Dear Quarantine Diary – Week 11

Tags

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

Dear Diary – My mother’s winter coat is molting. The squirrels also seem to be getting frisky. Does that mean Spring is on its way?

Dear Diary – I like surprises, especially when they’re pleasant and I don’t know they’re coming. I’m not very patient.

I didn’t see Monday’s surprise coming but it was no pleasure. I finally saw my rheumatologist who confirmed that my ankle was not fractured. Considering I had the xray at the beginning of February, that was a relief. He still wants me to get an MRI done, which I’ve been waiting on since the beginning of February and has now been scheduled for the end of April. Unless they put me in feet first and only halfway, this may be a huge problem for me. I’m claustraphobic and my first experience was extremely unpleasant too. (I was given happy pills for the second one and all I remember is thinking how ridiculous it was that I was singing along to the sounds the machine was making. Those pills were supposed to wear off in hours, but 12 hours later I was still happy, happy, happy!)

The next thing I know, he’s talking about possible changes to my medication, which would have rather serious pitfalls, including self-injections. Uh…no thanks!?! And finally, surprise! He’s going to give me a cortisone shot.

“Lie down on the table and make yourself comfortable,” he says, as he’s fixing a giant needle in his hand.

I knew it would hurt, having had a cortisone shot in my shoulder less than a year ago. But I was unprepared for this. First, he poked around the spot on my ankle that made me yell when he was being gentle before stabbing me with a giant needle. Time slowed to a crawl as he pondered the meaning of life while slowly injected me with the clear, burning jelly. Finally, he slapped a bandaid on my ankle and said, “sorry,” but not like he meant it. The sadistic melonhead didn’t even get the bandaid on right, so I bled all over my pink socks. I could feel the blood drain from my face as I pulled on my sock and shoe and hobbled from the tiny torture chamber. I knew I had yelled but having nearly lost consciousness, I wasn’t sure how much or how loud. I’m not even sure if I spoke actual words or just a series of primeval animalistic sounds. But the waiting room was completely empty when I got out. I think every victim patient heard my dying scream and fled for their lives. I may have saved someone the same fate and that brings me comfort.

On the plus side, I only had to make it to the car, which was parked at the far end of the lot, and through only one lake-sized puddle. I prayed the gaping hole in my ankle wouldn’t become infected and I’d develop gangrene. Last time I had a cortisone shot, I had to practice shallow breathing while I visited the pharmacy next door to replace the serum for his next victim patient before I could go to the car and lick my wounds. I’m not sure I would have made it to the pharmacy. I probably would have just laid down on the bricks and let the neighbourhood cats eats my body.

I texted Hubby, replacing a few choice words with asterisks between panting breaths. I was freezing cold and yet miraculously sweating through my winter coat. Hubby texted back sad faces and kissy faces. What else could he do? They made me smile.

The drive home was punctuated with gasps and moans as I squeezed the steering wheel and concentrated on the road in front of me. I was thankful now that I had scooted around the house all weekend, packing to run away from home. Youngest Son had to pack the car alone as I sat on the stairs and felt sorry for myself. I washed my sock before I left – the pink ones are among my favourites, and started the long drive “home” to Mama for some TLC.

Dear Diary – I am not in a happy place. Lately it feels like the universe is conspiring against me. I did “escape” to my parents, but I have to go home early. I’m needed. While it’s a nice feeling to be needed, more and more I wonder, what about what I need? If I’m everyone’s mommy, who is going to take care of me?

On top of multiple health issues amongst various family members, little things are piling up:

The rheotstat on my best oven burner is unreliable.

So is our one toilet.

My sewing machine is broken.

I’m not allowed to have a damn cat.

Certainly compared to world events, my small world disasters are very small.

Lately it feels like the things I need or want (and yes, I can logically separate the two), are delayed or denied. I made the mistake of posting my frustrations on Facebook regarding a delay, only to be snarked at by one person because others are suffering more. As if I lacked compassion for those others. As if I’m selfish, and not allowed to hurt too.

A few good night’s sleep would solve a lot of woes, but I don’t get to sleep in because I’m “needed”. I realize there are people who wish they were in my position, and no doubt, one of them will let me know I’m selfish and have no right to feel this way! 😉

I am convinced that there is a sensor in my butt that alerts my husband and any kids in the house of the exact moment I sit down.

Dear Diary – My friend, Plain and Fancy Girl, Marian, shared a hilarious story this week! It reminded me of the times my cell phone number was posted in ads for “masseuses”. Sure, it would have been an interesting career move and I certainly would have met meany colourful people, but it’s also up there on the Creep-o-meter!

When Marian Subscribed to the Hustler Channel

This too shall pass they say.

It might pass like a kidney stone…but it will pass.

Dear Quarantine Diary-Week 10

Tags

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

Dear Diary – Time flies whether you’re wasting it or not. Personally I think it’s more fun when you’re wasting it, but who has time to waste? We’ve finally hit the “double digits” – it’s week 10 of 2022. In some cultures, that heralds the start of a new cycle. Based on the past 9 weeks, I’m both elated to start something new and terrified at what new might bring.

March started less like the adage “In like a lion” and more like an angry, headbutting ram. It came with a bang! Literally because Hubby face-planted sleepwalking. While he continues to struggle in the aftermath, the good news is he was scheduled for an MRI in less than 2 weeks. I’ve been waiting for an MRI since the beginning of February. However, I can now move around the house without squeaking and chuffing like a badly oiled machine. That’s progress.

Delight in the little things.

This week I delighted in peach cobbler smothered in fresh whipped cream. I’ve decided that if my clothes are going to keep shrinking in my closet, I might as enjoy the slide downhill from time to time. I also tried my hand at homemade gnocchi. Those potato pasta pillows weren’t pretty, but they tasted pretty awesome!

On Friday evening, I was Youngest Son’s taxi to youth. I forgot how hard it is to kill two hours alone on a Friday night in a small town. I ventured to a shopping plaza to peruse clothes at Reitman’s in a desperate attempt to look like a worship leader who has it all together. They closed at 6. I consoled myself with Tim Horton’s tea and a chocolate bar, and sat in the cold car taking weird photos with my phone.

Delight. Little things.

I’d love to report that I pulled off the “I have it all together” look on Sunday. I not only didn’t look the part, I didn’t feel the part. After a rough rehearsal on Thursday evening and a rough rehearsal on Sunday morning, my nerves were stretched thin. I felt sick to my stomach and I had trouble concentrating on the music before me. Sure enough, self-fulfilling prophecy, I screwed up. I missed a cue (which is one of the reason I don’t like singing to tracks) and panicked. Most people probably didn’t notice, and it actually didn’t sound too bad when I listened to it later. We sang the chorus three times before I found where we supposed to be so I can end the loop. I know I need to stop obsessing about it and just let it go….

Farting is like the song Frozen.
Work: “conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know…”
Home: “Let it go! Let it go! Can’t hold it back anymore…”

Anonymous

Dear Diary – I picked up my new glasses this week but the jury is still out on whether I like them or not. Don’t get me wrong! It’s wonderful to be able to see the stitches I’m ripping out, and to see the countdown on the pedestrian walk sign so I know I’m not going to make it! I mostly bought new frames because I lost my clip-on sunglasses two years ago and I was tired of squinting like Mr. Magoo every where I went. I was limited to 3 options. Door #1 was really ugly. Door #2, the 80’s called and wanted their glasses back. So I had to choose Door #3. What do you think?

Dear Diary – I napped Sunday afternoon. It was a horrible waste of time that just felt so good.

Dear Nap, I’m sorry I was a jerk to you when I was a kid!

Dear Diary – When I started sewing, I didn’t realize I would have to become a mechanic. I was finally making progress on 2 bags with an adorable gecko print, when the machine decided to stick. With my usual mechanic a 2 hour drive away, aka Dad, I had to roll up my sleeves and get dirty.

First, I pulled out the ancient maintenance book and the busted box of accoutrements to look for brushes that Mom had mentioned awhile ago. I found an odd assortment of plastic dials, sewing needles, metal bits, pine needles, sunflower seeds, and mouse poop, but no brushes. So I grabbed the closest thing I could think of – an eye shadow brush and a pair of tweezers. Now I have a container of machine parts, a wad of fluff the size of a cotton ball, oily fingers, and no idea how I got the machine working again.

I’m leaving it apart for now so I can oil it…once I figure out where to buy sewing machine oil.

Oh! And I plan to replace the busted box. Ew!

Dear Diary – Today I get to wear a paper dress and get groped. It may be the most “action” I get for awhile.

Dear Diary – This year the break in March Break is referring more to what’s happening to my grip on reality, rather than a change of scenery. My sore foot, Hubby’s accident, family drama, and all the extras and bunches of little things that normally would just be mildly annoying or inconvenient, feel like a conspiracy to push me over the edge. I mean, I’ve been hanging over it for years, one hand holding on, like an extreme sportsperson tempting fate. It’s just a matter of time. Our passports expired. I was printing passport applications and it refused to give me the last 3 pages. I have to renew Youngest Son’s from scratch because he’s now over 16. Then the printer is rejecting the brand new toner cartridge because HP “no longer supports” it. I am not a good enough writer to make this stuff up.

Now the toilet is refusing to budge, and we only have one…

It’s hardly my first foray into the forest so I know that there are clearings somewhere, with sunlight streaming in where I can rest before the next stretch of the journey. I’m holding on to Psalm 84:

Blessed are those whose strength is in you,  whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.
As they pass through the Valley of Baka, they make it a place of springs; the autumn rains also cover it with pools. They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion.

The other day I started singing an old song, one I used to belt out in the car with Eldest Son in the backseat: King of the Jungle.

What I feel Is telling me I’m going crazy
But what is real says God’s still on His throne
What I need Is to remember one thing:
That the Lord of the gentle breeze is Lord of the rough and tumble
And He is the King of the jungle

Steven Curtis Chapman

Some days feel like I’m wading slowly through the undergrowth of a jungle, without a machete (which is a good thing because I’d be tempted to use it). Sweaty and sopping wet, without a clue which way to go. I may end up in an asylum weaving baskets yet, but until then, I’m going to keep singing and dancing, and tripping and getting back up again. Not because I don’t have a choice, but because I do. Sing it with me!

FYI

Tags

humour, sewing, tea, tea addict, tea lover, tea time

John Lennon wrote “ life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans”. Well, sometimes life’s plans sucks. And it’s not even like I had any big or exciting plans! 😂

If you saw my diary last Thursday, you will know that life is piling on a few more disasters than usual and when that happens, the stress level goes up. A higher stress level means that even the mundane things that should only be mildly inconvenient, like our printer rejecting a new toner cartridge because it’s “no longer supported”, skyrockets the pressure. Too much pressure and something is going to blow.

In my case, bring out the tissue because it’s usually in the form of a sweaty, red-faced, snot-pouring ugly cry that makes even the hardiest souls flee to the hills.

Just thinking about it makes me smile.

My plan today was to work on MY stuff, not everybody else’s stuff, but the afternoon shadows are once again lengthening and here I am. Out of time and motivation. Good thing there’s always tomorrow. And tea, hot faithful tea!

This is as far as I got…laying it out and finishing my cuppa before running out the door…

So FYI – I am giving myself permission to occasionally miss a day here or there in my blog. Call it a mental health day or an antisocial day…or a day when I feel like I’m wading in mud, and not in a fun way like Mud Hero! Lol But I will keep writing in my diary. It helps me keep the little things in perspective. A lot of little things can add up to big things if you let them. Your laughter helps me laugh too…partly because if you’re laughing, you’re just as messed up as me! 😜

On particularly rough days when I’m sure I can’t possibly endure more, I remind myself that my track record for getting through bad days has been 100%. And that’s pretty good.

M. Weidenbenner

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week 9

Tags

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

Dear Diary – I’m beginning to think the DJ on my radio is nuts! Why else would he play Friday I’m in love on Monday and Manic Monday on Friday?

Dear Diary – I’m hoping that this Saturday’s monthly “walk of shame” will be less painful. I just found box of “fat clothes” and in it, 2 skirts that now fit. Sometimes it pays to be a pack-rat, or just lazy. Watch it be -1,000,000 degrees on Sunday morning.

Dear Diary – Sometimes I want to answer the question, “what do you do?” with the answer, “I cook”! I try not to add “poorly executed experiments “ or “burnt offerings “. Cooking is something I have to do every day! Lately though, the February blahs, sticking to a budget, and a sore and swollen foot, have conspired to turn cooking into an unpleasant, however necessary, task.

Since March has arrived, it was time to pull up my socks (even if the left one is fitting tightly), so I learned to spatchcock a chicken.

Spatchcocking is splitting a whole chicken or game bird, and the instructions were basically, remove the backbone and flatten the chicken. Without shears, I had to wield a sharp knife and use brute force. The sound of cracking bones was unnerving, but I focused on channeling Julia Child. She was a fearless cook in a time in history where women were not particularly welcome in the culinary world. I proudly shared my accomplishment with Younger Son, who commented that I seemed psychotically delighted with myself. I was! I had just ripped a chicken apart with my bare hands. My delight wasn’t directed at this poor bird in particular, but after so many recent chicken fails, dominating it with my hands was oddly satisfying! I then cooked it using Mary Berg’s chicken &gravy recipe and it was delicious!

Oh, and the Eggs in Purgatory, though slightly unappetizing on a plate, were delicious too.

Dear Diary – This week took a twisted turn early Tuesday morning. I heard the thump in the night and I immediately recognized it as a body. You may wonder how I can identify the sound of a body hitting the ground in the night, but relax. Youngest Son occasionally fell out of bed at night. But, I reasoned, he’s in the basement and hasn’t done that in years. Hubby must have kicked his bookshelf in his sleep again.

5 minutes later my bedroom door crashed open!

As far as we can figure, Hubby was sleepwalking when he fell. Obviously in distress, he asked me to run downstairs and grab a couple of ice packs. But with my on-going issues with my ankle, I can’t run! I can’t even hurry to the bathroom. I grabbed my glasses and hobbled down the stairs, the thumps from my footfalls sounding like a one-legged pirate.

After a brief assessment and discussion (and without turning on the blinding light of the bedroom), I headed down again to grab the phone. Hubby had hit his head and elbow, and was experiencing burning pain down both of his arms.

Thump, THUMP! Thump, THUMP!

By the third trip down, I was pretty sure the neighbours were cursing me. Kind EMTs arrived, with heavy boots and heavy footfalls, so I knew the neighbours were awake. After their assessment, Hubby disappeared with them, under his own steam, into the night. I made a cup of tea, tidied up, and tried to get some sleep.

The phone rang just before 7 a.m. I rolled over and grabbed the cordless phone in bed next to me, only to stare at it. I was only awake enough to realize it wasn’t the right phone, but not to fly to my cell phone across the room. With a broken laundry basket between it and me, I knew I had to move carefully lest I end up tumbling too. I could totally see Hubby and I like Sylvester and the dog, lying in hospital beds in the same room, sneaking over to pummel each other when the nurse was away.

He was ready to come home. Hubby’s CT scan showed “nothing” but he continued to experience a severe and debilitating burning sensation in his arms. Every bump made him groan. I made sure I avoided the train tracks!

We booked an appointment with our GP but for the following afternoon. Both unable to sleep, we spent the afternoon watching t.v.: Border Security, Cash Cab, Engineering Disasters. My friend called around 2 in the afternoon to see how we were doing. I told her we were “still alive”. “What do you mean?”, she asked. I replied, “I haven’t killed him yet”. 🙂

The house is chilly, but Hubby couldn’t stand anything touching his arms. Instead, he put on the hood of his hoodie and wore it like a cape. He reminded me of the Sith Master, and I had to resist the urge to call him “dark lord”.

By 4:45 p.m. I was wilting badly and after talking to my parents, I laid down in bed.

My presence was soon required. Hardly refreshed by my 5 minute nap, I prepared to go out to pick up dinner. We had decided on A&W burgers. I took Youngest Son with me for moral support.

Hubby’s gas tank was low. Hadn’t I just filled it up? I swapped cars in the driveway because I wasn’t visiting a gas station in rush hour! My mitten got stuck to my key ring.

It wasn’t until I flipped on my right turn signal that I realized I was turning into the McDonald’s parking lot. I had driven to the wrong fast food restaurant. “I’m so tired,” I laughed, as I circled the lot, “but at least I got us to McDonald’s safely”. Then we headed across the road to A&W. It tasted so good.

I offered to barricade him in his room for the night. Instead, he elected to sleep on the couch. I even gave him a bell to ring if he needed help. It was a great idea until, tucked safely in my bed, I realized I would never hear it over the fan in my room, and I can’t sleep without the fan.

This filtered version of my story isn’t as funny (you have to laugh or cry!) as the version I shared with Eldest Son. I knew I could make him giggle, and that would make me giggle, and it would help. He understands the family dynamics, the inside jokes and the witty thoughts I had had. Anyone else might think I was a big fat jerk! Even though I made Hubby laugh sometimes too. I love Hubby and I am willing to do for him, whatever he thought might ease his discomfort.

We’re now a mismatched pair. His feet work, while mine do not. My hands work, while his do not. So my hands prepared his coffee and food, and changed the channel. And I respected his request: No Touching!

Tomorrow I will be his taxi to the doctor. I will wait in the cold car for longer than my bladder will appreciate. (There are plenty of reasons I keep a roll of t.p. and an empty Tim Horton’s cup in my car)! I will even do my best to avoid the potholes and train tracks for a smoother ride.

I missed Bible study and my Wednesday post. And I’m still facing Youngest Son’s covid booster appointment, band rehearsal, youth group (with a 2 hour layover for this taxi driver), a car appointment, and leading worship on Sunday morning. It’s going to be a long week, but when we got married, we vowed “for better or worse”. We’re both worse, but at least we’re doing it together.

Dear Diary – It’s a waiting game now…waiting for tests, waiting to see a specialist, waiting for the kettle to boil so I can make Hubby’s morning coffee. As frustrating at times as it has been, it’s good that he’s working from home. I don’t want to be his taxi to work with all the other early morning risers. I have a list of things to do longer than my arm, including renewing expired passports (before the covid grace period expires, for me at least). Never mind, the printer ran out of ink and it won’t accept the new one…

Package 2 of 2 with my new fabric arrived at the beginning of the week, but package 1 of 2 is still out there somewhere. Hubby found one of my missing socks stuck to the inside of his t-shirt. All of the usual daily jobs and irritations haven’t taken a hike, and we’re both so very tired. I had a flashback to life with Youngest Son and I wonder how I ever survived. Then I remembered…lots of tears and Youngest Son’s older brother. He was a huge help because Hubby was working shifts.

I truly believe with all my heart that God will walk us through this most recent upset, but my head still gets overwhelmed easily. My thoughts run away on me, and like a kid toward an ice-cream truck, I have to run back to God. I have to be like the little donkey that carried Mary to Bethlehem, I just to have to be faithful and keep plodding along in the journey and trust God to lead. After all, once that donkey arrived where he was led, not only did he earn his rest, he witnessed a glorious event that changed the world. He saw Jesus, face to face.

So when you’re on your knees and answers seem so far away
You’re not alone, stop holding on and just be held
Your world’s not falling apart, it’s falling into place
I’m on the throne, stop holding on and just be held

Casting Crowns, Just Be Held

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week 8

Tags

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

Dear Diary – Last Thursday was a Snowmageddon-type snowstorm, the kind where the snowblower battery has to be charged twice to get the job done once. So Friday afternoon, I settled in with a pot of tea and my laptop to shop for fabric. Like I need more. It’s amazing what you can find if you go looking…I found a great website: www.fabricgeek.ca. If you’re looking for anything related to Star Wars, Harry Potter, Big Bang Theory, Marvel, Back to the Future, Minecraft, or Mario, this is the go-to place! I even found steampunk robot dinosaurs.

Of course I bought some

Dear Diary – We celebrated Family Day weekend with Eldest Son. He hasn’t been home since Christmas so we celebrated his birthday with Madagascar vanilla bean and bourbon cupcakes, with homemade raspberry buttercream. Yum!

A few years ago, he bought a hammock, which he tried very hard to set up at his grandparents’ one summer. He succeeded, but his butt was literally inches from the ground. So we gave him a hammock stand. He set it up in the living room and enjoyed a nap in it, Sunday afternoon.

I missed hanging out with him on Saturday morning because I was speaking at the Ladies’ Craft ‘N Chat we’re starting at church. It’s a montly event and we had a perfect baker’s dozen! It was a wonderful opportunity to reconnect with friends, new and old, and to squeeze out some creative juices. Balancing my purse, my Tim Horton’s tea, and a laundry basket full of fabric and paper patterns required creativity as well. But I made it in. The way out was trickier, as the wind had picked up and nearly blew my patterns away. I kept the patterns but the wind blew something else away. As I bent down to lift the basket into the backseat, I heard a terrible noise. The wind had mercilessly tossed my Timmies tea off the roof of the car, and nary a drop remained.

I consoled myself with the lukewarm travel mug of tea I had waiting for me in the car. The remains of my Tim’s still rests on the floor of my car.

Saturday night was the monthly “walk of shame” as I tried on various outfits from the remaining few items in my closet that still fit. It’s been a month since I started seriously hobbling on a sore, swollen ankle. “Going for a walk” means the long climb from the office to the kitchen for tea, or from the couch to the bathroom upstairs. 😦 My new zumba video remains in the plastic wrap gathering dust, and my clothes continue to shrink in the closet. But I digress.

I was up and dressed before the sun on Sunday morning. I’m not sure this is what was meant in the Bible verse that takes about the sacrifice of praise. I met the worship team at 8 and we settled in for a final run through and sound check before the service at 9:30. I had remembered my music, my iPad with the tracks, even a bottle of water. Our rehearsal Friday evening had gone swimmingly. We even finished in record time. But this morning, God had other plans.

It was a lesson in patience and trust. When I opened the app for the tracks, it had signed me out. I had to wait patiently while our electric guitarist rooted through his case to find the password. Then, it had deleted ALL of the tracks (and edits I had made to the arrangements). Our electric guitarist quickly put them back in (He’s a seasoned veteran). Poised to play, I pushed start and nothing happened.

Have I tried turning it off and on again?

Yes, I did. After nearly a half hour, we used the electric guitarist’s iPad. He set it up again. And was kind enough to share his password in case the iPad decided to nap at any point. The remainder of the morning went well, but patience and trust.

Speaking of patience and trust, I tried cooking a while chicken again. Hubby trusted the thermometer when it said it was cooked. It was not. We ended up emptying the fridge of all leftovers, and I have a clean fridge again.

We cooked the chicken longer that night, so were shocked to discover Tuesday evening, that the frickin’ chicken was still bleeding out. We cooked her longer but went ahead had canned ham grilled wraps for dinner. Tonight we’re having Eggs Purgatory, with frickin chicken. I think this carcass is going to haunt me the rest of the week.

Dear Diary – Youngest Son started his first job today. It’s a co-op credit in high school so he won’t be paid, but he’s already made quite a favourable impression on his new “boss” and survived the experience of 2 job interviews. Welcome to the real world, kid!

Dear Diary – Yesterday it rained, all day. This morning, I can hardly see the neighbour’s roof, it’s snowing and blowing so hard. And, of course, today is the day that I have to attend my annual eye appointment with my 12 year old doctor. The one who also plays video games and remembered last year that I do too.

This year, I chose my clothes carefully. I never want to make THAT mistake again, but I think I pulled it off. Toilet paper clothing is only acceptable at bridal showers and children’s birthday parties.

I was tired by the time he had finished squirting drops in my eyes and blinding me, not to mention the “space invader” test, and the sun was shining brightly and glinting off the snow. It was made brighter by the fact that my pupils were so dilated, I looked like a anime cartoon.

I lost my clip-on sunglasses two years ago. Fortunately, for the first time, I was offered disposable sunglasses for the drive home. I was warned that, though effective, they were not fashionable. They were right. The glasses were a flimsy black film rectangle with a slight notch for my nose, and adjustable film earpieces that looked like they were made for Dumbo.

With nowhere to sit and fiddle with them in the ultra modern and very open-plan store, I ventured from the store with them in my hand. It was excruciatingly bright as individual rays of sunshine ping-ponged off snow banks, chrome trim, and some guy’s watch 20 feet away. I slowly advanced to my car with my eyes squinting so hard, I was looking at the world through my eyelashes. My face was so screwed up, I probably looked like a wizened crone. I prayed that I wouldn’t get hit by a car.

Once safely inside my vehicle, I began the onerous task of making this piece of film do its job. I had no trouble hooking the first earpiece over one ear and jamming the end of it into my hair. It was stuck fast. But the other side would not cooperate. It wouldn’t hook over my ear. It wouldn’t stay over my left eye. It kept popping out like a beer belly under a crop top, the sun flashing me the same way, every time it did. So white!

My options were limited: keep fighting with it or lie down in the back seat and sleep for the next 4 hours.

Never a quitter, I struggled for what felt like an eternity, as passers-by stopped and stared. At least I think they stopped and stared. Everything was a blur, a bright blur. After folding and tucking, and growling under my breath, I finally got the film in place. It wasn’t firmly in place, but enough I was convinced I could drive, as long as I didn’t move too much or breathe.

I made it home, but it was not a pleasant journey. And for the remainder of the afternoon, I tried, often unsuccessfully, to avoid looking out the windows. I also had to avoid reading, because as the drops wore off, my pupils didn’t function in tandem, like pairs figure skating. Instead one eye was like the rest of me, moving a little slow. I also had to give up sewing because I couldn’t find the hole in the needle, and the lamp was just too bright.

Dear Diary – It’s a beautiful, sunny day today. Not a cloud in the sky. But the weather network has issued a snowstorm warning. Is this the calm before the storm, or is the weather network wrong again? Stay tuned. I’m just going to stay in and sew.

A clean house is a sign of a broken sewing machine.

CFFC: Bare Feet & Boots

Tags

boots, CFFC, family, humour, Photo Challenge, photography

Beach vs Poolside

It’s snowing outside. I’d take either one!!

The sassy green boots that inspired my blog

Boots that were so caked in mud (socks too) that we had to go barefoot to get inside.

“When you’re safe at home you wish you were having an adventure; when you’re having an adventure you wish you were safe at home.” -Thornton Wilder

This is my post for Cee Neuner’s Fun Foto Challenge: Bare Feet and Boots

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week 7

Tags

covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, family, humour, memories, sewing, winter

Dear Diary – It’s week 7 in 2022, and the number 7 is considered, in many cultures , the number of perfection, security, safety and rest. It’s a number that appears a lot. For example, there are 7 days in a week, 7 colours in a rainbow, 7 notes in a diatonic scale, 7 dwarves in Snow White, 7 Wonders of the World, and 7 stars in the Big Dipper. The tangram is a puzzle consisting of seven flat shapes, called tans. Nitrogen (N) has the atomic number 7. And in the Book of Revelation alone, it appears 54 times. I’m studying the book of Revelation right now and I’ve had to read all 22 chapters multiple times. Believe me, it’s in there a lot.

So I’m hoping, Dear Diary, that though there’s a lot of unrest in Canada at the moment, this week will truly be one of safety and rest.

Dear Diary – I have at least 12 hours of the Olympics to watch some day. I don’t have time to sit around in my pjs eating bon-bons, watching my “stories” everyday. I PVR’d the the figure skating because I used to figure skate. I also like to irritate my family when I point out, “I could do that”. Of course, I never attempted anything triple or quadruple and I can count the number of times I landed a double jump, on one hand. It was mostly a lot of falling and sliding over and over again. There were no helmets or knee pads!

I really wanted to be a ballerina but there was no dance school in my small town. My options were figure skating and highland dancing. I disappointed my grandmother when I chose figure skating. She thought it would be great if I danced and my brother learned to play the bagpipes. My brother…did not agree!

Most of the skaters in the club had committed mothers (a few of those mothers should have been committed), so they skated year round and participated in competitions father afield. I only skated during the winter months, which meant every year I was competing against girls who were younger and younger. It started to get awkward.

My Mom did her best. She “patiently” sewed my sewing costumes as skirts were mandatory, even for practice. While I sometimes coveted the heavily sequined dresses of my peers, I also appreciated her hard work. I felt pretty and I was proud to say, “My Mom made it”!

I especially loved my pink Torville & Dean-inspired dress

I hated figure 8s and I tolerated dance. The pairs dance that you see on t.v. is not the same as dance as I learned. Instead, they were standard dances, like a waltz or tango, that increased in difficulty with every level. I was fortunate to make friends with another girl and we became shadow dance partners. We would dance the same movements, parallel to one another, like a shadow. We were allowed to wear matching costumes, which my Mom helped put together.

As for my solo work, I rarely got to do my whole routine with the music before a competition. Instead, I did my best to work on my elements and stay out of certain people’s way. There were star skaters and if you crossed their path, they would lynch you.

My Mom missed my first competition and my Dad had to take me. I still have the note she left for me. Unlike the Olympics, We had to wait for all the skaters in my level to skate, and then wait for the list scores to be posted. My Dad treated me to a hot dog from the concession stand. I won my first silver medal.

One of my last skating competitions

The other mandatory thing I hated was the Club fundraiser – we had to work in groups to put on a show. One year, I skated to Rock Around the Clock; another, Dolly Parton’s 9-5. Mom had to make my costume for that too.

Dear Diary – I was supposed to make a special delivery last week but we postponed it because the weather dude predicted freezing rain. It turned out to be the most beautiful day so far this year! It was sunny and warm, not a cloud in the sky. The next delivery date was postponed as well, this time for snow. At least that time, weather dude was closer. It snowed, then rained, and snowed, then rained… We finally met after church in a Tim’s parking lot, but it was -20C so we didn’t get to visit. I’m hoping next time, it’s 20+!

Dear Diary – Saturday afternoon, Youngest Son came and hovered behind me. When I finally asked him, “can I help you?”, he asked “what’s for dinner?”. I probably should have asked him what he was making me. I replied, dismally, “frickin’ chickin’. Again”. He piped up, “Or…” as he dropped a Pizza Pizza gift card on my sewing, “we could use this”. He said it was because I had complained commented earlier in the week that I was sick of chicken. Or, it could have been self-preservation since my passion for cooking has ebbed. Either way – Pizza! And I didn’t have to cook!

I read recipes the same way I read science fiction. I get to the end and think
“well, that’ not going to happen’!

Dear Diary – That inevitable holiday between Christmas and Easter has passed. Or should I say, the holiday between Christmas chocolate and Easter chocolate. The “day of love” lands in the middle of a month smothered in a thick, scratchy blanket of gray skies. It’s a month wherein the heavens can’t decide if it wants to rain or snow, so we get a mixture of snush. Sludgy trenches of slush and rippling pools soak through our heavy boots, unless it freezes. Then we skate and our knees and sizeable bottoms experience blunt force trauma in a most-inelegant way. Whoever thought that celebrating romance had to have been so blissfully enamoured that he or she didn’t notice the world around him or her. At least not here in Canada.

I have not been a fan for a long time, probably because I’ve been fraught with bad experiences. But it’s still a chance to bake without with less guilt. It’s one day and chocolate goes on sale the very next day. I wore my traditional black and delivered chocolate cupcakes to a friend. We ordered Chinese food for dinner and I made raspberry mille feuille for dessert. My guys gave me chocolate – Youngest said wrote this charming note: To Mom, from your . I’m going to need to shop for XL pants, but I definitely felt the indigestion love.

Dear Diary – A number of Covid restrictions lifted today. Maybe that’s why we’re currently under a snowfall warning: high winds, heavy snow and freezing rain. Hurray!

Yesterday, to celebrate, I went shopping at Fabricland. Still hobbling with a sore ankle (from old age apparently), I took my friend with me. She proved extremely helpful. I passed her bolts for fabric and she took care of the carrying and walking to cut what I wanted. Bonus, it let me shop in peace without being shown things that I don’t want. I walked out of there (dragging one feet like Igor) with a bag full of goodies! And to my absolute delight, since I’m naming my Etsy store (some day) “Sassy Green Lemons”, I actually found Sassy Green Lemons:

Dear Diary – I learned a new word: dysania. It’s the chronic condition of finding it difficult to get out of bed in the morning. I like it!!

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
The 5 Stages of Waking Up

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week 6

Tags

covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, humour

Dear Diary – I’m starting to acquire quite a collection of single grieving socks on my dresser. It seems more and more join the sock support group every weekend. Last Saturday, I put 4 pairs of my “baby socks” (as Hubby calls them) in the washing machine. Every one went in with its mate. I was very careful. I also checked that the washing machine was empty after I tossed the load in the dryer AND the dryer when I emptied it. No “man” left behind and all that. But when I folded said load, I had 1 mated pair and 3 heartbroken socks. What is going on? Are they escaping to sock paradise, lounging on a beach somewhere toe-jam free? Did they win some sort of “lottery” in a post-apocolyptic sock world?

Last week, an unrelated miracle occurred – Hubby asked me to help him purge his wardrobe again. (It was wonderful!) But this unrelated miracle gave me hope. As he pulled out an older polo shirt, a blue facecloth fell from the folds. I’m hoping that perhaps one day my grieving socks will be reunited with their mates, that they were all just static-clinged to another garment and they will be found.

In the meantime, if this continues, I’m going to have to start wearing mismatched pairs of socks. Which means if the other mate isn’t found soon, one sock will be significantly battered and faded while the other hasn’t aged a day. If they’re truly in love, it won’t matter.

Dear Diary – I’m concerned about my parents. I called one afternoon this week but they weren’t home. They didn’t call me back for over an hour. It turns out they were off gallivanting all over town. First they went drifting on the back country roads. Then they got gas. Next they cruised over to Home Hardware for a new toilet seat and toilet paper holder before heading home! Last night I got an email telling me they bought a new veggie peeler. They’re out of control and spending all of my inheritance!

Dear Diary – I started sewing a gnome this week. Now I remember why I’ve debated sewing them for my Etsy shop (if I ever stop procrastinating and set one up!) They have tiny feet, like me, and attaching them to the body is like trying to complete an inside-out 3D puzzle. Maybe the 4th time will be the charm…

Dear Diary – After hobbling around for more than a week with a sore ankle, I broke down and called my rheumatologist just to see if he had any openings this week. I figured he wouldn’t but it never hurts to ask. I talked to his joyless office administrator and she confirmed he did not, but she noted my complaint and said he might want to talk to me. He called 5 minutes later. I nearly passed out. We chatted and he asked me if I could come in at 5. I nearly passed out again.

So I flew around the house like a fat, wounded pigeon to get supper organized and my hair tamed. I was supposed to be recording a “music video” at the church at 7. The church is the opposite direction of the doctor’s office.

He poked; I winced. He prodded; I yelped. He commented with words like “odd”, “strange” and “unusual”. In fact he used “odd” a lot. He concluded that either it was an odd (see again!) inflammatory episode or I fractured something. He gave me a prescription for an additional anti-inflammatory, a requisition for an xray and the delightful news that I should have an MRI. I break into a sweat just typing MRI.

I hobbled to my car and sat in rush hour traffic, willing the bus in front of me to plough through traffic so I could get home…or over to the xray place that said it was still open. I got to the xray place but of course, no one was anwering the phone. So I hobbled in, taking the scenic route around a tall snowbank and a big puddle. The place was empty save for the intake worker, and long story short, I was in and out in record time! I grabbed a chicken thigh and potato, which Hubby had warmed up for me and rushed out the door with my music and a muffin 9which Hubby had packed for me). Hubby texted the organizer that I was going to be 10 minutes late.

I didn’t know what to expect when I got there.

I had spent several hours discussing my wardrobe with another singer and friend. I had showered and washed my hair, and put it in braids to try to give it some shape. I really wanted to wear heels but had to settle for less “grandma-ish” sneakers. I can’t even get my winter boots on. There was no time to style my hair (and the bathroom was just too far away), so the braids came out and I had to trust that if I was sporting an 80’s hairdo, someone would tell me.

There were 9 musicians set up in a U-shape, with 3 static cameras, 2 people with moving cameras, and 1 person taking photographs. The room was buzzing with conversation, everyone flashing raised eyebrows and nervous grins at each other. Our discomfort grew once the video recorders started invading our personal space as we tried to focus on the music and on worshipping the Lord. Akward, yes! But as the minutes passed and all the tension was stripped away, we melted into a unified chorus.

After it was finished, we all hung around, not wanting our time together to end. It was a fantastic way to get to know new people and I think it really helped us bond as a group who are passionate about music and worship through music. I’m looking forward to seeing the end product, knowing what an onerous task it must be to combine all of the footage from so many angles.

The pastor sent me a photo the next day. I told him it was my best side:

Dear Diary – I was happy to let a friend help me today. Usually I am her wheels; today she was my feet. She dropped off my prescription for me and I picked it up through the drive-thru. She shopped for her groceries while I went to chiropractor. And we celebrated with Tim’s tea and long visit in the car.

It’s so much easier to be the helper than the helpee. I’m independent and I worry about bothering others and taking up their precious time. But it’s okay to ask for help when we need it because when we let others help us, we give them the blessing of being the one to help.

Deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.

J.R.R.Tolkien

Dear Diary – I think my body has absorbed so much soap and hand sanitizer that when I pee, I clean the toilet.

I wish cleaning other areas in my home were that easy.

Instead of cleaning house, I just watch an episode of Hoarders and think ‘WOW, my house looks great’!

Unknown

Dear Quarantine Diary – Week 5

Tags

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

Dear Diary – Hubby and I were getting out dishes for dinner and discussing how chilly the house was. I mentioned I felt cold because my hair was still damp (having showered a few hours earlier). Hubby suddenly gasped, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry! I forgot to tell you! Eldest Son called while you were in the shower and he left a message saying he was lying dead in the ditch…”

I called him back. He’s fine. This time, he was just calling to say “hi”. The time he called to say he had just totalled his car was…because he had just totalled his car. That, my friends, was quite a day!

My kids are the reason I wake up each morning, the reason I breathe…and why my hair is turning gray, my house is a mess and I’m crazy!

Unknown

Dear Diary – Sunday night we watched the movie, Babe, with dinner. It’s a sweet story about a pig who trains to be a “sheep dog”. Both Hubby and I remember watching this movie with Eldest Son when he was about 6 years old. It was Easter and we were at with my folks.

Dinner that night was ham and mashed potatoes!

We didn’t point it out to Eldest Son. We were worried he’d be traumatized.

This time, we ate chicken!

But when Hubby asked, “Do you want me to carve the chicken?” Youngest Son exclaimed, “oh! It’s not a decoration!”. To which Hubby replied, slightly confused, “No, it’s not decorative chicken”.

Which begs the question…do people have decorative cooked chickens in their home? Did mine look like plastic? I know my cooking isn’t great but…decorative chicken?

Dear Diary – In Grade 13 English-Writing class, we were asked to fill out an aptitude test. At the end, we had to choose 3 careers from our results and share them with the class. I chose “singer”, “archivist”, and “librarian”. The class immediately declared “archivist” or “librarian”.

I admit, I was alittle hurt. Afterall, they had never heard me sing, but they were the most logical choices. Still, I’d love to go back in time and make the prediction that one day I would sing in a music video. I may have that opportunity soon. Oh, it won’t be a rock video. It won’t receive a million views, followed by a series of talk shows and a record deal, but I’m excited.

Dear Diary – My temporary tattoo is starting to fade. I lengthened it’s lifespan by showering with a rubber glove.

How funny would it be if the “un” faded first. Then it would just say “breakable”. Maybe I should get one that says “Handle with Care”.

After the terrible turn my body has taken this week, I’d settle for “able”. One ankle has been giving me grief for a few months now, but this week the arthritis hit a new level of misery and I can hardly walk. It got so bad one afternoon, I broke down and used a cane…and I bumped down the stairs on my butt. I haven’t done that since I hit double digits. With the kettle on one floor and the bathroom on another, it’s a conundrum.

Standing isn’t as much of a problem so yesterday I made carrot-parsnip soup, cabbage and beef soup, and bread. I’m hoping the veggies balance out the carbs because my pants are still shrinking and hobbling around home isn’t helping.

Eldest Son kindly captured a photo before he dug in!
I made Sally’s no-bake peanut butter bars earlier in the week but they didn’t survive long enough for a photo!

I’d call my doctor but it will be March before I can get in to see the rheumatologist, and I already have an appointment in March. I could call my GP, but her office doesn’t have an elevator. And the thought of scooching down those stairs terrifies me!

Dear Diary – I’ve been ignoring my new bra for a couple of weeks now. I bought it because I needed a supportive bra that I could do up in the front, and they don’t come in my size off the rack. With stores opening and closing faster than a goldfish’s mouth, I opted to order one online. Sight unseen!

The first time I tried it on, I struggled a bit. But now that I have the straps adjusted, it should be simple, right?

First, it’s a tight fit, which is what you want when you’re working out. You don’t want to get slapped in the face with a rogue grapefruit when you’re striking a pose in zumba class. And you certainly don’t want to sued for battery by the skinny girl in tights next to you. (Of course, I’m not in zumba class so I’m safe, but still…) But it’s not like trying to pull on a pair of tight jeans. You can’t just lie on the bed, suck it in and hope for the best. It requires a strong grip and upper body strength to pull the two sides together in order the get the 2 parts of the zipper zipped, so this body armour bra can be strapped on.

I lack both a strong grip and upper body strength.

After multiple attempts, with my shoulder and back muscles screaming, I achieved near success. I had to practically stand on my head, but I was nearly there.

Second, the design is flawed. At the bottom of the zipper is a tiny flap of fabric. It’s sole purpose is to push your level of frustration over the edge until you cry, like ugly, snot-dripping cry. Actually, it’s purpose is completely decorative. It covers the bottom zipper do-hickey so the body armour bra looks “pretty”. I say it’s a design flaw because as I’m straining to squeeze and hold my pillowy mounds of flesh together so I can zip, the useless flap keeps covering the zipper do-hickies and I can’t get the pieces together. My hands slip and I have to repeat the whole exercise again.

By now I’m starting to feel sweat pooling in the curve of my spine. I’m desperately trying to feel the two metal zipper pieces so I can end the agony, but all I feel is a stupid flap. And I can’t see what I’m doing because my knockers are in the way, and threatening to explode from the heavily reinforced white fabric.

There is no “give” or stretch in this fabric, by the way. It doesn’t breathe. I, on the other hand, am hyperventilating. I’m moaning. I’m groaning. The backs of my knees are sweating. My brain and mouth are in agreement; they are both about to explode in a torrential outpouring of expletives that would make a sailor blush.

Then I imagine Hubby standing at the bottom of the stairs, hearing the sounds I’m emitting, wondering if he should ask if I need help. Obviously I’m either struggling with something, like a wild animal, or I’m having way too much fun alone! I think about asking him for help but I’m of two minds. One, it’s embarrassing to have to ask your husband to help you put on your intimates. And two, in my state of undress, I don’t want to give him any ideas.

Eventually, after a 10 minute struggle of epic proportions, I succeed. But now I really needed a shower.

A few days later I received an email. Could I take a survey and tell them how much I loved my new product? So I took the time to explain my concerns about the tightness and the flap, and how difficult it was for this bosom-y old gal to get dressed. Some sweet young thing replied later that I could exchange or return it. I suppose I could (if it weren’t so sweaty), but honestly, I think burning it would be more satisfying.

I was the first woman to burn my bra – it took the fire department four days to put it out.

Dolly Parton

Dear Quarantine Diary – Year 3/Week 4

Tags

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

Dear Diary – So…okay. We’re not technically in Year 3 of the pandemic, but I really didn’t think anyone was going to bust my chops if I jumped ahead a little. After all, it feels more like we’re starting Year 23. The inside joke in my family is that old age starts at age 23, and this whole covid thing is certainly feeling old!

Dear Diary – I totally missed my blog’s anniversary this month. January 9 marked my 10th year writing ridiculous amusing, random insightful, and stupid thought-provoking posts. Today marks post 1803! That’s a lot of crap good stuff! 😜

Yesterday was also a special day worth celebrating. It was Eldest Son’s 32nd birthday. He is now the age I was when Youngest Son was born, and Youngest Son is now the same age I was when Eldest Son was born.

I feel old.

Chocolate cake might make me feel better.

Dear Diary – It snowed again. I realize it’s winter, but my motivation to dress up in bulky clothes that smell a bit like a wet dog, and boots that feel perpetually damp, is sadly lacking. I’ve even considered not getting dressed in the morning like Youngest Son, who can the number of days he wore pants last year, on 2 hands. He wore them because I made him.

Winter also meant it was very dark when I got up Sunday morning and headed to my car before 7:30. I was leading worship. I watched the sunrise, although it was just a gradual lightening of the sky from black to gray, to a lighter shade of gray. At least it wasn’t snowing.

Leading on Sunday was probably highly entertaining. Between my glasses, the straps on my face masks, the wires for my in-ear monitors, and the wireless mic pack with a headset, I was wired for disaster. I did actually have a wire wrapped around my ankle by the last song. At least it was only my ankle and not my throat. Perhaps if I’d had more time…I told my team that if there’s a fire, they should leave me because I wasn’t going to make it out.

Other than that…things went well!

Dear Diary – Eldest Son put a new text-based game on my cell phone. I needed Youngest Son to figure out how to play it. I’ve started a game. Let’s just say that the colonists I’m responsible for settling aren’t going to make it!

Dear Diary – The fabric I ordered online arrived. I washed and ironed it, and started cutting out my patterns, but something was wrong!

Like a carpenter, it’s “measure twice , cut once”, and like a good carpenter I meticulously measured even before I ordered my materials. I should have had enough to make 4 “sheep print” bags. Instead, I can make only 2. The printed fabric shrunk 3”! I may be able with construct a 3rd bag by doing a patchwork pattern, which takes more time. I experimented with a patches last week so it might not be too bad.

I’d still really like to set up an Etsy store and be able to contribute financially at home (or at least save up some money for a rainy day), as well as be at home. While I sometimes miss the sense of accomplishment and the affirmation of colleagues, I feel healthier and more at peace at home. I can pace myself on the days I’m feeling crummy, and I’m not as stressed out trying to fit all the little things that crop up and have to be done, in between everything else that has to be done.

I looked at a job posting this week. I know I would be really good at it! But then I went through waves of reluctance to excitement to anxiety. At one point I felt like sitting on the floor and crying like an overwhelmed 2 year old. I don’t think that’s normal.

I can remember feeling the same way when I had to decide what I wanted to do after high school, except there was a whole big empty future waiting for me. Now I have a much-smaller, less exciting future ahead of me, filled with motorized wheelchairs and absorbent underpants. That’s assuming I can afford a motorized wheelchair. I may have to settle for a dining room chair superglued to skateboards because I didn’t work during my “best years”! Maybe I should be designing washable underpants for seniors instead of japanese knot bags? At least I’d be prepared for the future.

Dear Diary – Youngest Son has now reached the age where he requires a photo on his health card. Which means I can’t do the renewal online. Which means standing in a long line in the cold, and guess what?!?! It’s snowing.

I had to yell at Youngest Son twice to get him out of bed. The second time I used all 4 of his names. I meant business!

Youngest Son hates having his photo taken so when I was asked to provide a family photo to the church, I sighed audibly, with a great deal of annoyance. I think the last family photo I have was taken like 4 years ago…

I wonder if they’d accept a sketch with stick figures?

As it turned out, when we got there, no line up! In fact, we were interrogated questioned at the door and taken straight to a wicket…where we were promptly and pleasantly served. She didn’t care that his passport was expired and accepted his report card as his second piece of identification. She never asked for the form that he “forgot to print” (even though I reminded him 4 times). We were in and out in less than 5 minutes. Truly a once in a lifetime experience!!

It took longer to get coffee at the Tim Horton’s drive-thru but mostly because it was busy…and there were a lot of drivers playing on their phones and not moving up when it was time.

I realized the sassy green boots that inspired my blog haven’t been out of the closet in years. Of course, in the last few, there was simply nowhere to go! I thought about wearing them today, but…snow. Maybe I’ll wear them to the passport office because, apparently, our passports expired last year. The last two trips were just such a positive experience.

I almost said that with a straight face.

Almost.