Saturday, June 09, 2018

Aging In Place

I was reading Joared and threw a long comment on a question she asked about aging in place and wouldn't you know it, it went poof into the ether. I had stopped copying blog comments as backup a while ago but I should start again if they are long. Live and learn.

So instead I thought I'd write my own post about the changes I've made and how I'm living my life in much changed surroundings since this time last year.

I am struck (joyfully) by how whittled down my possessions are now. I have downsized more than a few times in my life. And upsized too. Does anyone ever write about upsizing except in reference to Happy Meals? Life can be writ excessively large in a 4 story century old home which was my marital home for many years and where my children were raised. A lovely old place but also where my marriage finally withered and died. So mixed memories.

So yes, the finally downsizing perhaps if my (mental)health holds out.

This is a great place to age-in-place as long as the marbles don't roll around. The only time anyone exits is when the stove is shut down and the meds are in electronic dispensers in the bathroom and you're doing your laundry one knickers at a time every hour and forgetting where your apartment is. One 90 year old recently made such an exit. A former high profile banker. Her only child, a son, was worn out from visiting every day with meals and checkups. His suggestion of daily home help was met with words he had never heard her utter in his life - a blue laden dictionary of profanity from a high church Anglican which, he, a merchant seaman (ret.), had never encountered anywhere. It was enough to have her removed, knickers and meds, to a full care home.

I haven't looked back since I moved here. I still wake up every morning and listen to the birds outside and am so very grateful I don't have to worry about anything except taking care of myself and my simple needs.

Frankly, I never thought I'd adjust to living in a one bedroom apartment. But it's perfect. I'm on the second floor, overlooking a lake and Signal Hill with a slice of ocean across the way. I am content. Truly content. It seems like a very long time since I could say that. Everything I need is at my fingertips. And I'll have it ready for show and tell once I get back here and wade through the huge boxes and tubs of photos (you wouldn't believe!)with the help of Grandgirl who is arriving next month.

I had lunch yesterday with a friend who followed me in here from her country home (her home has been in her family for generations). And she said to me that she'd be quite happy of she never had to see it again. She has agreed to keep it for the family for now but her heart is in her apartment here.

Anyway, we wound up giggling like schoolgirls at this new lease on life we both feel, like we are teenagers again, ready to explore a new world with "parents" taking care of all the endless maintenance and entertaining (her family - me B&B) and animal care and making up beds and wondering when the snowplow would clear the driveway, and what happens when the pipes freeze again, etc., etc.

So we ran off to the Habitat for Humanity store for a while and poked around and then hit our local library dancing around the shelves, stocking up like mad things because now there's lots more time to read.

And savour.

Savour this glorious stage of life.

How very lucky I am.

Thursday, June 07, 2018

Moving On


Do you write with your heart or with your head or a combination of both?

I tend to write from the heart.

Opinion pieces tend to be distancing I find and ring false and judgmental as the personal experience is absent.

And passion. Passion is absent from so many lives, isn't it? Being in this lovely village which is my complex I am puzzled as to why it is lacking in so many lives. Enthusiasm. Delight. Joy. Self-deprecation. We need lots more of these. How to stoke those internal fires?


My long awaited custom chair was finally delivered today. I had to send the incorrect one back 2 months ago as it rocked. This one is perfect. I test drove it like a child after the delivery men left. Now I'm finally ready to play with my space.

A perfect bathroom mirror I found. I'd been looking forever.


5 more sleeps till I leave, but it's a busy 5 days, jammed with meetings and a paying tax project which finances part of my travel expenses.

My Cape Breton friend has planned a trip on our second day together to her local wharf to await the lobster boats coming in and then gorging ourselves silly in the wharf cafe on fresh lobster. I will photo this feast.

Travelling by car enables me to pack quite carelessly which I love.


"Not your Granny's dishcloth"

I made this dishcloth and I couldn't believe the response on FB. I've made quite a few more as so many want to buy them.

Sunday, June 03, 2018


It's hard to surprise this old blogger. But sometimes I can be shocked. Particularly by a male blogger who considers himself a feminist.I won't use names here but suffice to say that I've been following and commenting on his blog for a very long time. And he on mine.

Naturally, over the years, we have accrued readers in common who regularly comment. Some commentators are fairly detailed in comments on my blog and on others. A trait that charms me. Imagine readers taking the time to evaluate carefully and comment and offer well thought out, often opposing opinions. Some take exception to that. I watch a lot of this unfold on others' blogs but rarely on mine. A battle of insults ensues, often ad hominem attacks which I have always deemed unfair unless the writer writes from a lofty privileged platform and not from personal experience - i.e. monolithically condemning great swathes of the population for having the effrontery to be fat or alcoholic or consuming mindlessly, take your pick.

I truly don't write to have an army of sycophants worshipping at the altar of my deathless prose. I write from experience and often receive personal emails from readers looking for help with addiction or grief or loneliness or depression or even knitting. Many I meet in the flesh, many are supportive - for instance when Grandgirl was in India, a long time blogger friend offered to look out for her.

But the email I received the other day took my breath away in its condescending mansplaining. I was told, in no uncertain terms, not to "encourage" a female blogger whose comments were "upsetting" him. To stop "taking her side". And please note I have rarely, if ever, commented on a comment on anyone else's blog. And certainly not on his.

I'll let that sink in for a minute there.

Note that my opinion and regard for this blogger was completely shoved aside in his subjective consideration. He just needed to set me straight as to how he "felt" and how her "accusations" and "put downs" were going on a long time. That was all that was important.

Well, heat and kitchen come to mind. Seriously.

I will also note that the blogger he refers to has never, ever, upset me in any way.

In fact she has been incredibly supportive through grief and depression.

I guess I should take my ladybrain and scurry back to the kitchen and forget this blogging business and leave it to the Big Boyz who know what's best for bloggers like me, you think?

Thursday, May 31, 2018


My father always maintained that for a happy life one needs something to look forward to. I'm a firm believer in a one day at a time philosophy but it lifts my spirits to plan travelling or a creative project.

A busy summer is lined up and I'm pretty happy about that. Enough breaks in between to take a breather.

Coming back from this I have Grandgirl coming for a week or so and staying with me.

Next on the agenda would be time spent with Daughter in August for my birthday, perhaps in Labrador and Red Bay, we've been tossing ideas around as her time is limited due to work.

Then in September another friend is coming from Ontario (her second visit) and we plan to visit Trinity, Fogo Island and Gros Morne, all of which I've been to before (in some cases more than once!) but she hasn't.

So all in all cruising through this summer sounds pretty exciting and eventful.

And yes, food is still peaceful, nutritious and appetizing. My clothes are looser and my energy has improved. My arm trouble lingers on so I am going to see an osteopath and I hope to get to the bottom of this. My speculation is boundless but pointless.

Two wee things I just knitted as a gift for a friend who adores both gingerbread men and books.

Sunday, May 27, 2018

Dis and Dat

I updated my book list for those interested - and I am gratified some of you enjoy it.

As to Canadian Netflix, it seems to have run out of steam. Deliberately, I don's subscribe to any other streaming service in case it would get in the way of my real life. So I decided to embrace my local library yet again and I'm finding all sorts of goodies which only take up temporary space in my abode. For instance, I just received "Brideshead Revisited" which I haven't seen in a dog's age and am looking forward to revisiting (ha). This is the 1981 version which I remember enjoying. I didn't see the remake and have no desire to.

And yay Ireland on the referendum and all who sailed in to cast votes from everywhere around the planet. I haven't been so emotionally swept up in a vote in a long, long time. Remembering all who suffered and died because of the barbaric nature of the Eighth Amendment to the Constitution of Ireland.


I had one of those "real" dreams last night. Missing Daughter had returned to the fold. Engineered by First Daughter. All terribly complicated but I was holding her and she was sobbing her heart out and wouldn't let me go. I woke up smiling and not crying which surprised me. But I carried a little oomph of hope. I have a major milestone birthday coming up and maybe this is playing some part in this. But I do know about expectations being folly. So no fatted calf or parades in anticipation.

In the past week, I banjaxed my left arm from the fingertips to the shoulder. The pain was brutal and I needed a brace. This happens periodically and we can't seem to source the cause. It feels like a repetitive sprain injury but to cover such a vast area? I've checked seating, desk height, etc. But I'm baffled. A few months ago when it happened I went for all sorts of tests and nothing was found.

Wednesday, May 23, 2018


I had this idea. My friend with memory problems that she is working on fairly successfully? I thought to make plans with her. How would that plot work out? And, I thought, the sooner the better.

I looked at a good old Google map and picked a point half way between our dwellings which happened to be St. John, New Brunswick. I'm about 1,500km from there and so is she. I have to catch the winter ferry as the seasonal summer ferry won't start in time for the trip. So that entails a road trip across the island of around 900km, give or take.

I love road trips, so does she.

I managed to find a cabin on the river for us to share for a week. Staggeringly reasonable. it includes breakfast.

On my way to St. John I also booked in for 2 days with a friend who has a cottage in Cape Breton not too far from where the ferry decants me in North Sidney.

She's planning a dinner party and gathering her Inverness clan to meet me. They all sound wonderful, writers and artists galore.

Then I head off from her place to St. John to meet my Toronto friend.

So I leave on the 12th of June.

I feel this trip is very important.

And it truly has been a carpe diem thing organizing it all.

Sunday, May 20, 2018


Gosh people, it is time to face my reality. Some things I don't write about. Some things I don't share.

And why not?

Because of labeling. Because of fear. Because of the old admonition "be careful who you share with."

But change I must. For today in meditation?

It struck me that I am always sad. Have been for a long time now. Maybe 18 months or longer with a brief respite for about six months. Until Ansa died. I observe life at a distance and often through a veil of tears. Pardon the pun but I'm actually in a vale of tears while behind this veil. Constantly it seems.

Overly dramatic? You're not living where I am.

I can pretend for a while, an hour or so. I can even laugh or plumb my innate Irish wit to make others laugh. But then.

I'm stopped, sliding around in one deep muddy spot, avoiding the swamp that will suck me down.

So the meditation?

I wrote first to my friend Ross who is dying, doing the "next right thing" which is my philosophy of life in a nutshell.

I wrote to my friend Pad who has kicked cancer twice and is a mutual friend of Ross's.

And then finally, I reached out for help myself and wrote to Dr. Patrick my grief counselor who was so helpful in the past, two years ago now and for about 6 months of sessions. I need a current assessment of my mental and emotional and spiritual condition.

For I can't go on like this.

Friday, May 18, 2018

The Adoration of Sally

I mentioned in my previous post an 84 year old resident of my building I'll call Sally whose 6 daughters take turns in taking her out each night for dinner.

Our weather has been consistently so glorious that all our windows are open to the front courtyard where Sally gets dropped.

I'd missed some afternoon excursions, obviously, as I'd only heard and then observed the after dinner drop-offs.

It's always hard to miss the laughter when Sally gets decanted by one of her six daughters.

Today at three p.m. she launches out of a red sports car clutching a pair of black pumps in her hand and flaunting her sparkling new bright blue running shoes.

"They're fine, see?" Sally stands on the pavement and flexes one foot at the daughter driving.

"Just as long as they're comfy," replies her daughter, "I can always get you another pair."

"Ah, no need for that," Sally says, "Until I wear them out running around."

"Who's turn is it to take you tonight for supper?"

"I forget," says Sally,"But one always shows up and I'll be ready. I should wear a tracksuit to match the new runners, right?"

I am obviously fascinated by Sally as she is completely oblivious to this charmed life she leads and treats her daughters as mild nuisances for I've seen her bat them away on the stairs (she scorns the elevator) when they follow her up, telling them she's got plans that don't include them and to go home. They look literally crushed with disappointment that they can't spend more time with her.

Of all my neighbours on this floor, she is by far the happiest, the joy exudes from her.

I must sit down with her and hear her life story.

Thursday, May 17, 2018

Blog Jam

My mornings

Water bottle
Tao meditation
An Indian Ocean sunset from a blog friend received in the mail yesterday.

Elder Daughter

She researched a little on how mothers might live longer. Discovered that daughters, spending more positive time with their mothers, extend their lives immeasurably. Every time we get together now, she calls it "my life extension programme." I have a living example in my building. An 84 yo woman - who would put women half her age to shame - bounces out of a different car in the parking lot around 7 each night. Turns out one of her six daughters take it in turns to pick her up for dinner each night of the week. I had wondered why she was always so happy. She should live to be 180.


I had been looking for a headboard for my bed for a long time. Nothing appealed. Then Daughter arrived on Mother's Day lugging this beauty along with her tool kit to install it. It is so perfect I could weep. My bedroom doubles as my den so I like the distinction of the sleep area. Plus: bonus stuff holder.

Thursday, May 10, 2018

Thin on the ground

Friendships can get thin on the ground as we age. I imagine mine are more precious and important to me in the absence of a significant other. Who do we we bounce ourselves off unless it's a friend, usually long term, usually a cornucopia of memories enriching the shared experience of our lives.

That's why it's such a shock when a long term friend, supportive, kind, carrying each other through a myriad of downers and uppers and inbetweeners comes out of left field with some rather appalling shyte yesterday.

For instance:

(R) M, you'd be far better off if you weren't so passionate about things, if you weren't so keen on feminism and politics and all that other stuff you do like writing. If you'd let all that stuff go and just confine yourself to a smaller world that would take far less energy, and you wouldn't get so worked up about stuff.

(R)I can think of all sorts of people who are mentally ill. We are far too tolerant of mental illness. For instance gays: gays are mentally ill. They are rebelling against the laws of nature.

(M)I don't know why you're talking like this. One of my children......

(R)Oh yeah, I forgot, one of your kids is gay.

When I am completely shocked I go into withdrawal mode. Yeah, I engage for a while but my bafflement and confusion takes a while to kick in. Usually long after the conversation is over. Today I am saddened and disheartened.

He has never spoken like this before in all the years I have known him.

When I am attacked at a core level, when my very spirit is attacked, the wound runs deep: has he always thought this way and didn't verbalize it? Had contempt for my passions and creativity? He knew and engaged with my gay child since she was 15. Is that how he felt about her for all those years?

Wow, I honestly feel as if I don't want him in my life anymore.

Yeah, I'm devastated and so very sad.

Monday, May 07, 2018

The World I Live In

The World I Live In

I have refused to live
locked in the orderly house of
reasons and proofs.
The world I live in and believe in
is wider than that. And anyway,
what's wrong with maybe?

You wouldn't believe what once or
twice I have seen. I'll just
tell you this:
only if there are angels in your head will you
ever, possibly, see one.

Mary Oliver

I was raised on having my own personal guardian angel. Someone appointed by God but only if you were raised in the One True Faith. Angels weren't allocated to heathen or infidels or protestants - those breakaway Catholics who were sex obsessed and didn't have REAL communion like us.

If I listened closely I was told the angel would instruct me as to my behaviour and if I disobeyed, I would be reported to the Big Whitebearded Himself in the Sky who would arrange for punishment with the Big Horned Himself in the Everlasting Fires.

I had questions like these for the brainwashers:
(1) Is my angel a boy or a girl?
(2) How tall is my angel
(3) What's his/her name?
(5) Why does God talk to Satan about me?
(6) Where does (s)he fly to when not with me?
(7) Why can't I ever see him/her if I'm supposed to be listening all the time.
(8) How fast do they fly?
(9) Do their huge wings make a huge noise?

I was told to sit down and be quiet and stop questioning God who was sick and tired of me doubting Him. I was 6, just before my First Holy Communion when all such matters would become clear due to my soul being all sparkly and new along with my creepy bridal dress and my pleased, no doubt, nameless Guardian Angel.

In case you think this is all so very quaint and antediluvian, have a gander at the more recent witterings of the pope himself. I gather my angel got an upgrade to "ambassador" now. Like moving to first class, free, on a flight.

Which all brings me to the poem. I am a fan of Mary Oliver.

Angels in my head? Well dreams. I have dreams. Don't we all?

Wednesday, May 02, 2018

I sat with the ladies

(Ongoing healthy eating: A quinoa salad I had today for lunch, one of my favourites, extremely adaptable and delicious)

I love my building. It is full of little corners with plants and chairs and a gorgeous gallery overlooking the community room.

The gallery has tables and sofas and comfy chairs and plants and a large coffee table which holds giveaways/freebies - fresh baking, girl guide cookies, magazines and recently a whole bag full of hair products which I helped myself to. I never give up on trying to thicken my aging hair. Why? I don't know.

Gillian is old school, rigidly Anglican, snobby, talks of WW2 in almost affectionate terms when her veteran husband lived in the building with her (he's deceased 14 years now) and the riff-raff (my term) were not welcome. Exclusively war-brides and veterans and their wives in the good old days.

When I am being viewed down through the nose - as my people say - by anyone, I make it a kind of project to charm them. Gillian, who is pushing 90 I'd say, ramrod straight and tall, works out in one of the gyms in the building every day, was a hard nut to crack.

I'd run into her a few times in the halls, and she was stiff and unfriendly. An Irish Catholic like myself, even tho long since exed, would have been rubble under her expensive black leather shoes. Gillian reads Hello and any magazine featuring the Royals - as many do here. The claws of England and Queen and Empire pierce deeply into the veins of these loyalists.

At 3 o'clock every day, the ladies gather in the gallery and chat softly and genteelly.

I was coming in yesterday afternoon with groceries in my wee trolley and decided now or never and sat down with them. In a sweatshirt and jeans. I'd say these ladies have only been wearing trousers (tailored, knife creased) in the last few years but most wear skirts and cardigans. I wish there was a photo, I must have looked like I was from Planet 9 or a leftover hippy from the sixties.

They had done their homework on me. They knew I'd been mayor in my town and that I'd "run an inn" (who was I to explain the concept of AirBnB to them?). I can clean up my language when I have to so in my most dulcet tones responded to their inquiries as to the guests from around the world I'd met.

Gillian threw a few delicate inquiries at me about schooling (she was expensively educated in England) and I was rewarded with an absolutely blinding beam of a smile when I mentioned I was a passionate fan of Gilbert & Sullivan and had, in fact, been in many productions of their operettas.

As I got to my feet to tow my groceries down to my apartment I could sense the approval of the ladies.

I was in.

Sunday, April 29, 2018

The Dynamics of Long Term Friendship

My friend came to me today, deeply troubled.

Her 65 year friendship with her bestie was on the rocks.

Her friend, B, had made weekly plans with her, dinner on the Friday.

S, my friend, called her to confirm on Thursday.

B said, things had changed, now they would meet Saturday instead, offering no explanation.

S called her on Friday to confirm and B responded something more exciting had come up for Saturday so said they'd have to meet some other time.

S called B today to tell her how hurt she was and was immediately gas-lit. I've written about gas-lighting before as some in my own family of origin are experts. I didn't know anything about it until I read an article a few years back and the light bulbs went off. S had never heard of it either but when she went over how B had treated her on the phone:
(1)You're too sensitive
(2)I have a life, you should get one
(3)You're forgetting all I've done for you
(4)This is so trivial.
(5)You should apologise for harassing me.
(There was no apology offered by B, you will note.)
she kept nodding at me. It was familiar territory to her in this friendship.

I discussed a long term friendship I had lost. It all boils down to the respect given and received, doesn't it? How we value each other. There were underlying issues (passive aggression and continual tardiness) in my former friendship but basically, for me, it was that sense of having no value, evidenced by lack of contact - an inherent laziness - and dismissal of efforts made by me to cement and honour what we had.

We need to be seen and heard we both agreed. I suggested she take timeout as I had done, to re-evaluate. To get to the point, perhaps, where they could sit down and see what each needs from the other and how they could prioritize and respect what they have.

A difficult process but if both participated equally it could re-ignite that intimacy of 65 years and forge a new respect and connection.

Maybe I should have been a therapist?

I've often thought so.

Thursday, April 26, 2018


It's extraordinary how change, a simple change really, can impact me in so many ways.

A few weeks back I left my specialist's office in a state of such agitation I had to pull my car over several times as alternating fear and despair took over my entire being.

There was literally no one to call, I thought. Daughter was away for an extended sojourn in SE Asia and my closest friends lived in Ontario and birth family and I are not close.

I knew I couldn't be alone with myself so I reached out and called a local friend. She was instrumental in getting me into this marvelous building. And it was the best thing I could have done. She immediately dropped out of a social gathering she was attending and met me in a local coffee shop. what I like about her is she is so non-judgmental and we have the same warped sense of humour, tending into darkness at times. I am lucky Daughter and Grandgirl have inherited this. It can be downright strange to some ears.

I found such ease and comfort in her companionship and we were shocked that when we finally looked at the time we had spent 4 hours there, often hysterical with laughter.

Long story short, at home afterwards I recognised I had to put more effort into healthful living and abandon the poor mes, take my stick with me, increase my daily steps and most importantly of all: change my eating habits. A morning meditation admonished me: See beauty.

Accordingly my lunch plate above reflects how I'm eating and my service stop at the dealer's today with my new eyes: the burnt sienna look and the circular architecture had never caught my eye before.

This card came in from an Ontario friend. It really pleased me. We know each other well.

Monday, April 23, 2018

Fine Friends

I was horrifed and shocked to get an email from a friend of long standing today. He was just diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer, esophagus, stomach and liver. He had an overlying condition for a few months, an antibiotic resistant bacteria, and then: wham.

He is a man of integrity and honour, a world lecturer and traveller and I always felt joyful and respected and understood in his company.

Sometimes we don't realise that such feelings are mutual. But I do. His last book had the most wonderful dedication to me. I was humbled by it.

We had many lunches and business interactions and book exchanges that evolved into a deep and abiding friendship. I had written a little poem about his mother way back in the day when he had said he didn't feel he could articulate how important her life was to him. He read it, much to my surprise, at her funeral.

He visited Newfoundland twice and he, a world traveller, fell so in love with the place that he took close to 10,000 pictures the first time he was here.

I am so saddened by this, I find it hard to articulate my grief.

This long death roll does wrap itself around my heart, so many dear ones gone, closer than family.

What I do when this shyte unfolds is to send little cards of remembrance in the mail, something to brighten the days of the beloved dying, to assure that yes, you are so very important to me, you are loved and remembered, you are one of the dear ones.

And I don't shirk from what they are facing.

Sunday, April 22, 2018


I'm basically a bore with breakfast.

But the following is a recipe I've used forever when I don't have time in the morning to make the oatmeal with seeds and nuts and homemade yogurt and berries on top and also cook my egg.

I make it ahead of time and it makes 4 breakfasts. I've eaten it cold or warmed up.

It sticks to the ribs really well.

1 cup uncooked grain - anything but wheat. Quinoa is delicious as is oatmeal.
2 cups berries or chopped mixed fruit of any kind.
1 cup skim milk or soya or yogurt or 1/2 cup ricotta or cottage cheese or almond milk.
6 medium eggs
1 tsp nutmeg and/or ginger to taste
1 long casserole dish greased well.

Beat eggs well with the milk or yogurt or ricotta.

Sprinkle grain on bottom of dish

Spread berries over top

Pour egg mixture over everything.

Bake at 375 for an hour or until firm. Cut into 4.

And yes, my change of habits and planning ahead with meals is going really well.

I realize, for the 100th time, that I am a person who can't be spontaneous with food.

Thursday, April 19, 2018


Over the last couple of weeks, I've made some substantial changes to my food intake. I despise the word diet which has evolved into a word defining restriction with ephemeral weight loss the outcome.

I struggle with eating cold veggies - salads,etc. I don't know why that is. I was brought up in a reasonably healthy house, very healthy for its time and place, my mother had taken classes in nutrition and that was over 60 years ago, but I've always rebelled against salads. The cold mutinous lettuce in a bowl with tomatoes eyes and cucumber faces. Ironically, my children became salad lovers as a result of my repugnance.

I've struggled with weight much of my life and am familiar with every aspect of food addiction, anorexia, weight gains, substantial weight losses, yo-yo dieting, black beauties amphetamines, sketchy doctors with horse urine shots, medically supervised fasts, weight loss programmes with their business model based on failure, etc.

My recent restricted movement and physicality has forced me to go look at my food intake, to reevaluate my ingestion so to speak, as the weight has crept on since my diagnoses of PVD. I am a foodie, an overall addict of much and often, so I put on my big girl knickers, and toured some blogs who have taken the year of 2018 to focus on health and simplicity and planning. Thanks you guys, you are too numerous to mention but you all inspire me.

I bought ready made salads - I worked out the costs and with the disgraceful amount of veggies I throw out regularly, it is actually cheaper for me to buy a large salad, full of variety with free dressing on the side, that creates 4 meals for me for $10. For some reason I don't question, this is palatable. I also picked up some healthy pre-made meals. With an aging population here, these are becoming more readily available and I often find that one (recently a gorgeous turkey meat loaf with tiny potatoes and zucchini) does me for 2 dinners at a cost of $4.00 each. That plus salad is a great meal.

I also got myself back into a support group which helps me immeasurably in taking stock and working on the inner issues of "it's not what I'm eating, it's what's eating me". The "comfort eating" which is but a moment in time and results in enormous physical discomfort for me. My running and training days are over and I'm truly back to basics which can be a very good thing. For anybody. I (mostly) accept my new limits, my new state of having so many losses which linger in spite of stones thrown in water and candles lit and meditative practices.

I'm still easing into the persona of healthy, moderate eater but I'm getting there.

More on this as I forge this new pathway.

Wednesday, April 18, 2018


I love coffee. All kinds of coffee except weak and instant.

I had to leave my enormous machine behind in my house when I sold it. It was far too big for my apartment. I remember celebrating its purchase way back in the day. A machine that could brew coffee anyway you liked it. But after 10 years of daily use it owed me nothing. And it still works like a charm.

I bought a small coffee maker when I moved here and it is quite splendid. But I missed my espresso, my after dinner decaff espresso.

I went on the hunt for something tidy and beautiful and well, Italian.

And thanks to K-pods (a universal paean to bad coffee everywhere, not to mention the environmental impact) I found this fabulous little beauty for a song. Very few, I gather, want to go to the trouble of real brew anymore. The polished wood on the handle and lid is art in itself but the espresso this baby disgorges is absolute bliss.

Me is happy.

Saturday, April 14, 2018

For the Price of.....

For the price of a beer or a fancy latte

Or a bag of cheap cookies or a cafe au lait

Or a magazine rampant with pages of ads,

Or dollar store gizmos: the latest of fads.

The main one I place right by my side,

The second one goes to the hallway outside,

The third one sits in the wee room to stay

And I ponder the wealth of my lovely bouquet.

Thursday, April 12, 2018

Simple Chairy Things.

A chair I'd ordered about 2 months ago, arrived today. I had liked the sales person at the store but the first alarm bell went off when she called me back the day following the order placement and said she had messed up on the price and the material was $200 more. I thought about it and phoned her back, realizing everyone makes mistakes and told her to go ahead with the order, I had liked the fabric and design.

I had asked specifically for no rockers on this reclining chair. I had test driven about 20 recliners at the store and I've always disliked rockers, they make me feel off balance and insecure. I do love recliners though and the last time I had one was in the marital home a long, long time ago. I've dreamed of one since but with specific requirements like I should be able to sit and knit in it and have it comfy enough for a nap with the feet up (and no rocking!). I could never quite afford such a creature and checking out second hand ones (I did look) never quite worked out due to smoking households or terrible colours or aforementioned rockers.

So mein very own chair was delivered first thing this morning and the fellahs set it up and whoa Nelly, this beautiful work of art and comfort had rockers. Shyte cubed sez I, and called the shop and found my saleswoman was off on leave of some kind. "You could keep it," was offered unhelpfully. I insisted the fellahs take it back and they supply me with the chair I wanted. There was no apology offered only another unhelpful remark of "this will take a lot more time."

In the way of things and special orders, you'd think this would be pretty straightforward, wouldn't you?

The fellahs muttered as they staggered back out with my chair: "Dealing with E-------(my original sales woman) is like talking to a wall."

I wish she's worn a sign telling me that.

No follow up from the store yet.

And this was not a cheap chair.

I'm oiling up my Toyota machine gun.