, garden, humour, sewing

Dear Diary – Not only is my child faster in video games, he’s faster in come-backs. I’m not sure it’s a good thing.

On Sunday evening, phone in hand, Hubby headed up the stairs. “I’m going to call my Dad”, he said, “but I have to go to the bathroom first”.

“That’s a pity”, I said (referring to the bathroom break, not the call).

“No,” Youngest Son retorted, “it’s a duty”.

Dear Diary – Summer is fast approaching, bringing with it hot and humid days. Which means my window for baking is coming to a close. So in an effort to find joy in the current “ho-hum” of life, I decided to tackle a couple of new recipes.

The first was onion jam. It was a tearful experience…but only because I had to chop 4 cups of onions. It was also a long experience as it required constant attention, and disappointingly, yielded only 2 cups. I’m not sure I would call it “jam” as the word infers something sticky and, well….”jammy”. It was the texture of very soft and caramelized onion. But! It was delicious on a hamburger, and if there’d been bacon and goat cheese too, I would have been in heaven.

My second recipe was not really a recipe at all. I literally cobbled together an apple-rhubard crumble pie using my apple crisp recipe x2, and instinct.

Two years ago, my aunt blessed me with some of her rhubarb plants and I have been carefully watching my tiny patch. This year, it produced enough rhubarb for a taste, while leaving plenty to go to seed so my patch will grow. Rhubarb is hard to find in the city and it’s priced like gold!

She gardens…she sews…she bakes…she paints…she refinishes furniture… there’s nothing she can’t do. Except maybe skydive.

To make things easier, I used a frozen pie shell for the base, because eating was a higher priority than fussing with pastry. I’m happy to report that, for once, I didn’t have a mental bakedown. My instinct paid off, and we polished that pie off in 2 days. It would have been one but I managed to keep the wolves at bay with a wooden spoon.

This is my invariable advice to people: Learn how to cook, try new recipes, learn from your mistakes, be fearless, and above all have fun.

Julia Child

Dear Diary – I was playing Halo with Youngest Son yesterday, and in a panic, I furiously pushed the button and yelled, “why can’t I change guns?. Slightly annoyed, Youngest Son tells me, “that’s because you’re pushing the “capture screenshot” button…like 20 times”.

So…. apparently my new controller has an extra button to capture screenshots.

Dear Diary – Today I went to Home Depot to buy herbs and flowers. I couldn’t invest much in my garden during covid. We couldn’t “shop” and the selection was limited or quickly picked over. I ordered seeds onlinelast year, but most of them never grew. Only the basil, and it was “basil on steroids”. I still have plenty left from my harvest last summer – dried, frozen, and minced and made into ice cubes.

To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.

Audrey Hepburn

I have always felt there is something special about gardening. The size, the space, the colour, the texture of the garden matters not because it’s about more than growing flowers or producing vegetables. It’s about nurturing the soul. Hands not idle, yet a quiet time for the mind to reflect or meditate. A safe space for tears to flow, and a restless heart to find peace.

Peace is something for which we are all searching. Whether it’s a break from the hurriedness of life, or calmness in a storm. I believe our Creator speaks to us in a garden. Like every person, each petal and blade of grass is a different and beautiful. We just need to look more closely.

I’m reminded that when Jesus sought the Father, asking that He been spared the cross, it was in a garden. It was also a garden where He met Mary after He rose again. C. Austin Miles was inspired by this story when he wrote the hymn, In the Garden, in April, 1912. It was my great-grandmother’s favourite hymn. He writes in the first person of walking in the garden with Jesus, and the peace and joy experienced in that place.

I am aware that my new fragrant herbs and purple petunias cannot chase away the grey clouds in my life, (nor rooting out the tangle of weeds that reach my knees), but I expect I will meet with Someone who can. Already, my heart overflows.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own;
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known.

C. Austin Miles

Dear Diary – I’ve been putting it off for some time now, but in order to get my Etsy business off the ground, I needed photos of my cute bags with a model. Since I can count the number of friends I have on one hand, my best option was not to harass ask them. but to do it myself. But in order to do that, there were a few obstacles to overcome.

First, I needed a plain background, and my house offers neither a plain blank wall or a brick facade. We have a wooden fence but standing knee-deep in weeds, climbing over a pile of assorted boards, or figuring out how to use a power tool to remove paintings (that no longer have a picture) was too overwhelming. I finally decided to amuse my neighbours and use the straggly, hole-y hedge in the front yard.

Setting established, the next challenge was to figure out how to use the tripod. I vaguely recalled Youngest Son using it once for a school project and it being waist-high, but after several minutes of unlocking and locking toggles, and tugging on poles, I was beginning to think it had all been a dream. I could barely get the camera higher than my knees. And I’m short! I would have asked Youngest Son but he was writing a physics test and I didn’t want to interrupt him. Fortunately, before I threw it across the room, I had a rare “ah-ha!” moment, and the problem was solved.

I attached my camera and turned it on.

The battery was dead.

An hour later, having put my hair up and changed into a black knit dress and jean jacket, I headed out with a basket full of bags, my tripod, my camera, and a looming sense of dread.

It was too hot for a jean jacket!

It took several attempts to figure out how to use the timer. After several snaps of my knees, face and butt (thankfully blurry), I figured out how to make it autofocus. Sort of. But despite the gray skies and looming black clouds, the photos were washed out.

I hefted everything closer to the road and tried again. But it was the same issue. So I moved everything again, within feet of the road but under the shade of the tree.

By now, the guy across the street was watching me from his front door, several passers-by had quizzed me non-verbally, and George down the street, was pretending to work in his garden.

I didn’t appreciate an audience.

By the end, I was becoming quite a pro at guessing where to stand with 5 seconds remaining, and how to turn to hide my chubby elbows and “water wings”. Or so I thought.

I have photos.

They’re not great.

But at least I finished my project before it started to rain.

I always thought it would be fun to be a model, but quite frankly, it’s hard work taking accessories off and on, holding odd positions, and pretending it was “fun”. I’d say “I’ll keep my day job” but I’m still figuring out just what that should be.

You know why adults ask kids what they want to be when they grow up?
It’s because they’re looking for ideas!

Unknown

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week 14

Tags

chocolate, covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, faith, family, food, humour, music, worship

Dear Diary – Who says you have to have alcohol to have fun? Just add chocolate!

One evening this week, Youngest Son asked me if I wanted to share his chocolate bomb. He was given a beautiful, handcrafted, semi-circular, dark chocolate bomb, drizzled in white chocolate, at Christmas. How this large, gorgeous chocolate piece remained under my radar for so long is truly a mystery!

Hubby recorded the transformation, and the hilarity that ensued after it was made…but I can’t post videos on WordPress. I can post it on Facebook but only my friends can see it, and I’m not changing the permissions because the world does not need to see what I did!

First I plunked the chocolate bomb in a clear mug and warmed the milk in the microwave. I used my lactose-free milk to minimize the…ah, negative effects on my body. My family thanks me. Pouring from a deep bowl into a mug was messy, and 1/3 of the milk dribbled on the counter. Hubby just rolled his eyes.

We watched in silent anticipation for something to happen. It didn’t. So I started gently submerging the bomb in the milk. Suddenly, hot chocolate powder started to spray across the top. After a couple more dunks, powder and marshmallows bubbled to the surface.

It was delicious. We split it 3 ways.

No weeping for shed milk.

James Howard

My 2L carton of lactose-free milk costs more than a 4L bag, so before Hubby could mop up the counter, I leaned it and started slurping. Except the sound wasn’t what you would expect. It was more like the high-pitched whine of a small engine, or as Oldest Son described it, “screws in a squeaky dryer”. Yes, Hubby recorded that too.

I didn’t realize he was recording until the second video where he stuck his phone by my face. I was laughing so hard, I had to turn my face away a couple of times before I could suck. I’d love to post the videos, not because I’d enjoy the humiliation, but to share the fun. The three of us watched it over and over and laughed so hard, we had tears running down our faces and I thought I was going to bust a gut. I’m not sure if they were laughing at the video or laughing at me, but we were laughing together. And that’s priceless.

Dear Diary – I’m not sure why, but it’s kind of reassuring that I’m still bendy enough to pee in the car. I went with Hubby to his second MRI (at the hospital where I just had my own fun experience), but with covid restrictions, I had to wait in the car. For an hour and a half.

Hubby kindly parked in the corner of the parking garage so I could have a view of the amusement park across the road. Too bad the roller coaster wasn’t running. It also meant I had natural light on 2 sides of the car so I could read or play on my phone. There was even free wifi. But there was no loo (and with my sore foot, I wouldn’t have made it to the hospital anyway)!

I had been so careful, even skipping my morning pot of tea. In theory, nothing went in so nothing should need to go out. Right? I was doing well at ignoring my bodily urges when Hubby texted that they were running late. Suddenly the prospect of waiting longer was too much and my body overruled my mind.

Trying to look casual, as in “nothing to see here” and covered in a blanket (because it’s still winter in Canada), I precariously perched over my empty Tim Horton’s coffee cup. Mission accomplished.

Hubby swung by Tim Horton’s on the way home. Empty coffee cup replaced. 😉

When I have to go, I have to go!

Dear Diary – We lost our phone connection Sunday evening and began the arduous task of getting it repaired. On the plus side, since Hubby had to remove the lattice on the back porch anyway, it was a good time for him to climb under and retrieve the butter knife I dropped last October. I was having an outside tea party with a friend. Three and a half hours after the phone was restored, the phone company texted to say the technician was on his way.

Dear Diary – The new sewing machine is working like a dream. I’m just scared to adjust any of the settings.

Almost finished

Dear Diary – Our covid numbers continue to climb, even without regular testing to document it accurately. Today a local doctor was recommending masks be mandated in public places and schools, and that bi-weekly rapid tests be conducted in schools. It’s news we’re not sharing with Youngest Son.

By today, we have to inform the school if he will spend Grade 12 in virtual school or in-person. If we don’t say, they will assume in-person. Youngest Son would prefer virtual school, but only the required courses will be offered online. It means he has to change 5 of the courses he has chosen, and he hasn’t found 5 courses he’d like to take instead. After being so careful for 2 years, we understand his concern. Hubby has also been summoned back to the office before the end of the month. With the mask mandates lifted and close quarters, he’s nervous too.

At the beginning of covid, we were suddenly thrust into living in close quarters. With Hubby taking over the dining room (which is also part of our living room), the main floor felt “off limits” during working hours. I had to tip-toe around the kitchen, and find things to do upstairs. Converting Youngest Son’s bedroom into my office/craft room was a great project. It also forced me to purge craft supplies, although I think there still a half ton of paper and stamps that could safely go.

I understand the importance of getting back to “normal” but this alternate lifestyle has become “normal”. At the beginning, it was like a new marriage as we rubbed against each other like two pieces of sandpaper, but once the hard work of adjusting was over, it wasn’t so bad. I will actually miss it.

After more than 2 years, I’ve grown accustomed to our routines. I like it when Hubby randomly “pops in” to say “hi”. I like having someone else around to answer questions, fill the bird feeder, and deal with spiders. Every time he yelled “Honey I’m home” from 12 feet away, I smiled. We ate on time. We had time for walks and quick kisses (& minecraft). I’m not sure my office will be used as much because being upstairs alone will feel, well, lonely. It will be another adjustment. When Youngest Son heads to university, it will be another adjustment. And when Hubby retires (if he ever can), it will be yet another adjustment. I guess it’s true – the only thing that stays the same is that nothing stays the same.

Dear Diary – You should always listen to your wife. After all the MRIs and other tests conducted on Hubby since his bizarre sleepwalking accident early in March, it was the CT scan done on his head the night of his accident that actually gives the clue as to why he continues to suffer with a nasty burning sensation in his forearms. That night, I called an ambulance. That night, the EMS asked Hubby if he wanted to go the hospital. He wasn’t sure. I said yes.

Sure, it’s very likely that tests would have led to this discovery, but it might have taken longer. I’m taking credit for this. Always. listen. to. your. wife. 😉

Dear Diary – Am I allowed to do some self-promotion?

I am, by no means, a gifted singer. I am not, nor have I been, nor shall I ever be the “cool kid”. But I was given the opportunity to work with some amazing musicians and technical folks at my church, and our music video has been posted publicly… so no one can really complain if I share it here. The song I led starts around 6 minutes, but I think you should check out the whole thing!

I felt awkward at the time. I feel awkward now. But it was never about looking “hot” or sounding “groovy”. It was about worship. I’ve heard there are plans in the works to record more, and I’m excited!

Dear Diary – I learned a new word, and with covid restrictions lifting and people leaving their houses again, it’s an action I’ll have to employ again. Actually, once Hubby goes back to work, I need to do a serious Spring cleaning!

Scurryfunge: A hasty tidying of the house when a last minute guest is coming to visit, as in:
“I scurryfunge every time my mother-in-law announces she’s popping round”.

Dear Quarantine Diary – Year 3/Week 3

Tags

covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, faith, family, humour

Dear Diary – My bathroom scales played a mean trick on me. I stepped on the scales today and it said I’d lost 6 lbs. I knew that wasn’t right; my jeans said so!! When I tried again, it said I weighed 98 lbs. I know that’s not right. The third attempt put me at my pre-Christmas number. Sold! I wasn’t trying a fourth time!

Cremation is my last hope for a smoking hot body.

Unknown

Dear Diary – We started the work week with a huge dump of the white stuff. And it wasn’t the dandruff kind. Hubby changed his plans to head to the office, and instead, headed outside to start blowing snow. He got most of the way before the battery ran out. Within half an hour, you couldn’t tell he’d been out.

I was just settling down with my Bible and my tea, when I noticed the lady across the street, hustling up her drive-way. She grabbed a shovel and headed down the street. Where was her car? So I tossed on some clothes and headed out to see if I could help. I expected to find her car stuck on the unplowed street at the corner. Instead, it was a couple blocks away. I debated about whether to keep going or not. I was already breaking a sweat as I stumbled along the road in the heavy snow in the ruts carved by brave drivers. The sidewalks were knee-deep and it was only 9 a.m. But I also felt alittle invigorated, like an intrepid frontierswoman, braving the elements. I was more than halfway to my stranded neighbours, when they got in their car and drove off. My mission of mercy was meh!

By the time I got back home, Hubby was getting ready to send out a search party. I topped up the bird feeder and warmed up with some hot chocolate.

And a really BIG marshmallow!

There was a air of community by evening as people emerged from their houses up and down the street, to start diggin their way out. The worst was over and the skies were clearing.

Even the birds had some work to do…

The next morning, the snowplow came by…and dumped a 4′ wide swath of knee-deep snow across the bottom of the driveway. It had rolled in places into balls, perfect for snowmen heads. That air of community was still there…with several men out clearing their homesteads. They all watched me, but none of them offered to help this little lady. After 45 minutes of slogging, I had 4 tracks cleared for our car and the neighbour’s car, and I called it a day! I’ll be feeling it until next May.

All in all, between 40-60 cm fell in one day, closing down highways and schools (except we now have virtual school so that sucked!!)!

Dear Diary – My days haven’t been all work and no play. I finally tried out my new textured rolling pin. I made shortbread cookies but I think regular sugar cookies would be better. The pattern melted off the shortbreads.

I failed at caramelizing onions in the oven but cooked perfect T-bone steaks!

I made a big pot of tasty carrot soup completely from scratch, but lost some of it when my food processor leaked. It was probably time to wash the kitchen floor again anyway…

And I consulted for Hubby when he attempted Mary Berg’s omelette-soufflé. Light as a cloud!

Dear Diary – It was way overdue. My hair was a disgusting washed out green colour, so I took the time to colour my hair. This time I didn’t get any on the sink, but I have 2 blue finger nails. Speaking of blue, last November, Eldest Son and I went together on an order for temporary tattoos. They’re just like the sticker kinds kids would get in a Happy Meal, only instead of a picture, it’s plant-based ink. It darkens over 48 hours from neon green, to navy blue, to black. I can feel like a rock star without the hangover or the regrets..for the next 1-3 weeks.

Dear Diary – Hubby shocked me by agreeing to watch one of my favourite movies, You’ve Got Mail. I love the quirky banter between Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, and of course, the happy ending. They fit together like pancakes and maple syrup. I always laugh at the delicate jab at fancy coffee drinkers, and the quote about daring:

You are daring to imagine that you could have a different life. Oh, I know it doesn’t feel like that. You feel like a big fat failure now. But you’re not. You are marching into the unknown armed with…nothing.

Birdie Conrad

It kind of sums up my life. I keep daring to imagine a different life, yet never seem to get anywhere, and consequently, feel like a failure. I know I’m not. I know we are not all destined for “great” things, and really, who gets to decide what is “great”? . Couldn’t raising children to be respectful, fully-functioned adults who contribute to society, be “great”? Couldn’t taking the time to talk to someone who is grieving or discouraged, be “great”? Depending on the definition, we ALL do something “great” for someone. I believe God is in control of my “destiny”, and while that destiny means I may never walk a red carpet or win a Nobel prize, it doesn’t mean I can’t stop marching into the unknown. Uphill. All the way.

If I cannot do great things, I can do small things in a great way.

Jodi Picoult, Small Great Things 

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week #48

Tags

covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, faith, family, food, humour

Dear Diary – Little Guy celebrated his sweet 16 and I’m being pressed to give him a new nickname in my blog. Since he nearly towers over every member of our immediate family, (and has long objected to the nickname “Little Guy”), it’s not a completely unreasonable request. But what to use? Tall and short are out as that offends the older the brother, who is shorter than Little Guy. Both, obviously, tower over me. Beard and No Beard won’t work for long. Dumb and Dumber doesn’t work because sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart. Also, as a Mom, I should be more sensitive. I guess. No.1 and No. 2 make me think of bathroom jokes, which I’m sorry, work at any age. I could use their first initial, “J” and “M”, but that’s kinda boring. I’m open to suggestions!

Dear Diary – I broke down and made French toast for lunch one day. Youngest Son was just staring at the pan, so I asked him what he was thinking. He answered, “That French toast is shaped like my butt”.

Really? I was just thinking it looked yummy….

Dear Diary – It’s been a long time since I shared a TMI: Terrible Mental Image. A TMI is the sudden manifestation of a mental picture painted “with broad, sweeping strokes” where your brain (whether it dwells in the gutter or not) spontaneously fills in the blanks after someone says something that may be completely innocent.

I haved shared 8 TMIs in the past, ranging in depravity. Just search “terrible mental” in the search box at the top of this blog and they should all magically appear. Here’s #9.

The scene: Sitting down the lunch on the couch on Saturday morning.

What was said:

Hubby to Youngest Son: I need to put your mark on the wall.

What He meant: Every year we record Youngest Son’s height on the door frame.

My TMI: Youngest Son rubbing his tiny butt on the wall to mark his height next to brown “skid marks” lining the wall at increasing incremental heights.

Think about it for a moment. Picture it.

There you go!

Dear Diary – For once, though it was certainly not the prettiest birthday cake I’ve ever produced, it was a successfully baked birthday cake. No sticking. No peeling. No snafus.

Are you disappointed?

But later that same weekend, Oldest Son and I tried a new recipe. Well, the essence of a recipe because really we just took the idea and threw it together. I’m not sure what to call it. It’s actually kinda gross, but strangely hard to stop eating. We made rice krispy squares, without the rice krispies. Instead, we substitued them for plain rippled potato chips. It was oddly good warm, like a plate of nachos. It was oddly good cold, like a salty, chewy cookie.

Salty, sweet, cripsy, gooey marshmallow chip guck.

I think I”ll work on the name.

Dear Diary – It wasn’t the first snow of the season but Sunday was certainly the first major snow this season. It was coming down in thick flakes, making the roads greasy and reducing visibility. Having grown out in a small town, driving in snow is no biggie. Clean your car so you can see. Slow down. Leave extra space. All common sense in my opinion. But in the city, I never cease to be amazed at how silly people can be. I realize that winter driving is new for a lot of people in the city. Driving is new for a lot of people in the city! But even seasoned, experienced drivers seem to “forget” how to drive in the few short months of no snow. We passed cars that had careened off the side of the highway, probably going too fast. We passed cars with rear windows still thickly covered with snow, like a blanket. Who in their right minds would drive with a blanket covering the back window? At the very least, if you’re blessed with a rear wiper, don’t be so lazy. Flick the button!

Concerns over contracting covid sounds a lot nicer than “I’m not leaving the house because I don’t have the patience for stupid people”. It’s going to be a looong winter.

Dear Lord, grant me the serenity to accept stupid people as they are, the courage to maintain my self-control, and the wisdom to know that if I act on it, I will go to jail. Amen.

Unknown

Dear Diary – Just when I think I’ve escaped, they pull me back in. Just kidding.

Yesterday I was asked to come to my former job to train the latest Gatekeeper in the Cubicle of Purgatory. This will be the third office administrator I’ve trained since I “retired” 2 years ago. (Time flies!) Covid certainly played a part in tallying up replacements, but I confess, it also feels kinda nice that I’m almost “irreplaceable”?

I have mourned over this job for a long time. The decision to leave was difficult and I left wounded. But it is time for someone to take up the baton and I was happy to go in and share what I could, to give the new Gatekeeper an excellent start to her new beginning.

I suspect I will still receive a few panicked phone calls though. I have for the past 2 years. 😉

I felt sad as I drove out of the parking lot and, as so often happens, God spoke to me through music. I had popped in an old cd Friday night and it was just there in the background. A guitar began to strum and someone sang softly, over and over, “Leave it all behind.”

It’s what I’ve been trying to do – to leave behind hurtful actions and words, the anger, and the frustration. I’ve prayed for healing. I’ve prayed for forgiveness too. Conflict usually involves more than one person and there are things I wish I had done differently. I prayed God would tear down the walls and sharp places in me that had built up and made me feel angry and hard. I’ve hated it. I don’t want to be someone who is judgmental and easily offended, self-absorbed and unkind. My name, “Jennifer” means “gentle spirit”, not “raving lunatic”!

Since I started this blog, I have changed quite a bit. Some changes have been good and I like them. I feel more comfortable with who I am. I’m less caught up in being perfect. I worry less about what others think of me and I can laugh at myself more. I’ve certainly had more fun, made some crazy memories, and learned some things along the way.

But I haven’t liked all the changes or ways I’ve started to adopt. I know, with God’s help, I can ditch them for something better. I get to choose.

I’m still searching and waiting for direction because I don’t believe I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. I haven’t “arrived”. Change can be good, even when it’s painful, and I’m ready to leave this behind.

Isn’t it ironic that the next song talked about God breathing life into old bones? Don’t tell me God doesn’t have a gentle sense of humour!

Dear Diary – Purolator, who delivered my box to the wrong address (thankfully the lady down the street finally let us know….3 days later) and who have since ignored my efforts to tell them off get in touch with them, sent me a survey to rate them on my recent experience with them.

This is going to be fun…

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week #46

Tags

covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, faith, family, food, humour, shopping

Dear Diary – I just walked by Hubby’s desk (aka our dining room table) and I heard him say, “32 45 56”. He better be talking about airplane parts and not my measurements.

Dear Diary – If insecurity or feelings of inadequacy were a lipstick colour, mine would have been harlot red Thursday evening. I headed to worship team rehearsal with an oppressive sense of impending disaster. This would be my second time using tracks and we had a new team member. I was afraid I’d look unprepared despite having spent a large amount of time trying to figure out why the music and the tracks, and the bells and the whistles, didn’t quite add up! I thought I had it all figured out along with copious notes, but as I pondered, panic set in. I couldn’t remember a thing. What was my name? Who thought I should do this?

I arrived on time, with head held high and a plastic smile on my face. I hate plastic smiles. I’ve wished I had taken drama in high school because it’s fun to pretend to be other people. But it’s not fun when you’re you pretending to be you.

If rehearsal were a plated dish, it would be described as “rustic”. It was a little rough around the edges. But the great thing about working with a team is that I have others to rely on. I may be “leading” but the burden isn’t entirely mine. Yes, they rely on me to do my part, but I still had time work it out. I also had time to ask God to help me work on that harlot red insecurity. It’s really not my best shade!

You deserve the greater glory, Overcome I sing
By Your love I am accepted, You’re a good and gracious King

CityAlight, Good and Gracious King

Dear Diary – On Saturday I met with a group of women at the church at the ridiculous hour of 8:30. I know, not so ridiculous if you’re a morning person, which I am not. I’m not a night person either. More of a 20 minute gal in middle of the day, but I digress. We watched some videos (in a darkened room – very dangerous) and then broke into smaller discussion groups. Even though we don’t know each other well, it was an opportunity to be honest and vulnerable. On the way home, I realized I have missed that.

For an assignment in college, I had to ask a few people who knew me, to list 10 words to describe me. More than one person wrote “naive” and it made me angry. I didn’t want to be seen as a sheltered little girl. I was, by this time, a Mom training hard so we could have a good life. Or maybe I was confusing naivety with vulnerability. I lacked armour. It’s probably why the arguments and words cut so deeply in the early years of our marriage (the first 15 were the hardest). I’ve since developed armour, and I hate it! I hate feeling fake. I hate feeling brittle and hard. I hate being guarded all the time, because I want to be open and honest with others, and with myself.

It was always my prayer whenever I spoke at Ladies’ Morning Break, to be genuine, and when I was, I felt peace. That opportunity, along with so many others, was stripped away by the pandemic and the empty space it left behind echoes loudly at times. It felt so good to share my heart. It felt so good to be trusted with another’s heart. Perhaps that’s the thing that the pandemic stole the most…not just time with family and happy memories, but a part of our soul that connects honestly and openly with others. Every time we left the house, our bodies were vulnerable. But every day we stayed home, we became vulnerable too.

This Saturday, I’ve been asked to speak at a ladies’ morning at my new church. I’ll be honest – I’m nervous. There will be some ladies there who know me, who know just how far off the beaten path I can go! They’ve already learned to accept that. But there will be new ladies too, and I’m not sure what they’ll think of me. Will I make them laugh? Will I scare them? Will I get called into the pastor’s office?

I guess….wait and see!

Dear Diary – You know how I feel about online shopping. It sucks. Imagine my surprise when 2 packages arrived, intact and early this week. But the happy feeling couldn’t last. Yesterday I checked the status of the next package to arrive. It said it was delivered. Hmm…nothing on the porch. So I went to purolator’s site, It said delivered, but when I dug deeper, one page said it’s on a truck and another showed a map and that truck hasn’t been anywhere near my town. I called and entered my tracking number. That number wasn’t recognized. I thought I’d be on hold for the next week, and they’d answer in the middle of the night. I’d be asleep and have to start again. I did finally get an answer but Tim wasn’t much help. They swear it was delivered, even though there’s no photo record like before, and the GPS on the truck is “unclear”. I will have to wait to talk to a “trace specialist” and go from there. I don’t know which I hate more: stupid people in the mall or online shopping!

Dear Diary – I learned a long time ago that if you feel you look good, it will bolster your confidence. Saturday I subjected Hubby to the monthly “what do I wear to lead worship “ parade, which is really just my version of a walk of shame. It’s not really that I’m vain; it’s that I’ve seen the unflattering angle of the cameras and with the added covid poundage (which I still say really started piling on and bringing friends when my doctor changed my medication. But what do I know?). Everything shrunk in my closet; nothing fits well. Including things that fit 2 weeks ago. Even my little black dress is too little, and I’m not talking about the little one. I’m talking about the one labelled XL!. The only items that haven’t completely betrayed me are my high heels, but my body screams when I contemplate wearing them.

After nearly an hour, with my closet in complete disarray, I had it narrowed down to one pair of pants, 2 tops, and one plaid mumu. I reluctantly paraded for Hubby. I say reluctantly because there have been misunderstandings before that led to meltdowns and chocolate, and chocolate can’t help me now. I’d probably worry less if the other musicians were less pretty and I was less neurotic. I don’t wish them ill, and for all I know, despite their calm, polished exterior, they may be as neurotic as me and spend an hour in their closet trying to stuff sausage into manicotti tubes too.

Dear Diary – Mom and I have commented lately, that there seem to be a lot of ads for pad and leak-proof undies for women of a certain age. Do all women leak? And do these leaky women all run around their houses in their bras and panties, admiring themselves in full-length mirrors? I avoid mirrors like a vampire avoids the sunshine.

One day, an ad for leak-proof undies came on, and Hubby commented, “do they have to zero in on old lady’s butts and cottage cheese cellulite”? To which I replied, “yeah! If you wanted to see old lady’s butt, all you have to do is ask me to bend over”!

Dear Diary – I will never learn. Watching baking shows is dangerous because it inspires me to try new things, and the results are not always a raging success. Once I’ve even messed up rice krispy squares! So, in my delusions of grandiose praise from my guys, I set out to make hand pies.

I made my pastry Tuesday evening. The hardest part was trying to get the grated butter off my fingers, and deciding how much ice water to add. The pastry wasn’t as smooth as I wanted, but I didn’t want to overwork it and make it tough.

Wednesday afternoon, I made my filling. The recipe was for a louisiana hand pie and used lots of spices, including a creole spice. I don’t like spicy food, nor do I have any concept of what might be in a creole spice mix, so I improvised. I threw in a bit of this and that, and smidgen of something else, until it smelled good to me, and I tossed the whole mince to cool in the fridge.

I was dreading rolling the pastry. Afterall, that’s what separates a pie from a pile of seasoned ground beef and the plate! So I gave myself plenty of time to play Minecraft before I started so I’d be very zen.

I didn’t play long enough.

The pastry was more like pizza dough, even after resting in the fridge overnight. The more I tried to roll it, the more gluten it produced, and the more spring-back it had. Still, I managed to wrestle 9 meat pies from it. They were ugly, but they were delicious!

True love is like butter. There are no substitutes for the real thing!

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week #43

Tags

covid-19 diary, dear diary, faith, family, humour

Dear Diary – There is not enough acid in the world to unburn the memory of Hubby walking into the bathroom the other night and asking me, with a smirk on his face, why I was using his toothbrush. I looked down and sure enough, there’s my pink toothbrush on the edge of the sink. Blech!

Dear Diary – What is a pumpkin’s favourite sport?
—

Squash!

Dear Diary – I thought there was something fundamentally wrong with me Sunday morning. I was leading worship and we were halfway through our rehearsal/sound check. So far, it had not been a stellar performace but we were committed. I was freaking out because it was the first time I was running the music track app, and I warned them that if I passed out, they were to leave me and soldier on without me! It might even be an improvement. 😉

So I pushed the button on the iPad and waited for the little voice in my ear to count me in to the intro. I bravely followed that little voice, but the keyboard sounded terrible and I was really struggling with the timing. I stopped us; we laughed it off. I pressed play again but the same thing happened. I broke into a cold sweat as my brain starting melting and my vision started to blacken around the edges. Someone to the left suggested we try playing it without the track, and as the guitarist started to strum, we all realized the tempo should be 6/8, not 4/4, and I looked at the app. Sure enough! I had done the exact thing I had had nightmares about all week. I had started playing the wrong track. Not only was it the wrong tempo and the wrong song, it was in a slightly lower key, which all accounted for just how wretched it sounded.

I was relieved that my brain wasn’t actually melting, but even more terrified that I was going to stupidly sink the whole ship with one tap of my icy cold finger!

It went well in the end. Keep in mind, I’m not a morning person. I don’t sleep well the night before I’m serving. AND I was up and out the door before the sun made an appearance. When I stepped out the door, it was chilly enough I could almost see my breath. The sky was a pretty shade of mauve and the waning moon was so bright and nearly full. As I headed north, the sky took on rosier shades of pink, and by the time I headed west again, the rosy sky contrasted with a bank of deep purple, silver-tipped clouds along the horizon.

As I reached the edge of town, a flourescent globe, the colour of mercurochome, began to rise. My ear tuned into the song on the cd. It was a song that had strengthened me through a tough month almost 2 years ago.

Your light will terrify the dark, I call upon the Name that tears apart the night.

Skillet, Terrify the Dark

Within the 10 minutes drive through town, Mr. Sun had crested the houses. When I got out of the car at the church, he was bashfully trying to hide behind the last cloud. What a start to a new week!

In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven. Matthew 5:16

Dear Diary – When I planted tulips Saturday afternoon, I did not expect them to become squirrel appetizers the very next day. After crafting Saturday morning with some lovely ladies, I also baked bread, which was also squirreled away by someone, because I only got 2 tiny slices.

My basil-on-steriods has been put to bed for the winter, but the oregano and thyme, which finally grew from seed months after they were planted, are loving the extra space. They’re not loving the blue jays and squirrels, who are enchanged with the “new” box on the patio. The box was moved when the roofers were here and it hasn’t been moved back. Yet.

I can’t find any worms. Can you find any worms, Ethel?

Dear Diary – I recently went with Hubby to pick out his new glasses. As I wandered around the store looking at frames, the flirtiness of the female eye technicians was not lost on me. There were 5 employees and 3 customers looking at frames: Hubby, Tubby, and me. Hubby had one technician chatting him up at the desk. Tubby had 2 ladies making frame suggestions for him. I barely received a glance, let alone a greeting or an offer to help. I don’t want to rant on customer service but after all the decades of promising and promoting gender equality, are we really still that shallow?

That was a rhetorical question. Don’t answer me.

Dear Diary – Did you know that Emily Dickinson’s use of the common meter allows most of her poems to be sung to the tune of “Gilligan’s Island”?

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –

You’re singing it right now, aren’t you?

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week #39

Tags

covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, faith, family, humour, worship

Dear Diary – My alarm clock went psycho this week. It started beeping a single bip at 6:30 one morning, every 20 seconds. I counted. It woke me up and in my fog-induced mind, it took awhile to deduce that the clock was the infernal source of noise. At first I was genuinely confused – did I actually hear a beep – and I froze under the blankets and waited for the intruder. When the high-pitched bip went again, my mind started mentally checking off the list of devices and their known “sounds” but none of them sounded the same. My next thought was the carbon monoxide detector in the basement, and fearing for Little Guy, I roared from bed and stubbed my toe. The pain reminded me that if it were the detector, everyone in a 10 mile radius would be pain, serious ear pain. It didn’t sound like a smoke detector, having been rudely awakened and tormented at various hours of the night in the past. So I stood there in the dark and willed the source to bip at me again.

What I found happening with the clock was truly confusing because the red digital numbers were counting the hours and minutes, all 24 of them, and singing a bip every time it hit 12 a.m. Nothing was pressed up against the buttons on the back. Neither sliding the alarm on and off, or turning on the radio, stopped it’s manic countdown and infuriating bip. I felt like I was in the midst of a cheesy Twilight Zone episode. Chills ran down my spine; the hair on the back of my neck stood up. It was probably because it was cool in the room and the fan was blowing cold air on me, so I unplugged it and crawled back in bed. Hubby woke me around 9, worried I was ill. “No,” I said, rolling over, “my clock went psycho”.

Speaking of psycho, I nearly ended up in a padded room, weaving baskets and singing kumbaya on the weekend. When I mentioned last week that unless you’ve done it, it’s hard to comprehend what’s involved in handmade goods. I forgot to mention time. When I cut out my pieces, they are identical and should fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Instead, they fit together more like a store-bought car model. It all fits together except one or two pieces inevitably don’t! I was working on a buffalo plaid bag for a friend (one for which I won’t get paid) and I got stuck on 1 seam for 2 hours. I was so hot, and frustrated…and hot. I ripped and sewed, and ripped again. I shortened the strap multiple times. I ended up with 3 raw edges, and there should only ever have been 2. I knew I should just walk away and start fresh in the morning, but I stubbornly forged ahead. I refused to be bested (yet again) by a piece of fabric. By the time I pinned it at the end of those 2 hours, I was exhausted but elated. They stitched together effortlessly the next day and the stupid bag has been delivered. Every member in my household rejoiced.

Dear Diary – Hubby was off last week and I asked him to tackle one of the jobs on the expanding “to-do” list for our home. I’d be happy to tackle some of the projects if I had a clue how to do so. I don’t mind heights but would probably struggle to lift shingles on the roof. And I’m scared to clean his room. He chose to regrout around our 1959 seafoam green bathroom. The grout was textured and mildew adhered to it as if it were velcro. I couldn’t scrub it away. It took him a few days, which meant we were without a tub and fighting for a position upwind. By the third day, I had to take action. At some point, sponge baths aren’t enough. So I took matters into my own hands and I bribed my friend with Tim Horton’s. I used her shower and in my defence, I had to attend worship team practice that evening and I’m having a hard time making friends. Showing up smelling anything less than like roses was not going to help. I left her place imagining this is how it feels after time in a spa.

A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born to help in time of need.

Proverbs 17:17a

Dear Diary – Yesterday was National Son Day. I couldn’t post any photos because Little Guy refuses to have his photo taken. I managed to talk him into the obligatory first day of school pic, but it’s literally his hand waving behind a closing door. I’ve been told it’s just a phase but I’m beginning to wonder

Dear Diary – I was explaining to Little Guy, again, why I would like to get a cat. Both Hubby and Little Guy are anti-cat. Actually, they’re both kind of anti-pet. Anyway, as I was explaining, Hubby leaned over and licked me. A wet, sloppy full-cheeked lick. He thought it was hilarious. I thought I was going to throw up. I have serious spit issues. I will not use anyone else’s toothbrush. I will not share my toothbrush. Only when I am feeling brave will I wipe the edge before sipping from someone else’s glass. I did not share ice cream cones with my kids. If it melted and ran down the sides, they got sticky. No child has ever died from being sticky. It’s just the way I am. Were the licks from a cat, however, I would be fine. I want a cat that much! 🙂

Dear Diary – I received the initial paperwork for jury duty selection. It’s not that I object to performing my civic duty, it’s the thought of rising early in the morning and traipsing into the city in the dead of winter, which takes over an hour, to sit all day knowing I can only use the restroom when they tell me I can use the restroom. And that’s not taking covid into account. I’ve sat in court numerous times, taking notes of testimony as part of my job. Unlike television, there are no dramatic courtroom reveals, surprise witnesses, or last minute additions of evidence. It’s very dry and detailed. I’ve been part of the jury selection process too, and it’s dry and detailed too. Thankfully, I was rejected on the grounds that I worked in the legal field. I’m not sure my new job title, “keeper of the home fires” is going to make me ineligible.

Plus, they’ve changed the system.

I wish they’d pick on someone else. I’ve filled out the initial forms for jury duty at least 3 times in my life. Hubby has never been asked, and he’d like to be. Maybe we should trade names.

Dear Diary – A serious search ensued this morning. I woke up around 8 and popped out my malicious mouthguard, and shoved it under my pillow. I was going to enjoy my final 20 minutes in peace. It’s been 6 months since I started wearing it and some nights it keeps me awake fearing that I will die in my sleep…by drowning in my own spit. All’s well until I pop that plastic in and I become Pavolov’s dog without the bell. Or the yummy reward. But I digress. When I got up, I stuck my hand under the pillow to grab the guard and put it in its case. But it wasn’t there. I lifted the pillow and started smoothing the sheets with my sheets. Still no stinky plastic. I moved the bedraggled pile of bedding. I reached into the pillowcase, both sides. But no guard. I checked the floor, under the bed, even the case, just in case I was dreaming it had been in my mouth all night. It had vanished. Frustrated to be so frustrated so early, and severely decaffeinated, I went on with my day.

Later that morning, another serious search ensued. It had glued itself to the underside of my pillowcase.

Dear Diary – My clock is still weird. Today, the alarm came on and it had changed the radio station. I like classical music but not as much as my 80’s tunes. It took several attempts to find my station again. It was really in the mood for country. This clock may have to die!!!

Dear Diary – The excitement was short-lived. The scales said I’d lost 10lbs, but I knew better. I have 6 pairs of jeans in 6 different sizes that say it isn’t so. I also know that moving the scales by 2″ can change the number that much. I put it in the usual spot and I’m down 3 lbs. Finally things are looking up, by moving down.

Dear Diary – I lead worship with a team on Sunday for the first time at our new church. It was an incredibly difficult and heartbreaking decision to leave. It’s also been incredibly difficult to start over in a new place. I’ve been disappointed with the lack of friendliness, but I know that covid has made us all wary of people in general, not just new people. It takes times and I’m not always very patient.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had to select the songs for a Sunday, and I’ve missed it. I’ve missed the long conversation with God to select the songs that He most wants to hear. And, as always, I am blessed as He shows me threads between the songs that connect them. Sometimes He even whispers something I need to hear. This week it was simply the reminder that I belong to Him. That even though we are struggling to connect in a new church family, we are still part of His family.

Bonus: I could actually be heard. My short stature has meant my voice has a short range, and often my mouth is moving in the recording, but there’s no sound. And while I didn’t get any likes or comments when I posted the link (except for my friend who sang with me), I wasn’t leading for the likes or the comments. I was singing for my Father.

Who am I that the highest King
Would welcome me
I was lost but He brought me in
Oh His love for me

Ben Fielding, Rueben Morgan, Who You Say I Am

Wilderness Wednesday: Every Storm

Tags

black and white photography, black&white Photography, church, clouds, faith, old church, photography, storms, Wilderness Wednesday

Every storm runs out of rain, just like every dark night turns into day.

Gary Allan

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week #34

Tags

bathing suit, covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, faith, family, food, humour

Dear Diary – Every day Pinterest emails me posts they’ve chosen for me ‘cuz they think I”d be interested. They’re usually completely wrong. However, the chart of yoga poses did catch my attention, not because I do yoga, but because I live with men and have been conditioned me to zero in on certain things. It was actually one pose in particular: wind relieving.

I had to laugh out loud because all I could picture was a sign on the studio bulletin board for a community ChiliFest, and a room full of doughy, mature ladies in spandex suits, tights, headbands and ’80s leg warmers… with cartoon toots.

Dear Diary – My basil plants, the only seeds that grew from the 7 packages of seeds I purchased from a local flower farm, are on steriods. It’s been about 2 weeks since I last harvested a big bunch. This weekend, I plucked and dried 8 cookie sheets of herbs. Three days later, I harvested another half sheet, and could have plucked more. Guess what everyone’s getting in their stocking this Christmas!

Dear Diary – I got to eat dinner out…sort of! It was a catered meal in a church parking lot. I had to bring my own chair, but I didn’t have to cook and it was a big step up from McDonald’s, so it counts as “out”.

Dear Diary – I was blessed to be part of a worship team on Sunday morning, but the expression “early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise” did not apply. Instead, it was more like “late to slumber, early to tumble, makes a tired, overworked woman grumble”. Except everyone was still abed when I got up, and comfortably snoozing when I left. There was no one to complain to and no amount of caffeine in the world to perk these old bones. My eyelids felt like sandpaper except for a brief period between 12 and 12:05. It was a pretty gritty day.

The trip to the church is about half an hour, and in a pitiful effort to be joyful, I put on perky music. Obviously I wasn’t thinking clearly. It could have been a mistake had the sun not been shining. The bright rays caused my eyes to tear up, and as I blinked away the dewiness, I noticed a rainbow to the left and right of the sun.

A sun dog or sun bow can appear when light passes through ice crystals in the atmosphere at an angle of 22 degrees, creating a halo effect. Usually it’s just a bright spot that mimics the sun, but occasionally, it is an actual rainbow. And this rainbow was bright and colourful.

As the beauty of this strange phenomenon infused my fatigued brain, lines from the song boucing through the speakers also seeped into my consciousness:

Your resurrection power burns like fire in my heart…

You are the fire that cannot be tamed…

You are stronger than our hearts, You are greater than the dark, with You, we are victorious.

Rend Collective, “More Than Conquerors”

Rainbows have long been a symbol of hope and promise. Remember Noah? There have been a few times in my life, when things seemed bleak or blah, that God painted a rainbow for me, and I couldn’t help but marvel at His faithfulness and creativity.

This past year has certainly had some bleak and blah moments. I have mourned losses of people, places and positions. I have often felt lonely and lost. I’ve kept busy but deep down there’s been a longing for a place and a crying out for a purpose. Breathing and taking up space just isn’t enough. And here’s God, painting rainbows and singing reminders that He is the Light in dark places, early in the morning to someone He didn’t create to be a morning person. Hallelujah!

God has a sense of humour. If you don’t believe me, tomorrow go to Wal-mart and just look at people.

Carlos Mencia

Dear Diary – As much as I hate bathing suit shopping…the wrestling, the sweating, the loss of dignity and the complete breakdown – even before I’ve even tried one on, but I may have to take the plunge into that Little Shop of Horrors again. When I purchased my black bathing suit, I was looking for something a little sexy but my options were limited by my shape. I ended up with the one that I didn’t get so tangled in, that I ended up laughing hysterically in the dressing room, frightening the waifer-thin, doe-eyed adolescent sales clerk who was new and hadn’t experienced the trauma of serving middle-aged sausages women in spandex!

It was incredibly hot this week, and since we’re about to undergo major (and incredibly expensive) plumbing surgery at home, I ran away from home. To cool off, Mom and I decided to go for an evening swim. Auntie M was joining us.

I was thankful I had had the foresight to use the bathroom before I put I attempted to put my suit on. When I purchased this sexy suit, I had less fat to stuff in weighed less and was slightly more bendy than I am now. This suit had very thin straps, which has to support very hefty weight. These tiny straps are also part of an elaborate corset-style back on my suit. The longer I wear the suit, the longer all those strings become as they try to hold everything in place. The suit itself, fits snugger than it used to, so pulling it on is kind of like stuffing meat in a sausage casing. You just kind of have to squeeze your eyes shut and keep wiggling and stuffing until everything is contained. So I stuffed and squeezed and succeeded, only to realize, the suit was inside out. To add insult to injury, the padding in the bust, which serves no purpose, was wrinkled and folded in on itself, giving me the appearance of a tween who has stuffed her top with tissue. I know this because I tried it once in Grade 5 and I got caught. At school. In front of boys. It’s not really a story worth sharing.

I wasn’t sure which problem to fix first – the whole “it’s inside out” or the “stuffed with tissue” texture. I opted for the whole suit, which meant more wriggling and squeezing. Dry or wet, this suit does not come off easily. Instead, the strings roll together into a jumbled mess, that creates a roll, that tightens around the waist, making it even more difficult to roll down. And once off, I have to repeat the whole nightmare to get it on again. Having successfully done so and now sweating profusely, I have to spend an inordinate amount of time um….unfurling the bust pads.

I could have worn my bikini but it was still sunny and no one needed to be blinded by the Pillsbury dough babe. I’ve tried wearing a t-shirt over it but when you get out of the water, unlike plastic wrap, it clings like a toddler to whatever Mama wants to take away. It also rolls up the back and becomes a giant knot that threatens to squeeze the air from your lungs. And it’s humiliating, at 48, to have your parents undress you.

I enjoyed my swim, but not what came next.

It may be time to visit the Little Shop of Horrors again.

“Men have an easier time buying bathing suits. Women have two types: depressing and more depressing.
Men have two types: nerdy and not nerdy.”

Rita Rudner