So it has been a full six months since I left paid employment to join the other team--the Cash For Lifers who have opted to draw down the Canada Pension Plan (in my case, by a pittance) each month. Some of my pre-conceived ideas about retirement have worked out. Others have not.
And before you read any further, here is a spoiler alert. If you are working full-time, raising kids, keeping a house together, trying to have a social life and maintain personal hygiene, you will not empathize with me. In fact. you probably should move onto the allrecipe website right now because your Whirling Dervish life doesn't really allow time for recreational reading. Your schedule is mandated by forces outside your control whereas mine is all my doing. Sorry. Some day you will cross over and find yourself in my weirdly-busy-unstructured frenzy that occasionally allows naps.
Pre-retirement, I had theorized that I would need significantly less income for the up-to-date business-appropriate wardrobe, gas for the commute, purchased lunches and a fortune in take-out coffees associated with paid employment. This has proven to be the case.
What I however did not figure into the equation were leisure-wear clothing purchases, gas to get to me to quilting classes/pickleball games/cultural outings in Southern Ontario, purchased lunches out with fellow retired girlfriends and a small fortune in movie tickets and take-out coffees.
My vision of whiling away my days quietly reading at home, interrupted by frequent trips to restock at our excellent neighbourhood library, followed by regular blogging and contact with long-lost friends has not quite materialized. Instead, I find myself rattling from pillar to post, almost frantic some days to fit in all my activities and get a decent meal on the table at the end of it.
Like I said, I have no one to blame but myself. And maybe those who start sentences with "Now that you're retired have you considered ... " (fill in as you wish: "babysitting my children?"; "serving on the library board?"; "making and donating quilts to the hospital?"; "writing a novel?" etc.)
As I ponder my dilemma, these days I think it is the rigid structure of a work schedule that I miss the most in a love/hate kind of way. That and the great conversations that erupt in a staff lunch room over stale Danishes the day after a holiday.
Oh, and my short-term memory seems to have deserted me in my dotage. I now get the majority of my 10,000 steps a day backtracking where I've been, looking for my glasses, keys, tablet, phone, you name it.
For almost 30 years I presided over the payroll and accounting in the medium-sized family business. Along the way I also raised children and completed an honours business degree part-time and got a meal on the table each night. In all that time everyone's pay was deposited weekly into their accounts, lunches were packed every day, vacations owed were tabulated and taken, presentations were made, deductions were remitted and bonuses were awarded. So you can understand my consternation when last week I realized I had failed to pay my credit card bill on time and was charged interest for only the second time in my life. The first was after a sudden death in the family.
What has become of my former efficiently organized self? Any day now you may see me blithely traipsing through the mall in my bedroom slippers.
Finding a functional level between volunteering, exercising, enjoying hobbies and keeping the laundry caught up appears to be the challenge facing me now. It is the time of year when many make resolutions about the future and I suppose I could do that if I only knew what the ideal equilibrium level for each should be. Should I aim for a 20-per-cent time share for each activity along with another 20 just for living? Wouldn't the accounting be onerous and use up the "just for living" allotment? And isn't retirement about abandoning schedules if nothing else?
But all-out abandonment of order would be the Land of Chaos. I know I don't want to live there. Nor do I want to be rigidly scheduled like a member of the corps in The Nutcracker. So 2015 will be about finding the balance that keeps me--and everyone else in my life--happy. And keeping the credit card balance at zero.
While we're at it, I hope to discover where I parked my favourite reading glasses. If you see me prancing through the mall with them on my head would you please point them out to me?
I wish everyone a happy, safe Christmas and all the best in the new year.
Wednesday, December 24, 2014
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Uber-excellence
A very wise friend of mine--who is my age and newly retired--in her first foray into the non-professional world after a career in education, stepped out at the beginning of the school year and attended a writing critique circle. And after one get-together she had to un-join. Her reason: "...the women were so obnoxious I didn't go back. God, what is it with young women? They get on my nerves. So desperate to prove how intelligent, independent and superior they are."
She got me mulling things, like she so often does. I agree with her assessment of so many professional, young women. I overhear them in restaurants, libraries and the aisles of the grocery store; their monologues remarkable--not for their content--but for the punctuation of up-speak. Or worse, the affected mechanism of letting one's voice slide to the back of the throat where, presumably, all authority lies, signalling the need to accept the wisdom dispensed, sparing the long-suffering smart person the need to explain.
I can't get away from these drones fast enough. Don't get me wrong...there's nothing like great conversation with other females. Given the right group, women will inevitably prove to be the most insightful, most supportive, funny contingent in a middle-aged woman's life. I worry that younger women are not there for their "sisters". Has our society become so over-sexed that they see all others as competitors? That would be sad.
It must be exhausting, the need to constantly prove your superiority at every turn. I can state unequivocally that I am extremely thankful that I do not have to perform as they do on a daily basis. Nor did I have to as a full-time working mom. It was all I could do to keep myself presentable, my baby healthy and inoculated, my husband fed and the house somewhat clean-ish. Forget pedicures, yoga, conversational French lessons, marathon training and spa days with my girlfriends. (Besides, I'm not nearly tall enough to even think about belonging to the demographic.)
How did the bar get raised so high for young women? They seem to have done it to themselves which is mystifying. Are their partners so evolutionally advanced beyond their fathers as to negate the need for professional women to keep all the balls in the air? (I suspect not.) It seems to veer toward the badge of busy-ness and/or a need to prove the ability to do and have it ALL.
I actually feel a tiny bit sorry for the partners of these polished, highlighted, be-scarved, latte-carrying women. Not that the men shouldn't be picking up the slack around the house and in the child care arena; but from what I overhear, the demands to be emotionally in tune with their partner, the expectations of sexual prowess and the ability to provide soul-mated-ness is taking a toll on the male psyche (and marriage success rate).
Maybe these women have negated the need for a constant male in their lives--and men can admittedly be messy, clownish and clueless a lot of the time. But there is something to be said for just being...being ordinary, being there, being comfortable. If I do pull on my yoga pants and comfy sweatshirt before dinner--not the best look at this stage--the guy at my table is okay with that. And he'll take out the trash and do battle with the raccoons after dinner too. There's something to be said for that.
She got me mulling things, like she so often does. I agree with her assessment of so many professional, young women. I overhear them in restaurants, libraries and the aisles of the grocery store; their monologues remarkable--not for their content--but for the punctuation of up-speak. Or worse, the affected mechanism of letting one's voice slide to the back of the throat where, presumably, all authority lies, signalling the need to accept the wisdom dispensed, sparing the long-suffering smart person the need to explain.
I can't get away from these drones fast enough. Don't get me wrong...there's nothing like great conversation with other females. Given the right group, women will inevitably prove to be the most insightful, most supportive, funny contingent in a middle-aged woman's life. I worry that younger women are not there for their "sisters". Has our society become so over-sexed that they see all others as competitors? That would be sad.
It must be exhausting, the need to constantly prove your superiority at every turn. I can state unequivocally that I am extremely thankful that I do not have to perform as they do on a daily basis. Nor did I have to as a full-time working mom. It was all I could do to keep myself presentable, my baby healthy and inoculated, my husband fed and the house somewhat clean-ish. Forget pedicures, yoga, conversational French lessons, marathon training and spa days with my girlfriends. (Besides, I'm not nearly tall enough to even think about belonging to the demographic.)
How did the bar get raised so high for young women? They seem to have done it to themselves which is mystifying. Are their partners so evolutionally advanced beyond their fathers as to negate the need for professional women to keep all the balls in the air? (I suspect not.) It seems to veer toward the badge of busy-ness and/or a need to prove the ability to do and have it ALL.
I actually feel a tiny bit sorry for the partners of these polished, highlighted, be-scarved, latte-carrying women. Not that the men shouldn't be picking up the slack around the house and in the child care arena; but from what I overhear, the demands to be emotionally in tune with their partner, the expectations of sexual prowess and the ability to provide soul-mated-ness is taking a toll on the male psyche (and marriage success rate).
Maybe these women have negated the need for a constant male in their lives--and men can admittedly be messy, clownish and clueless a lot of the time. But there is something to be said for just being...being ordinary, being there, being comfortable. If I do pull on my yoga pants and comfy sweatshirt before dinner--not the best look at this stage--the guy at my table is okay with that. And he'll take out the trash and do battle with the raccoons after dinner too. There's something to be said for that.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
The Feet Say It All
I happened to glance up from my book the other day and there were my feet. Yep, still attached to my calves, but they were immersed in a warm water bath along with the realization that I am now a pampered woman "of a certain age". Just as sure as if the cream had curdled in my morning coffee and I knew it was going to be a bad day.
It was a shock to learn that late one night--probably when I was happily gabbling away on Facebook and trying to beat my best friend at Scrabble and not paying any attention to my feet at all--a relative of the Grim Reaper stole in and, well, stole my youth.
All of a sudden I saw that I now have more in common with my mother than my daughter. That I too had crossed the line which puts me squarely in the camp of those who clog progress at the express check-out because they have to get caught up on the cashier's grandchildren; the women who complain about the price of gas but think nothing of flying off to Florida for six months; those who groan slightly as they rise from a comfy chair.
Anyway, back to my feet in the warm bubbling water, which is a bargain at any price, I don't care what my husband says. (Because he crossed that invisible line too--only way before his time--so I know not to tell him how much things cost.) No, it wasn't the little Vietnamese woman--who was simultaneously scrubbing away my dead skin and loudly berating someone on her cell phone held deftly between chin and shoulder--who broke the news about my decrepitude.
She was way too busy divorcing her husband for sleeping with her best friend...or declaring all out war on China...or, maybe, just telling her daughter to come straight home after school, all pretty much at the top of her voice in a Staccato. Since we do not share a common language we can never speak more than five words to each other, communicating through pointing, nods and cash. However, from what I have observed of her clientele, there is a steady stream of middle-aged and older women who pass through her door every day interspersed with bridal parties (who take a remarkably long time deciding on toe nail polish hues). She, basically, spends her days providing foot care for the elderly--the boomers who need help with their feet but are too proud or vain to attend the regular foot care clinics provided, free of charge, I believe, by the health clinic.
I know my pedicurist has seen worse feet than mine--those more twisted by arthritis, deformed by bunions and callouses, dirtier and more neglected. Mine are just ordinary and, really, have no business in the pedicure salon. After all, I dislike having my feet touched. I REALLY dislike it. In fact, I view my monthly appointment with the esthetician with the same anticipation that accompanies a visit to the dentist.
I can't say I suffer through it. There are very nice aspects--such as that warm bubbling bath or the fact that I can sip my coffee and read my book relatively undisturbed as a jabbering woman sorts out the world. And, at the end of the hateful massage and pressing upon all the touchiest points, my feet emerge pretty. Well "pretty" is a relative term. They look good in sandals and my ingrown nail worries have been erased. And my feet look just like all the others when we stretch out on that Florida beach.
How this industry sprang up and got it so perfect is a mystery to me. All I know is that I am totally hooked on having my feet catered to each month--flinching and jumping all the way.
It was a shock to learn that late one night--probably when I was happily gabbling away on Facebook and trying to beat my best friend at Scrabble and not paying any attention to my feet at all--a relative of the Grim Reaper stole in and, well, stole my youth.
All of a sudden I saw that I now have more in common with my mother than my daughter. That I too had crossed the line which puts me squarely in the camp of those who clog progress at the express check-out because they have to get caught up on the cashier's grandchildren; the women who complain about the price of gas but think nothing of flying off to Florida for six months; those who groan slightly as they rise from a comfy chair.
Anyway, back to my feet in the warm bubbling water, which is a bargain at any price, I don't care what my husband says. (Because he crossed that invisible line too--only way before his time--so I know not to tell him how much things cost.) No, it wasn't the little Vietnamese woman--who was simultaneously scrubbing away my dead skin and loudly berating someone on her cell phone held deftly between chin and shoulder--who broke the news about my decrepitude.
She was way too busy divorcing her husband for sleeping with her best friend...or declaring all out war on China...or, maybe, just telling her daughter to come straight home after school, all pretty much at the top of her voice in a Staccato. Since we do not share a common language we can never speak more than five words to each other, communicating through pointing, nods and cash. However, from what I have observed of her clientele, there is a steady stream of middle-aged and older women who pass through her door every day interspersed with bridal parties (who take a remarkably long time deciding on toe nail polish hues). She, basically, spends her days providing foot care for the elderly--the boomers who need help with their feet but are too proud or vain to attend the regular foot care clinics provided, free of charge, I believe, by the health clinic.
I know my pedicurist has seen worse feet than mine--those more twisted by arthritis, deformed by bunions and callouses, dirtier and more neglected. Mine are just ordinary and, really, have no business in the pedicure salon. After all, I dislike having my feet touched. I REALLY dislike it. In fact, I view my monthly appointment with the esthetician with the same anticipation that accompanies a visit to the dentist.
I can't say I suffer through it. There are very nice aspects--such as that warm bubbling bath or the fact that I can sip my coffee and read my book relatively undisturbed as a jabbering woman sorts out the world. And, at the end of the hateful massage and pressing upon all the touchiest points, my feet emerge pretty. Well "pretty" is a relative term. They look good in sandals and my ingrown nail worries have been erased. And my feet look just like all the others when we stretch out on that Florida beach.
How this industry sprang up and got it so perfect is a mystery to me. All I know is that I am totally hooked on having my feet catered to each month--flinching and jumping all the way.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
It's Time to Fight for our CBC
I have to admit that singing the praises for a one-time bloated behemoth that has been known to flaunt its elitist taste and temperament is a bit counter intuitive, even for me, a dedicated CBC listener.
I hope that getting a national dialogue started on its behalf is not impossible--for two very good reasons. First, Mother Corp is set to wither to a skraeling of its former bulky self, not from disinterest by viewers/listeners/subscribers but by the swift and constant withdrawal of sustenance in the form of budget cuts engineered in a back room and voted on without public discussion.
Secondly, I appreciate the diversity that a national broadcaster must, by its mandate, bring to its audience.
In other words, it is the manner of the downsizing that warrants a hold on this action until a full and open public discussion takes place. To fell such a pivotal institution without allowing the everyday users (and payers, by the way) to express opinions goes against all that our founding fathers (and I daresay, the CBC) espoused. It is so much a part of our national fabric that this budgetary slashing is tantamount to ripping the hem off our best dress, throwing it in the wash and then acting surprised when it emerges shredded, much shorter and useless as a garment.
I would hate to see our broadcaster sink to the status of proverbial rag, relegated to life under the sink, pulled out to wipe up the odd spill.
My elitist tastes may be peaking through (witness the use of the word "skraeling", my new Scrabble word of the week) but that's okay. Not everyone in a country as large as ours with an exceptional mix of cultures could be expected to enjoy the same programming. But to have a national media that attempts to bring us all what we need and want--and allows us to personalize the streaming!--what could possibly be better than that?
I do not watch hockey but am saddened that CBC had to bow out of the bidding to continue broadcasting our favourite sport. I think all fans would agree it provided the superior coverage of the game. Maybe you didn't like Don Cherry. That's why the Mute button was invented. But to have to settle for the dumbed-down, jazzed up American-ized coverage is to take something away from a tradition. Almost everyone agrees that Rick Mercer is a national treasure. I also think the cast and crew of Murdoch Mysteries are up there. Not everyone will agree--but I bet everyone has an opinion.
The gathering of those opinions, the discussion of media trends and how to move forward, the quest for solutions from those who love (or hate or are ambiguous about) the CBC--that is what is missing in all this. Here are some facts:
Of 18 western countries with public broadcasters, Canada is the third lowest in terms of per capita public funding. We taxpayers currently pay $29 per year while the average for the 18 is $82 per capita per person.
The reduction of CBC's appropriation by $15 million over three years, starting in 2012, "combined with the unavoidable costs and investments required to continue to transform into a modern public broadcaster" actually amounts to the loss of $200 million over those years (according to the CBC website).
In 2010 alone, the CBC website averaged 5.8 million hits per month with over a million audio podcasts downloaded each month. (I don't know about you, but I have morphed into an avid devotee of podcasts. That way, when something comes on which I am not particularly taken with--Jian Ghomeshi and his nasally droning about entertainment blather, comes to mind--I flip to one of my recorded shows and enjoy.)
It is a fractured media landscape and I do not envy those tasked with navigating it. But I sure hope they get to keep guiding us over that sometimes troublesome, always exciting terrain. I fear that without Mother Corp out there helping us along, we may just lose our way.
On that note, I encourage everyone to migrate over to the CBC website and take the survey. And contact your MP and start discussions with anyone you can. Maybe it's time to stop spending money on ads for non-existent economic action plans and put it into something productive like the maintenance of a national broadcaster that promotes free and open discussion....we can only hope. And speak up.
I hope that getting a national dialogue started on its behalf is not impossible--for two very good reasons. First, Mother Corp is set to wither to a skraeling of its former bulky self, not from disinterest by viewers/listeners/subscribers but by the swift and constant withdrawal of sustenance in the form of budget cuts engineered in a back room and voted on without public discussion.
Secondly, I appreciate the diversity that a national broadcaster must, by its mandate, bring to its audience.
In other words, it is the manner of the downsizing that warrants a hold on this action until a full and open public discussion takes place. To fell such a pivotal institution without allowing the everyday users (and payers, by the way) to express opinions goes against all that our founding fathers (and I daresay, the CBC) espoused. It is so much a part of our national fabric that this budgetary slashing is tantamount to ripping the hem off our best dress, throwing it in the wash and then acting surprised when it emerges shredded, much shorter and useless as a garment.
I would hate to see our broadcaster sink to the status of proverbial rag, relegated to life under the sink, pulled out to wipe up the odd spill.
My elitist tastes may be peaking through (witness the use of the word "skraeling", my new Scrabble word of the week) but that's okay. Not everyone in a country as large as ours with an exceptional mix of cultures could be expected to enjoy the same programming. But to have a national media that attempts to bring us all what we need and want--and allows us to personalize the streaming!--what could possibly be better than that?
I do not watch hockey but am saddened that CBC had to bow out of the bidding to continue broadcasting our favourite sport. I think all fans would agree it provided the superior coverage of the game. Maybe you didn't like Don Cherry. That's why the Mute button was invented. But to have to settle for the dumbed-down, jazzed up American-ized coverage is to take something away from a tradition. Almost everyone agrees that Rick Mercer is a national treasure. I also think the cast and crew of Murdoch Mysteries are up there. Not everyone will agree--but I bet everyone has an opinion.
The gathering of those opinions, the discussion of media trends and how to move forward, the quest for solutions from those who love (or hate or are ambiguous about) the CBC--that is what is missing in all this. Here are some facts:
Of 18 western countries with public broadcasters, Canada is the third lowest in terms of per capita public funding. We taxpayers currently pay $29 per year while the average for the 18 is $82 per capita per person.
The reduction of CBC's appropriation by $15 million over three years, starting in 2012, "combined with the unavoidable costs and investments required to continue to transform into a modern public broadcaster" actually amounts to the loss of $200 million over those years (according to the CBC website).
In 2010 alone, the CBC website averaged 5.8 million hits per month with over a million audio podcasts downloaded each month. (I don't know about you, but I have morphed into an avid devotee of podcasts. That way, when something comes on which I am not particularly taken with--Jian Ghomeshi and his nasally droning about entertainment blather, comes to mind--I flip to one of my recorded shows and enjoy.)
It is a fractured media landscape and I do not envy those tasked with navigating it. But I sure hope they get to keep guiding us over that sometimes troublesome, always exciting terrain. I fear that without Mother Corp out there helping us along, we may just lose our way.
On that note, I encourage everyone to migrate over to the CBC website and take the survey. And contact your MP and start discussions with anyone you can. Maybe it's time to stop spending money on ads for non-existent economic action plans and put it into something productive like the maintenance of a national broadcaster that promotes free and open discussion....we can only hope. And speak up.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Emerging from the Vortex
It is only recently that I began sleeping through the night again. And so, I thought it time to look in the mirror. And then make a hair appointment ASAP.
The previous nine months have involved the planning of, construction of, paying of and, finally, about a month ago, the moving in and possession of a new home. During that gestation, not only were chaos and sleep deprivation the order of the day, time for hobbies, friendships and personal maintenance disappeared. Looking in the mirror could be seriously depressing...the bags under the eyes, the grey needing to be touched up, the thought of spending another day in old, paint-stained cast-off shirts of my husband.
I am now sitting in my beautiful new living room and loving it. Friends and family showed up to unpack boxes and move clothes at just the right time. My husband and I are still married and both learned a lot about compromising along the way. I did not need to buy any new furniture, actually managing to downsize and shed some, and we have sold the house we moved out of. My husband decided to let go of his thirty-old hockey equipment on his own. Life is good...and strangely calm. However, if an electrician or plumber where to suddenly emerge from the basement with a question I would not be surprised.
During construction and even after the move in, I had to be sure to hop out of bed at an early hour and be dressed and ready for whatever the day would bring. Normally contractors and their apprentices--guys wearing baseball caps, sunglasses and stopping mid-sentence to answer calls--would all show up at once and want me to make decisions on the spot. The decision made almost always involved me running to the flooring store or paint store or Home Depot. (I became such a regular at the latter that one day while shopping for bathroom fixtures I got paged to the front to be informed that a light was also in for me. The staff had seen me come in and recognized me.)
I like to bake cookies on a regular basis and fully intended to show up on the job site with warm baked goods at coffee break time throughout the construction process. Our sum total of offerings were pizzas that my husband delivered a couple of times at lunchtime and two boxes of doughnuts that I picked up for them as I made another swing past Tim Horton's, the second time that day.
It felt a lot like I imagine being whipped around and around and across the landscape in a tornado cone would feel. And when it stops there you are sitting on the ground, a little stunned, grateful to find yourself intact, bewildered by the calm after the fury.
It is taking me a bit of time to get used to the calm. I have been told by mothers of the bride that it takes the same amount of time to get back to normal after a wedding as went into planning the thing. Maybe a move is the same.
I do know my brain is happy to no longer be stretched to capacity. It likes to be empty enough to ponder the big questions. Like, should I get my nails done when I get a haircut? Should I call a neglected friend for lunch? Maybe buy some new spring clothes? And if I get bored, I can always go back at the oddball boxes waiting to be unpacked. Yesterday I found my stapler, the lint brush and my yogurt-maker. I am still on the hunt for a favourite platter but have to wonder just what I was thinking when I allowed the candle-snuffer to make the move.
Thankfully the folks at Rebuilt Resources, although they too now recognize my vehicle as it backs up to the door, always smile and help me offload more treasures.
The previous nine months have involved the planning of, construction of, paying of and, finally, about a month ago, the moving in and possession of a new home. During that gestation, not only were chaos and sleep deprivation the order of the day, time for hobbies, friendships and personal maintenance disappeared. Looking in the mirror could be seriously depressing...the bags under the eyes, the grey needing to be touched up, the thought of spending another day in old, paint-stained cast-off shirts of my husband.
I am now sitting in my beautiful new living room and loving it. Friends and family showed up to unpack boxes and move clothes at just the right time. My husband and I are still married and both learned a lot about compromising along the way. I did not need to buy any new furniture, actually managing to downsize and shed some, and we have sold the house we moved out of. My husband decided to let go of his thirty-old hockey equipment on his own. Life is good...and strangely calm. However, if an electrician or plumber where to suddenly emerge from the basement with a question I would not be surprised.
During construction and even after the move in, I had to be sure to hop out of bed at an early hour and be dressed and ready for whatever the day would bring. Normally contractors and their apprentices--guys wearing baseball caps, sunglasses and stopping mid-sentence to answer calls--would all show up at once and want me to make decisions on the spot. The decision made almost always involved me running to the flooring store or paint store or Home Depot. (I became such a regular at the latter that one day while shopping for bathroom fixtures I got paged to the front to be informed that a light was also in for me. The staff had seen me come in and recognized me.)
I like to bake cookies on a regular basis and fully intended to show up on the job site with warm baked goods at coffee break time throughout the construction process. Our sum total of offerings were pizzas that my husband delivered a couple of times at lunchtime and two boxes of doughnuts that I picked up for them as I made another swing past Tim Horton's, the second time that day.
It felt a lot like I imagine being whipped around and around and across the landscape in a tornado cone would feel. And when it stops there you are sitting on the ground, a little stunned, grateful to find yourself intact, bewildered by the calm after the fury.
It is taking me a bit of time to get used to the calm. I have been told by mothers of the bride that it takes the same amount of time to get back to normal after a wedding as went into planning the thing. Maybe a move is the same.
I do know my brain is happy to no longer be stretched to capacity. It likes to be empty enough to ponder the big questions. Like, should I get my nails done when I get a haircut? Should I call a neglected friend for lunch? Maybe buy some new spring clothes? And if I get bored, I can always go back at the oddball boxes waiting to be unpacked. Yesterday I found my stapler, the lint brush and my yogurt-maker. I am still on the hunt for a favourite platter but have to wonder just what I was thinking when I allowed the candle-snuffer to make the move.
Thankfully the folks at Rebuilt Resources, although they too now recognize my vehicle as it backs up to the door, always smile and help me offload more treasures.
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