The Giving. The Getting. The Possible...Goating

            As my beloved will attest, the Christmas season—specifically, the time spent in the mall searching for gifts for those who have everything—brings out the worst in me. So this fall, in an attempt to minimize Grinchiness, I stated I would not be buying “stuff” for the sake of giving “stuff”. I requested lists of suggestions from my immediate family and vowed to stick to my new mantra: None of us needs more Stuff!!!

            There has been almost universal adoption of my plan but for one very notable exception. (Can you guess who?) The kids dutifully emailed very detailed lists—things that I would never have thought of even if I knew they existed. I started a list for myself and encouraged my husband to do the same. Weeks passed. I forced myself into the mall, rewarding myself on my return with liberal quantities of fruitcake and/or wine. And I was making good progress on the lists. I re-discovered my good friend Amazon and my feet and credit card thanked me.

            One night after dinner I pointed out how very mellow I was this shopping season. (Wine does help.) And I mentioned, somewhat more forcefully, that if he didn’t come up with some suggestions for me and the kids I was going to buy a goat with his name on it for a poor African family. That made him put down his paper and, in the manner perfected by old men everywhere, look over his glasses. “I do not want a goat!” And he was back to his paper.

            I had posted my list on the fridge. And under his name: “Anything but a goat. (Feel free to add suggestions.)” Nothing was ever added. That upped the ante. What had been a good-natured attempt to jolly him into "helping" me at Christmas threatened to turn into a nasty skirmish that could taint the ubiquitous good will supposedly endemic to the season. I took a deep breath and vowed to not succumb to my poisonous thoughts.  

            Meanwhile friends and family have had great fun with this stand-off. One suggested I go all out and spring for a water buffalo—after all it is not a goat. My mother, whose building’s maintenance man runs an animal-rescue operation on the side, said maybe she could line up a goat from him. We could tie it to the bumper of my husband's truck for a real Christmas morning surprise. My brother assured me he would be willing to tend to the herd should we decide to travel this winter. And on it goes.

            Ho hum. As the shopping season winds (or grinds?) to a close, one more trip to the city looms. I will continue to remind myself that this is the season to be charitable--and there will be Stuff for him under the tree. But I just can’t help whining to myself that he already has enough Stuff. Pass the whine, er, wine.

           And, of course, there will be Christmas again next year. I already have my list ready: One Goat--and Wine. Merry-Minimum-Stuff-Christmas to all.

Imagine. A Car.

I imagine I will be getting a phone call from "my" car salesman any day now.

He has the perfect car-salesman name, Earl, and, since I bought my vehicle a month ago we apparently have become buddies. This call, the third, will go something like this:

"Are you enjoying your new car and all its features?"

"Yes, Earl, it gets me from Point A to B as long as I keep gas in it. And it's red so all is good."

"Well, I'm calling because we emailed you a customer survey form some time ago but you may have missed it. Or do you have any questions about it that I can help you with? Remember we need an 80% satisfaction rating or better." (For bonus purposes I'm thinking.)

"Well you may not want me to fill in that survey."

"Oh?" Silence.

"Apparently there's a vehicle just like mine sitting in front of your showroom with a sign stating $3500 End Of Year Rebate. I think, since I bought a 2012 model off the lot in September I should qualify for this rebate. I was hoping you were calling to tell me there's a cheque in the mail."

"Now, Elaine, I would give you the rebate if I could. It's only for those purchased from Oct. 15 and on. But that doesn't mean we don't appreciate your business."

"As I recall, Earl, I did not qualify for other discounts related to financing and leasing. So I feel like I'm being penalized for being an easy customer. I paid in full, did not order any changes, you did not have to trade with another dealer and I got it out of your inventory before the 2013 arrivals started."

The sound of Earl spluttering precedes "So how are you enjoying the free turn-by-turn directions and XM Radio and hands-free dialing?"

"I haven't driven anywhere that I needed directions yet but I learned from my last car that that system does not work when you're in tunnels in Montreal and it's very scary to emerge into daylight and detours and No Right Turns in rush hour without any directions."

"Oh. You have to be in sight of the satellite at all times."

"That's not good. And a little creepy Earl."

"Did you get the phone set up?"

"Well, no. The free phone will expire in three months and then I'll have to pay for another one and remember another number. Besides, once I got you out of the driver's seat and I was out of range of the dealership, my cell phone paired up easily and is working just fine."

"Did you find some interesting channels on the satellite radio?"

"No. We already discussed how XM doesn't carry CBC, my favourite. And I learned from the last car that when it expires they inundate you with steadily-declining offers to re-up. It went from $15.99 a month down to $3.49. I still didn't want it."

"So it sounds like you've got everything figured out and you're pretty happy with your new car. I'll check in with you in a few weeks."

"Really Earl that's not necessary. In addition to your calls, I received a letter from the dealership owner thanking for me for my business. The service manager called to offer his assistance at any time. OnStar is mailing me, XM Radio is already soliciting me to re-enlist and the customer survey and requests are clogging up my Inbox. Oh and there is a monthly diagnostic email stating my tires are all inflated."

"Well, if that's all I'll let you go. You just let me know if there's anything I can help you with."

"I would like you to mail me the rebate and leave me to drive the thing in peace."

Earl chuckles. "Are we a great company or what? You take care now."

A Crippling Disorder

I have a husband whose illness may become terminal.

I try not to think about it...and when he tries to raise the subject, I promptly start discussing the weather. Or whether I should repaint the bathroom. Or will Steven and Chris be serving turkey or ham for Thanksgiving. Anything other than the Great Demise.

Besides, I've already told him I intend to die first because I don't understand insurance. Or electricity for that matter but apparently we don't need to know about that.

His suffering has been intense since the weekend when we had a cottage-ful of guests and, one by one, all the men fell ill. There was moaning and coughing and complaints about aches. Every one of them took to carrying their own box of kleenex. To ease their discomfort they gulped down all my Advil Cold and Sinus. Then they sucked soothing throat lozenges and chased them with beer.

No one stayed awake for the movie nor did anyone get a decent sleep due to the hacking and blowing and gargling in the night.

Next the women began to succumb. They made comfort foods for their menfolk and played quietly at Scrabble and drank lemon tea.

It is now days later, the company has departed and the general malaise continues from the recliner. "This is the worst cold I've ever had," I hear as I offer chicken soup.

No, I mutter, it is the same cold that circulates every September when the kids return to school and trade germs and share the fortified robust version with all the adults they come in contact with. He knows better than to suggest we head into Emergency. (I will refuse on the grounds that is full of whining sick people.)

He insists that he is healthy enough to go to his job. That way all his coffee buddies and co-workers and customers get to offer up sympathetic murmurings--and possibly share in the agony by contracting the virus. Then to emphasize how un-well he is, he leaves work early to return to the sofa.

If the phone rings I run to pick up quickly--so as to allow him to continue sleeping. And to spare whoever is on the other end from the whining and detailing of symptoms. Bad enough for them but I don't think I can listen to that list again.

I know he will mend and put all this suffering behind him. In the meantime, I am trying to be sympathetic--and spending as much time as possible outdoors tidying my flower gardens. That has been difficult given the turn in the weather. Yesterday I got sleeted on.

I'm not sure what my best plan of attack is. I know I too will probably fall victim to the dreaded bug but in the meantime should I hang around it indoors, inviting it into my mucous linings? Or am I best to stick it out in the bracing north wind and gales of September?

Oh, and in the interest of full disclosure, the only reason his illness may be terminal is that I may have to put him out of his misery. If only I could understand insurance policies I might know what I could get away with. Ho hum.

Cough.

Old-Fart-Dom

It is a bit of a sideshow really--off the beaten path, freakishly all male yet somehow compulsively inclusive and, dare I say it?, entertaining in an aberrant fashion.

The diaspora of which I speak, if it has to have a name, would reflect its age (middle-aged to old but firmly entrenched in the past); its mental state (constipated); and its preferred habitat (Canadian Tire aisles, mall benches and the species can often be found speeding up and slowing down in the fast lane of major highways).

This demographic anomaly seems to have been happily hopping around the Monopoly board until one day, one by one, they didn't make the turn at Go.

This is normally labelled retirement or downsizing or being made redundant. They passed Go that fateful day but then just slid quietly off into the snack area and stagnated.

There they sit amid the Bits 'n' Bites not knowing what to do with themselves nor quite knowing how to get back in the game.

They, however, think themselves still relevant and make odd proclamations in loud voices at inappropriate times. This makes young relatives nod to each other and move away to check electronic devices.

When viewed from the near-distance, this stage of life seems like it would be ideal. Enough income to eat well, live comfortably. Maybe travel. Time for all those books one meant to read, hobbies to be explored. Heck, one could even strike up a conversation with the good-looking woman who does your laundry and cooks your meals. And it need not be about eavestroughing or varmint control or potholes.

The defining characteristic is madness. Not in the cerebral--or even--chaotic sense. No, it is an anger whose source defies definition and management. These men reserve a special virulence for telemarketers--those undereducated youths and women who will do almost anything to secure employment--whose calls interrupt their nap or dinner--or nothing.

It is the anger--at everything--that surprises. Is it not illogical to be so impatient when one has all the time in the world? Why stomp through a rainy day just because you had planned to cut the grass on that particular day? There will always be tomorrow. And, if not, rest assured someone else will cut it. Heaven forbid, if one was to pass away without having the lawn in immaculate condition.

I know there are couples who play bridge or golf; there are those who take up square dancing and bird watching in their retirement years. Did the Old Fart gene somehow skip this group of men? Or did their partners bone up on their recreational leadership skills and lure them back out into the world of interesting pastimes? If so, kudos to them.

As for the rest of Womanhood, operating in a parallel universe to the Kingdom of Old Fartedness, remember, it is important to maintain your female friendships. There is medical evidence proving that women with strong connections to their kind (i.e. support groups) are healthier and happier.  

And wine helps.

Signs of the Times

Somehow I have become middle-aged and find myself blessed with a semi-retired lifestyle that allows me--sometimes with my husband and often on my own--to travel by car throughout Canada. (It would be perilously close to perfect if I could convince said husband to rent an RV trailer so we wouldn't have to stay in quasi-identical, antibacterial-scented motel rooms, scrambling for the free breakfast of squashed Danish and Fruit Loops at the end. But that is another blog.)

What is striking in my recent travels is the proliferation of expensive, creatively designed signage announcing whatever city, town or region I am passing through. Clearly they are meant to beckon us off the major thoroughfare--not so much to eat and sleep--but to invest in their dream for an economically viable downtown core. Browse through the antique boutiques, love the new waterfront, maybe buy a condo...

I think "$30,000" every time I pass another gorgeous edifice: Bracebridge The Heart of Muskoka; Huntsville Touch the Past, Embrace the Future; Gravenhurst wins for the most gorgeous sign to say nothing.

I pulled the $30,000 figure out of thin air as what it cost taxpayers to erect the thing. This is just a guess. It could easily be more what with excavation costs in the Canadian Shield and the propensity of government projects to go above average in cost.

As I drifted around Hwys. 11 and 400 and 401, I assumed it was an Ontario endeavour. However an excursion to the east cost revealed it is a more widespread phenomenon so perhaps it is a federal initiative. No matter, the result seems to be universal.

Our small town of 3200 is the perfect example. It has received provincial government grants in recent years that allowed it to hire an economic development officer for one year. There may be a small budget attached for programs to help us develop economically or the municipal taxpayer may foot the bill. I don't know.

There's no doubt that we need to revitalize our downtown but I can't help think that our governors are looking in all the wrong places. Instead of looking to the highways and bi-ways, hoping to attract new businesses and investment, maybe we should all be encouraging new, young innovators and entrepreneurs in our midst to set up shop instead of heading to the Oil Sands of Alberta. I'm just saying.

Our little downtown is no different than the cores of "Beautiful Barrie", Orillia, Kingston, Windsor and on and on. Sadly, our downtown retailers have been steamrolled by the Wal-marts and Costcos. Few and far between are the Mom-and-Pops where you can get a shoe resoled, a watch repaired or eat a homemade soup and muffin. Most technicians and tradesmen work out of their homes with a cell phone. No need for retail space because who can compete with Home Depot on plumbing or electrical supplies?

For years and years and years we were known as Powassan, The Friendly Town. Then we got an economic development officer and it was apparently glaringly obvious that we needed a new logo and new signage out on the highway. After significant expense our new logo is an anemic pale blue on white "Powassan, The Heart of Good Living". Unmemorable in the extreme. And, as someone in North Bay asked me recently, "Aren't you friendly any more?"

And I think North Bay got ripped off as bad as we did--only at more expense. Its new sign says, wait for it, "North Bay". Not "Welcome" or "Enjoy Your Stay" or "Come On In". For $30,000--or whatever the number is--you would think they would get some more words or flowers or waving grass. Nothing. The city that used to be "The Gateway to the North" is now a seeming non-entity; neither a destination nor jumping off point for the great expanse of Northern Ontario.

Which begs the question, Did the gateway move? Has an economic development professional deemed Severn River perhaps the gateway to the north? Or Cookstown? I'll keep my eyes peeled on my next trip.

Defending the Turf

I knew that a line had been crossed the day my husband suggested I could more efficiently organize the pots and pans. They do reside in the kitchen after all, a heretofore unbreached somewhat-oasis where I have always been left to my own devices--at least until meal time when the expectation is palpable that a repast involving meat and potatoes should be materializing soon.


My husband--God, may she bless him--means well. His skill as a problem-solver has served him well as a small-town businessman over 30-plus years. His talent to take charge and make hard decisions earned him the respect of his competitors and the loyalty of staff. His is the unmistakable Type A personality that emerges in difficult situations, that garners envy, if not necessarily love.


I have loved him, though, through his stresses and abrasiveness and hyperactivity because when he came home at the end of the work day, he did not want to talk about his day. Perhaps it weighed heavy on his mind but it was always shut into a separate compartment away from me and the kids and the house.


At home, I was pretty much on my own due to his long work days and his commitment to team sports and community volunteerism. I learned to fend for myself, call a plumber, stickhandle through parent-teacher interviews, deal with contractors, feed everyone and, yes, keep the pots and pans organized. So it was with not a small amount of trepidation that I watched as he sold his business a couple of years ago and commenced to work part-time.


For a long time, he seemed to be sleeping in a chair whenever I came into the house. How could anyone take three naps a day and still sleep at night I wondered. I overheard him telling everyone who asked that he was enjoying his semi-retirement because he no longer had to think about the business when he came home.


It seemed to me that he would need something substantial to think about in its place. I encouraged him to join the library. He built shelves. Mostly very high shelves that I cannot reach. Anyway, we now have enough shelves.


He cleaned the garage, a lot, and became a little obsessed with vermin--mice, squirrels, raccoons, skunks--that might invade his shed. He started driving REALLY slowly so that he could safely gawk around on his trips into town. I had to tell him he needed to at least drive the speed limit if he wanted me to be in the vehicle with him.


But all these proclivities did not really affect my sphere of influence. I carried on as usual, trying to ignore the snoring coming from the recliner. Until his comment the other day about  how I should set up the kitchen.


The potential for a turf war is a little bizarre in that I have been begging him for years to take over some of the cooking. To no avail. I contend that the occasional barbecued burger does not constitute sharing the culinary duties. So if I thought letting him organize the tools would lead to an urge to use them, I would happily back out of the kitchen. Maybe right in to the recliner.


Sadly, in my heart, I recognize this latest project as just another iteration of The Boss.  He has always been in charge and underlings have always done his bidding. Trouble is...well, everyone knows the trouble spot here. Whether my husband, highly intelligent in oh so many areas, will ever figure this out is debatable.


I calmly looked at him over the counter as I stood up after placing a skillet under the oven-- exactly where it has been for all of our married life and will continue to be--and suggested that some things were better left unorganized.


And some lines should never be crossed.

Uneventful

There's nothing quite like the thrill ... wait for it ... of looking at my calendar and seeing blank squares. I can't quite remember when my social schedule started to be so crowded; nor why. It just happened gradually, I guess, and my life became a struggle to stay ahead of the RSVPs, card purchases, gift registries and, occasionally, flights to book.

"Lucky you", you may be thinking. And I am. I have myriad friends and a wide and varied extended family network. My husband too comes from a large family so his occasions are mine and vice versa (except I do ALL the RSVPing and card-buying and register-checking for both of us). In addition, he has taken on a significant volunteer position which sometimes requires me to wear a long dress and heels. (I do draw the line at pantyhose in the summer.)

This summer has been a hot one. Oh so glorious when one is floating off the dock at the cottage. Agonizingly uncomfortable in the full flush of another hot flash in the centre of a crowd. When all one can think about is stripping off and being in the water again.

So when I studied the calendar last Sunday I was amazed to see nothing. I double-checked with my husband. Had we forgotten to write in a week's stuff? Nope. I began to daydream about all kinds of things--including just sitting on the deck daydreaming. Oh the books. The crossword puzzles. Maybe I would get out the jigsaw puzzle I had received for Christmas. I would have time to play the piano and read old newspapers. There was a chance I would get caught up on my online games and reply to all my email.

If I get really lucky it might be rainy and then I will unguiltily unwrap the second season of Downton Abbey and slide it in. There will be popcorn and, possibly, knitting. And definitely napping.

Still Reeling

Still Reeling

It was with great sadness that I and thousands of other fans learned two weeks ago that Nora Ephron had died. She was relatively young at 71--as in "I'm in my fifties and that's not so far away for me"--and still writing funny tidbits that were spot on.

Selfishly, one of my first thoughts was now I'll never get to meet her. I'll never get to show her my work and tell her how much of an inspiration she has been over the years.

The world is a slightly sadder place without her bon mots rippling off the pages. No more will I laugh into the night  by flashlight trying to not wake my husband. Once, when he wanted to know what I was snickering over, I handed him her book between giggles. He read the chosen hilarious episode and commented, "Hmmph". That was it. Not even a smirk. I still don't know if her work is strictly gender specific or if my husband's sense of humour is less developed than even I could have thought possible. I do know that, should I be lucky enough to come across some new material by her in the future , I will laugh heartily into the night on my side of the bed.

I kind of regret that I was such an endorsing fan, passing on her books and pressing them breathlessly into the hands of any who I thought would enjoy her work. When I rooted through the bookshelves of my life the other day, I discovered to my dismay that I no longer own a single one of her works--although I know of at least three that I owned at one time.

I am going to think of them as taking on a life of their own, moving through the read-a-sphere, spreading joy and laughter--late into the night.

I will miss you Nora.