It's The MOST Won-Der-Ful Time Of The Year

You're probably thinking tinsel and malls, peopled by harried grandparents on the quest for the perfect gift card and the poor down-sized buggar whose name floated to the surface in the unemployment centre's pool for a Santa.

No. And I'll give a hint. It is All Hallow's Eve. So you're now thinking miniature goblins and superheroes carrying pillow cases and UNICEF boxes.

You're getting there...but, no, Halloween is not a reason to celebrate (in my books). However, in an effort to be hauntingly correct (akin to political correctness but with more sugar) I did artfully plonk the illuminated plastic pumpkin into the planter by the front door in anticipation. I expect an onslaught of ten or so about 5.30 p.m. and then I will spend the remainder of the Zombie Apocalypse in the hot tub.

So why am I in such a celebratory mood? Wait for it.....it is the beginning of the delightful season of hunting. In time-honoured tradition, gun-owners of the mostly male persuasion hear the call of the wild and the male-bonding grunt in early November. Great quantities of fat-laden food and beverages of the alcoholic persuasion are gathered and loaded onto the backs of pick-up trucks along with generators, all-terrain vehicles, tools and TV satellite receivers. (Getting the Queen Mary under way involves fewer resources and special requests for favourite foods to be baked prior to departure.)

Eventually, however, they are off. Not without some last-minute instructions shouted in the door about not forgetting which days are for garbage and recycling pick-up. "And I left you some moose steaks in the freezer you can eat while I'm away." Yeah. Yeah. As if.

The first thing I am going to do is empty the fridge. All the dribs and drabs of chicken legs and ribs and roast pork may as well go out right now. In their place will be homemade leek soup, yogurt, inventive salads, a frozen pad thai entree. And chocolate.

More than casting off the meat-and-potatoes regime, however, hunting season is a time to breathe. In and out. Breathing in the cleanness and quiet. Reconnecting with me. And, often as not, just doing what I want and not stopping until I want to stop. Books will be read. Sewing projects will be completed and new ones started. And bags will be packed. Because I now celebrate November, The Dreary Month, in Florida. After a few days of peace and quiet--and, yes, getting the garbage and recycling to the curb on the correct days--I will join other Hunting Widows in warmer, sunnier climes.

And then, when I do return, it will be December. The Christmas decorations will have been in place at the mall for a full month and I may be ready to start cooking huge honking chunks of meat every night again. I know I will be refreshed and happy and brown.

It truly is the most wonderful time of the year.

Quiet. Interrupted. Again.

If you have not had the opportunity to read the book Quiet by Susan Cain I recommend you buy or download it immediately from your favourite supplier. It details the workings of the introvert's mind and mien, explaining much if you have ever felt like the misfit in the gung-ho, team-oriented, rah-rah, let's-share-everything socialized world that we now inhabit.

My only criticism of Ms. Cain's work is that she was, generally, not able to delineate just how an introvert can better exist in the extrovert's world and, specifically, how in the world a peace-loving body such as myself can pleasantly tolerate an extrovert husband who will shortly drive me crazy. Or at least out of the house.

As I write this my husband, who is semi-retired, is home for the day. It is not yet 9.30 a.m. and he has had out the stepladder, flashlights and various tools. He has pulled out the entertainment unit, asked me where the batteries are and turned off the radio I was listening to. Then he turned it on at a very high volume and established that one speaker in the porch was definitely not working.

"Has this speaker not been working all summer?", he demanded.

"I'm not sure...I just really have it on in the background," I mumbled. I should have mentioned that I prefer the sounds of lapping water, loon calls, the neighbouring islands as they come to life in the early morning but, well, I am an introvert.

My morning began peacefully. Picture me at my cottage. The sun is shining through the screens in my porch. I have my coffee at my elbow and the crossword in my lap. CBC Radio is playing peacefully, at a low decibel level. Bliss reigns.

Then my husband, who has left an idyllic island to find a group of men and coffee on the mainland, returns. Within five minutes all is shattered. I flee the porch where there will shortly be power tools in action and cuss words in the once-peaceful air. In the end, as happens on most of his days off, he will have to go into the city for parts. All well and good--the leaving for the city part--but if only we could get directly from him returning to him leaving again. If only he could find (or manufacture) whatever critical problem is going to absorb him for the day the night before. How efficient to go to coffee and then to the city.

Wait, there's an update: "It's ugly. There's a broken wire somewhere." A longer ladder has arrived with more noise and commotion and swearing. Speakers have been swapped to no avail. And the TV unit sits mid-living room. He's now surfing the net for solutions, guy sites that offer strategies for dealing with life's mechanical conundrums and guy customer reviews. I expect a summary of The Situation shortly and the conclusion that parts will be needed. Good. "I knew that", I resist blurting.

I guess it's time to throw in the towel and find some gardening or some such to do outside.

A Year in Review

Am I turning into a slow-moving old biddy who doesn't know what day it is and clogs up the grocery aisles on busy long weekends socializing with other customers? Sometimes, I have to admit. I'll try to do better.

My goal when I retired a year ago was to always know the date, day of the week and be mindful of the busy people who still work and are paying into my pension, thank-you very much. Oh, and to write on my blog page regularly.

Not having to be in front of a computer at specified times doing less-than-fun tasks has been freeing. Now when I sit down at mine, it is for creative and informative purposes. But the freedom is proving to be a hindrance to ever accomplishing anything worthwhile again.

And not having a structure to my days can lead to embarrassing moments like looking up and realizing one is still clad in bathrobe and slippers, sixth coffee at elbow, and it is noon.

Not that that should be an issue right? Well, I guess...but I did set out on this last stage hoping to immerse myself in some of the fun things that had been shunted aside by other obligations. And I have to a certain extent. I won't bore you with how I took up kayaking and quilting and attending operas and made the Top 20 for distance this winter at my cross-country ski club. (One would think that with all that exercise one would lose weight. That was not to be, however, probably predicated by the abundant time to read and the proximity of the snack cupboard. Sigh.) Frankly, though, I am shocked at how fast time gets away on me and how much of my Bucket List remains a wistful wish list.

The other complicating factor of retirement is that well-meaning volunteers doing good work on worthy causes seek you out and, since you don't have the excuse of having to work, it is difficult to avoid all the requests for assistance. Ho hum.

I now sit on two boards, am chairman of the Friends of Powassan Library, have joined the Friendship (aka Seniors) Centre--and run when anyone starts a conversation with "Now that you're retired..."

What I have always longed to do was have the time to write--editorial comments, funny emails, this blog, a novel ... And I kind of have the time, just not the discipline to ignore all the phone calls and emails popping up and nudges to make my move in online Scrabble and, well, you get it. I think we all have the time; it's the prioritizing that is the issue. As I sit here in my bathrobe with coffee at hand, it will soon be noon and I will bemoan the fact that I didn't get a walk in or the sewing project started or the catch-up email to friends and family.

                                                         Wait A Minute

This week I did get out a couple of comments to CBC programs that I listen to. So, if you're still reading, I'll pass on the latest issue that tweaked my That's Not Right nerve. (I am a firm believer in the necessity of "ordinary" Canadians to voice their good sense when things seem to be heading off the rails. I call these Wait-A-Minutes.)

CBC's The Current did a piece on Wednesday about the muzzling of Canadian government-funded scientists who do research on--get this--fish(!) and are not allowed to speak to the media about their findings. I believe this is merely the tip of the iceberg when it comes to managing freedom of speech by Steven Harper and his gang of gagsters.

I always thought freedom of speech meant just that--freedom to say what one thinks. That this mentality has been allowed to seep into a government mindset and be implemented so thoroughly by one person is disturbing. (To listen to The Current interview with scientist Steve Campana who left the employ of Canada to take up a position in Iceland where he is willing to speak out, go to iTunes, The Current on CBC podcasts and listen to the May 20 episode.)

The other assignment I would recommend if you have the time, download or buy the book Plain Speaking, An Oral Biography of Harry S. Truman by Merle Miller. It is an old book and it is about an American but it is truly refreshing to read about a man who believed a government's sole purpose should be to enact legislation that benefits the greatest number of people in the most affordable, compassionate manner. Period.

Mr. Trudeau are you listening? Are you looking for an election issue that regular people could get behind? I might even volunteer to knock on doors for you now that I have all this time on my hands....

Oh Sears. Why did you have to hurt me so?

All our representatives are currently serving customers. Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line and your call will be answered by the next available Sears representative. Musak. Musak.

Good morning Miss Awwwshel. (It's pronounced O-shell.) Sorry Miss Awshel. 

I would like to check on the status of a light bulb for my oven. I was promised that a replacement would be mailed to me in November free of charge since the original burned out after being turned on once--in April. It is now January, no one has called me nor has the bulb arrived.

Let me check on that. Are you still at the same address and can you confirm your phone number and address again for me? Musak. Musak. It appears that order has been cancelled. But we can order one from the manufacturer and have it mailed to you in February. The cost will be $67.99 but we will give you a discount of 10 per cent since you have waited patiently this long. Now your credit card number please. And with shipping and handling, the total is $87.30.

You're kidding right? Why was the original order cancelled? The light worked exactly one time in a range that had been freshly installed in my new home. I also bought three other major appliances and have been a loyal customer for over 40 years. I don't think I should have to pay anything.

I am sorry for your frustration ma'am. No there is no one else you can talk to. Yes, I am in the Philippines, your call has been routed here. Is there anything else I can help you with at this time? No I can not stop the Musak. If you would like to give me your email address we would like to send you our daily specials. And have you considered applying for a Sears Mastercard?
                                                       *****
Like a jilted lover--an outstandingly faithful one, at that--the thought that I will not be ending my days in the embrace of my favourite retailer is gnawing away at me. My feelings are bruised and my head hurts from wondering how we came to this impasse. Especially when I was not allowed to present my side of the story. I was cast aside as casually as yesterday's paper.

The tale of the delinquent oven light has become something of a joke in my household. My husband and I carry it with us everywhere we go in its little plastic bag with a sticky note of
pertinent details. I have committed the range model and serial number to memory and know it was manufactured in Mexico. No retailer, appliance repair store or electronics expert has been able to produce a replacement. The ethernet is no help. The fabulous extended warranty purchased in my dreamy state of acquiring new appliances does not cover bulbs--even if they never lit up. The No Lemon Policy does not apply.

My calls to the Sears store where I purchased a kitchenful of stainless steel and the Enhanced Protection Plan were unhelpful, if consolatory. However it does not sell bulbs. No, it does not know who would sell one in our area. Would I mind waiting while they transferred me to Appliance Repair? Musak, Musak, Philippines.

And, it is a very odd little bulb. I have to assume it was designed by drug-addled trolls and marketed to the appliance industry with the subtlety of an Israeli terrorist. We have a hunch that if we ever get a replacement it too will expire in short order; nothing that tiny and delicate should be trusted in the hands of ordinary folk like us who turn our ovens on frequently, sometimes we even broil things. It does not look sturdy enough to endure a season of Christmas baking if we even have a bulb by next December.

The inanity of it all affected my usual polite telephone demeanour. Sadly, the frustration brought out a side of myself that I don't really like. By the time I had been re-routed back to the third Philippino woman, I had lost control and was raising my voice at her. That just made both of us feel bad so I acknowledged defeat and signed off.

I am not into retribution but I have considered skulking in the Sears appliance section until no one is looking and stealing a bulb from a floor model. But theft is theft after all even if it would be somewhat justified.

In the end, I had to give up in my quest to have a bulb mailed to me free of charge. Like the lover who has decided to move on, Sears is turning its back on my faithfulness. Apparently there is no value in my years of spurning the duelling calls of Wal-mart and Costco. It will be a clean break. Even though Sears has all my numbers (repeated many times during the final beseechment) it doesn't ever call. My hopes for rapprochement seem about as likely as my husband turning into an elf and undecorating the tree.

If it was a test of wills, Sears won. If it was about continuing a worthwhile relationship then they lost.

I keep having this old-fashioned yearning for some sensible problem-solving Sears employee to call me and just sort it all out with the click of a couple of keys. Her name would be Stella or Marjory and she would have worked for Sears for thirty years and know the system inside out. She would brook no nonsense, give both the company and I a stern head-shake and tell us to make up. Then she would send me an oven bulb.

Alas, that does not appear likely. I fear all the Stellas and Marjorys were made redundant by an eager, inexpensive Philippean workforce and are now serving up coffees and Timbits during their split shifts. So I will have to do what any battle-scarred refugee of the retail wars would do. I'll badmouth Sears to any and all who will listen. I'll write caustic testimonials on their websites. And then I'll put the Sears card through the garburator and move on. A little sadder over something that was and should have continued on. Oh Sears.

The Retirement Report

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.

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.

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.