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 |  My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| Blogging Circle of Friends " DAY 2758 June 5, 2020 Ray Bradbury asked, “Why the Egyptian, Arabic, Abyssinian, Choctaw? Well, what tongue does the wind talk? What nationality is a storm? What country do rains come from? What color is lightning? Where does thunder go when it dies?" I've always considered weather to be emotional and reactionary. In Canada, it's definitely fickle, moody, capricious, and unpredictable. Clouds are described as being brooding and angry. Winds howl, shriek and batter. Rain pummels and slashes. Snow whips. Lightning strikes. Even the word stormy portrays harsh, punishing, mercurial conditions. Clouds float and billow. Breezes caress. Rain pitter-patters,dances, splatters. Snowflakes swirl, scamper, sparkle. Does weather also express itself with language? Again, I believe it has a body language or an emotional language. We recognise dark, co-joined, low-lying clouds to be ominous and threatening. Several white, fluffy, wispy, high-in-the-sky clouds permit sunshine to reign. We attribute our actions to the changing weather. To strike, or slash, or pummel, or caress connotates human motion. Are words spoken and understood? Who speaks cloud? Does thunder only boom and clap? Do winds whisper, or shout? Is sunshine mute? All man-made dialects reflect emotions and are used to communicate. We all experience weather no matter where we reside and we all bemoan or praise it, too. It's an integral part of our lives, inescapable. We bestow our feelings upon it in an attempt to accept it. Perhaps we empathize and personify weather. For a positive, smiling person we say they are sunny. The scowling, upset, maybe angry person is said to be stormy. People with fast reflexes may be compared as being quick as lightning. A change of mood is akin to a cloud passing over. Do we assign a storm to a country we associate with turmoil? Does rain originate in a beneficent nation? Where does snow call home? A brutal, totalitarian state? Can we assign hurricanes and tornados to areas of political unrest, or atrocities perpetrated against its citizens? Hmmm, where does thunder go when it dies? Does it die? Does it lay low to recharge? Is it always in cahoots with lightning? Are they an exclusive, mutual pair? Is its trademark boom and clap described that way in other dialects? In French, is it 'le boom' and 'le clap?' In German, it could be 'das grossboomenclappenruckus.' Perhaps thunder speaks German? It does sound guttural and harsh. Often, it is prolonged and we all know the Deutsch love their immense compound words. As always, I merely speculate... |
| : Sent to members of "Blogging Circle of Friends " Day 2756 June 3, 2020 Did you know a raccoon always wears a mask, and compulsively washes his hands? What took us so long to get it right? Write about raccoons in your blog today. Maybe a funny story you've seen or an experience you've had with a raccoon. Oh, I've seen and experienced raccoons. One rather portly, scruffy specimen insisted upon wintering atop my camper at my seasonal site. Before winter, he'd methodically and deliberately knock down all the aluminum pieces protecting the roof of my trailer. Somehow, he'd haul himself up and into that sheltered space nice and cozy. He left odiferous calling cards in immense piles. In the Spring, he'd emerge bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I suspect more graceful and limber raccoons would scamper or leap to the ground. My tubby rolled himself to the roof edge and grabbed at a wooden support beam before plummeting to the grass. After tumbling a few feet, he shook off the dirt and waddled away. His neighbour, an equally chubby groundhog resided under my trailer. For the most part, he kept quiet and to himself, but once in a while he would whistle. My hubby referred to them as non-paying tenants. Many years ago, my father-in-law returned from England and purchased a used vehicle, or more accurately a land yacht. He bought the biggest full-size station wagon he could find. That poor beast suffered the indignities of barrelling along dirt roads and hairpin turns. One evening, Bob phoned to ask for our assistance. He thought he'd struck a large rock and something had broken in that car's suspension. When we arrived, we discovered the unfortunate remains of an immense raccoon under that vehicle. Bob always referred to that incident as the time he hit a 'rockoon'. One of my senior clients regaled me with the tale of feeling something crawling up her legs as she slept in a tent. When she peeked, she saw two beady black eyes staring at her nose to nose. A baby raccoon had wandered into her tent probably curious enough to explore. My client held her breath and eventually her intruder departed, but not before leaving a wet, smelly calling card. Yep, she was christened by fresh urine. I wrote the following tale about a troublesome raccoon.
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| Today is June 3rd. Lately, I've been feeling a bit deja-vu'ish. It's as if I've been here experiencing similar stuff before. I cannot shake this sense of familiarity. I know this date and it knows me. Wait a minute! It's June 3rd, two days post my birthday. Of course, I feel deja-vu. Every year, I reflect on another three-hundred and sixty-five days that join the other accumulated time and pronounce me another year older. They're quite gleeful the wee buggers, dancing around and clapping their hands. I swear several even high five each other and slap themselves on the back. They seem proud of their accomplishment. They've accompanied me into the future and they've been dogging me for a considerable time. Okay, Okay, I'll admit to 'seeing' this date before, many befores. A June 3rd is nothing new. The weather is most often a repeat of the past with fixed predictable variables. It'll either rain, the sun will shine smartly, or the sun will blaze away during a cloudburst. Today is National Repeat Day and that explains so much. Every June 3rd is recycled, repeated. Here we go again. Sunrise, sunset, day after day. I'm officially another year plus two days older. Sigh, grumble, moan, and scratch. In the spirit of repetition and familiarity, the ravenous blackflies and mosquitos have returned to pillage and plunder. Earlier in May, they were thwarted by blizzards and a Covid-19 self-isolation that kept potential victims safely indoors out of reach. Now, with more appealing temperatures, and a lessening of restrictions, Canadians are streaming outdoors with exposed, succulent skin. This is something we do each non-winter. We sacrifice ourselves. We express hope that for once the buggers have forgotten us. We've willfully buried our memories of past skirmishes. That first unmistakable, irritating, itchy welt opens the floodgates of memory and we mutter, "Here we go again." Or is it more of a shriek? "Not again!" I wonder if the blackflies and mosquitos circle a date on a calendar? All through the interminable freezing winter they shiver and count down the days to Feeding Frenzy whatever, 2020. Do they watch the weather channel for updates? Do they plan their infiltration? Do they plot and scheme the inevitable invasion? Do they pass the time getting in tip-top shape? Do they heft tiny weights in an attempt to buff up and impress other bugs of a similar persuasion? Do they pour over flow charts and graphs predicting their next yields? In their production meetings they probably discuss their modus operandi and decide if it ain't broke don't fix it. Our spring attacks are always guaranteed to be a success. It's a program with real teeth. Our tried and true formula: swarm, bite, repeat. I'm sorry, ranting and raving about annoying insects is a habit. It's a Canadian reflex repeated over and over to anyone unfortunate enough to listen. What better day to complain than National Repeat Day. Did I mention I celebrated my birthday recently? If so, I apologize. With my advancing age, my story repertoire is dwindling and my recall is selective. I really must commit a few words about the marauding buggers, eh? |
This entry begins my first entry into "The Bard's Hall Contest"  A new invention for mankind? Have you not seen the power tools and gadgets most men hoard? What about womankind, specifically mothers? I propose a coping mechanism for mothers, mothers of teenagers. Teenagers possess a most irksome characteristic or ability. They have selective hearing. Somehow they are able to tune out their mothers' voices at any decibel, whispering, pleading, and especially shouting. As a group they are resistant to nagging as well.I dallied with appropriate names for my innovation. I shook my head with The Prodder. I did not like its association with a cattle prod plus it's too drastic and more than likely painful. How about The Stimulator? It is closer to the expectations of mothers, but still not quite right. I hit upon a name based on the friendly, non-threatening acronym, Tim. The Teenager Insolence Manager seems to hit the ol' stubborn, cheeky teenager on the head, so to speak. Like the mothers who want, no, need this invention, it will be a multi-tasker. Now, I've considered the average teen's preoccupation with their appearance in my design. My gadget does not hamper or hinder their personal style. No one will ever perceive they are carrying it much less know it came from a mother. I'd describe it as discreet. After vigorous testing, I recommend that the installation age be thirteen. This is the cusp of the dreaded teen years. This gizmo is impervious to water, cologne / perfume, and perspiration. If I may say so, it's a stickler, guaranteed to adhere. I considered the impact my creation would cause. It will grab a teen's attention totally. There will be no dilly dallying. It is a shock, a swat to the backside, a motivator. It simply cannot be ignored. The teenager will become alert ,ready to receive and process a managerial request from its mother. Of course, mothers will be issued an uncomplicated remote control, one they will understand and operate without the expertise / input from said teens. It's vast range eliminates the need for close proximity. This is intended to minimize the moms' exertions. No real life application of a well-placed, attention-grabbing, motivating kick to the posterior. After all, did mothers not expel copious energy and effort during birth, also known aptly as labour? Did they not also shed blood, sweat, and tears to wean, to potty train, to teach, to feed, to clean, to clothe, and to referee? This life-changer is exertion-free. Oh, what exactly is my ingenious invention? It's a tiny chip injected into the base of the skull, no fuss, no muss. It receives a message from the remote and it reads this as a request to administer a wee electrical zap, or jab. Is your teen out gallivanting and ignoring his or her curfew? Remind them with a zing. Is your offspring lounging refusing to vacate his or her bed? One quick zap will bring them to their feet. Has a chore been avoided? You've got it, utilize Tim. Perhaps the marketing campaign will consist of catchy phrases like "spark your teen's response" or "invite Tim into your home." Never fear, ladies! I am developing a prototype for exasperated wives to use on their husbands. The male spouse, alas, also possesses the selective hearing gene, and they have a predisposition to procrastination. Again, this product's name is key to both marketing purposes and customer expectation. This is certainly not my final choice, but it's a working invention moniker. What about The Whip? No, no, not the applier of pain, but Wrangle Husbands Into Production. Sigh, this is a process. I anticipate a plethora of orders. |
| PROMPT May 30th Congratulations on making it to the last day of the competition! What was your favorite prompt from the last month? What was the most rewarding aspect of participating in the competition? What did you learn? Oh, how this month has flown by. We bloggers have stumbled to the finish line , still raring to go. Release the celebratory balloons. Let's clap each other on the shoulder and high-five, or fist bump. I don't recall breaking into a sweat, or veering off the course. I find myself awaiting ,with bated breath, each day's prompt. Some I greet with enthusiasm and others cause me to scratch my head and stare off into the unseen distance seeking a moment of brilliance, clarity, inspiration. This May my 'thinker' has been exercised, but all the stretching hasn't left me permanently scarred. I believe I still possess some thoughts to be translated into words. Did I discover a favourite prompt? Yes, I did, three in fact. The "I used to believe" prompt from May 7th nudged me to be creative and reply in the voice of a housecat dismayed with the Covid-19 quarantine. The May 14th prompt re the best or worst letter I ever received or wrote flushed out some wonderful memories shared with my two eldest grandgiggles. For a time, they corresponded with me in the personas of two sister bed-making fairies and I replied to them as a grateful and curious bed owner. I love their imaginations! For the May 22nd prompt re music and memories, I wrote from the viewpoint of my British mom-in-law who resided in London during WWII. She still vividly remembers VE Day and the exuberant celebrations in the streets. At long last, after nearly six years of war, the Germans had surrendered and all of England rejoiced. She lived and breathed that historical event. I like the spontaneity of replying to a daily prompt. In a short time, I must write something. It's not always polished. It's not always coherent. It's not always my best, but it is an effort, an attempt to express myself. I look forward to reading the blogs of my fellow bloggers. I am never disappointed with their writings and I anticipate our shared comments. We all compose with the same alphabet and the same plethora of words, yet we weave them, mold them, contort them, fashion them into unique offerings. This is amazing! Thank you 30 DBC Word Wizards! |
| PROMPT May 29th When I was little, I dreamed of living in a treehouse surrounded by a pool with a spiral staircase going up the middle of the trunk. In your second to last entry of the month, write about your dream home. Describe the rooms in your fantasy house and any unique characteristics. Be creative! Whew, pant, pant...it's been far too humid recently. I hate to admit it, but I think I miss the winter temperatures. I'm envisioning my dream home to be an ice castle impervious to heat waves. Before this 'torture' I would've described my dream abode as a cedar, redwood and red brick edifice built on Vancouver Island. All of the generous windows would be placed to frame the spectacular view of majestic mountains and the Pacific Ocean. The upper deck that would follow the length of my home is constructed of cedar, black wrought iron and plexiglass panels so as not to impede my lofty view. Of course, I'd want an open concept interior, light and airy. Throw in cathedral ceilings for soaring space. May I have an elevator installed? Stairs and I do not see eye to eye. One wing , a magnificent glass statement, will house my indoor swimming pool. The kitchen will be a generous size with my first ever baking island. Both the deck and the master ensuite will feature hot tubs. Ah, bliss... Another wing will house my extensive and comfortable library complete with window nook seating. Sigh, the enormous master bedroom will be replete with walk-in closets and more than enough room to traverse the king-sized bed with ease. Hurray, no more shuffle, shuffle, side-step around my bed! But wait, I now desire an ice castle, so... I'd erect my ice palace in Quebec, Northern Quebec to be precise. I'd set it amongst an evergreen forest with a crystal clear lake in my front yard. The ice could not and would not ever melt. All the interior and exterior lighting would be ice chandeliers meant to refract all illumination and glimmer like millions of stars. To descend from the upper floor, I would swoop down a giant indoor slide. The flooring would glisten and should I grow weary of shuffling about, I could simply lace on a pair of skates and glide along. Little wee nooks and crannies would be carved into the walls to provide reading refuges. They'd be made alluring with blankets and pillows of rainbow hues. Several immense fireplaces would be built into the rooms and they'd glow with a welcoming warmth. With a few candelabras, imagine the flickering ambiance. Well, not now, but in the depths of a howling winter. Oh, I'd still want an indoor heated pool and a hot tub. Imagine the cozy steam. The thick ice walls would absorb sound and create a serene haven. My ice castle would be an oasis of calm. In the gourmet kitchen it would never dare to be too hot to bake. Unexpected visitors arrive? Cut new, fresh seating from blocks of ice. Another indisputable bonus to an ice house? Insects would avoid it. Hah, try to bite me there mosquitos and blackflies. In the here and now, these voracious buggers hover just outside the door and windows biding their time and knowing I cannot hide indoors forever. A miserably over-heated, itchy girl can dream, can't she? |
| PROMPT May 28th Help me fill the Challenge War Chest with new prompts! In your entry today, write at least three prompts to be used in future rounds of the 30DBC. Then, write the rest of your entry using one of your own prompts. Well, okay, since you asked nicely, here are a few prompts... in no particular order, or preference. Five problems with social media. Would you rather have a life rewind button, or a life pause button? Would you rather be stuck in an elevator, or stuck in a ski lift? Write a letter to a fictional character you created. Write an awful advice column. Would you rather be an adult your whole life, or be a kid your whole life? Would you rather have more time, or have more money? My favourite sound is ______. Here is my chosen prompt du jour: Write an awful advice column. Why not? People tend to ignore advice anyway, good or bad. Dear Seeker of My Nuggets of Wisdom, The first thing I will impress upon you is you are all alone in this big wide world. No one will grant you any favours. If you want something, you must make an effort to grab it by the horns, or the handle bars, or the rope, or the leg, or the latch, or whatever. Waste no time or valuable physical expenditure being polite. Where will that get you? Who respects, or expects that nonsense? Oh, and don't accept no as an answer. When stopped and inconvenienced in a line, do not under any circumstances stand there idly tapping your feet and glaring at the others in front of you. Take action. If the line will not move, you move. Hustle to the front of the line by any means necessary. Push, shove, trip, divert, be physical. No need to use your voice and speak your intentions. You don't have all day to waste waiting for who knows how long. Surely, you have plans you don't want thwarted, or postponed. You are not a sheep blindly following the leader. In a group situation with mingling persons forget the old rules of give and take, wait your turn, and listen without interrupting. Do you have something you're just dying to say? Are you forced to fidget and bite your tongue? Why should you listen to someone else and yet another? How are you supposed to remember the point you wish to make? Spit it out! Blurt it out. Say what's on your mind. Your thoughts are important. Do not anticipate an opening. Spew, rant, rave, pontificate when you wish. We wait too much, don't you agree? Everything we encounter involves us waiting. We wait in lines to purchase items or conduct business. We wait to get a word in edgewise in a conversation. We wait at stop signs, red lights, and for pedestrians. Irksome, eh? We're expected to do this without complaint, to be polite and considerate. The next time you are stewing behind a stopped vehicle that clearly should be proceeding forward, honk your vehicle's horn. Let it blare. Let it irritate. That's what a horn is meant to do. Do not fret about that other driver's reasons, or concerns. Let them feel your annoyance. DISCLAIMER: I am Canadian and these obnoxious solutions / behaviours are not in my DNA. Sigh... I wait in lines all the time. Yes, sometimes I am impatient, but I would never usurp someone else's place in line. I initiate a conversation to pass the time. When I hear a car horn, I think what's your problem? We're all temporarily stuck. I try to wait my turn to contribute to a conversation, but certain talkers love the sound of their own voices. Being polite isn't always easy, eh? |
| PROMPT May 27th If your life were a song, 1) what genre would it be, 2) who would sing it, and 3) would it be a hit? I'm scratching my head and pondering this prompt. Oh, I can recall many songs and their unforgettable lyrics, but I cannot fathom a tune about my life. And a hit song to boot? Nah, not about me! I can understand a swat, or a slap, or a poke, or a punch-to -the-shoulder, but not a hit. Is there a ridiculous song genre? Is there a meh, run-of-the-mill genre? I can't quite see my life portrayed in an achy-breaky-cryin'-whinin'-bluesy country song. An upbeat Top 40 dance number wouldn't portray me either. May a habitual klutz expect to hear about her unfortunate accidents set to music? Do humorous / comedy songs have their own category? Why is Frank Sinatra's hit I Did It My Way blaring in my skull? First of all, I'm not a man, so that line what is a man doesn't apply. Hmmm... So, must this potential ditty have words? For some unknown reason, I'm hearing Big Band Music, swing-type stuff. Can you hear it? All the instruments are blending beautifully. The horn and saxophone vie for attention with the piano and drums. This music is fun and upbeat. I definitely do not want my life to be remembered as a polka. That one-two-three constant beat and the hop/skip dance step is not me. Perhaps it hits too close to my walking style? Stomping and clomping have been my signature moves for most of my ambulatory life and the hesitation between each step is similar to the polka downbeat. I've never really learned to like beer and lederhosen is not a good look for me either. Hearing someone bellow, roll out the barrel, or she's too fat for me would not be the least inspirational. I might be amenable to my life represented in a rap. I'm not referring to the gangsta-gun toting-hate women stuff. I like the rhymes and word plays of a rap, and the usual fast pace. My life has spiralled along much too quickly. Can I get a 'yo?' What about a 'hey?' "I'm a writa, in flighta, weavin' dope words to be heard..." No? |
| PROMPT May 26th Complete the following sentence: When I’m in the mood to celebrate, nothing can stop me from ___________. Well, well, what can I write? What will be my answer? The too obvious reply is celebrating, isn't it? I mean if I'm in the mood I'm in the mood. How could I not then celebrate? Okay, that's far too simple. How about sharing it? When I'm in the mood to celebrate, nothing can stop me from sharing it. There may be enthusiastic high-fives exchanged, maybe a bear hug, or two. Yes, I realize not everyone would necessarily want to celebrate with me, but I'd most likely be insistent. My feelings of euphoria would want to overthrow all things negative. I can picture spontaneous dancing with jig-like high stepping and plenty of twirling. Yes, I'd probably link arms with someone and pull them along. Their stumbles would match mine. Silly, uncoordinated movements should provoke a reluctant smile or two. Right now, I'm humming, "Celebrate, celebrate, dance to the music!" Picture the delighted antics of athletes after they score a touchdown, or a basket, or a hole in one. They know how to celebrate. Of course, I'd accept and downright encourage cheering with a few loud 'woohoos' and 'hurrahs.' Singing out loud and off-key is also okay. If my fellow rabble rousers don't know the words they can fake it, or hum. When I'm in the mood to celebrate, nothing can stop me from expressing it. Oh, you'll know when I'm happy. You'll both hear and see me. I do, however, draw the line at executing somersaults, hand springs, and cartwheels. If those were at all remotely possible, I'd never stop celebrating. |
| PROMPT May 25th What is the most useless skill you have? The most valuable? "Are you watching, Nanna? Did you see that?" I look up at Emily, nod my head and reply in the affirmative. She stares back and awaits some clarification. She wishes me to critique and praise her efforts. I murmur her speed took away my breath and she made the cartwheel look easy. I also praise her hard work and persistence, mentioning I could never execute such a bold move. With a grin, Emily cartwheels across the beach sand kicking up a cloud of dust. "What about those ones? Were they good? I ran and hopped for these ones. Mom doesn't let me do them at home." I again agree that she is talented. I'm impressed. I clap my hands and salute her. Satisfied, Emily runs off to the swings and for a few minutes there is silence. "Nanna, Nanna. Look at this. 'Member I never did this before? See? I don't fall now." This time, my seven-year old grandgiggle hugs a pole with her arms and legs and slides to the ground. She is correct. The summer before, she forgot the hug manoeuvre and always plummeted, hard. Next, she traverses the length of a horizontal metal pole, hand over hand. In the past, I held her wiggling torso up and supported her weight while she swayed along. Emily and I both 'see' her increased strength and we both beam with pride. Emily entered this world as a preemie, born in October, yet due in late January. She never finds it amusing when I marvel that she was the size of a pencil. I do add, the length of a new pencil, not a used stubby. After almost two months in the NICU, our girl arrived home for Christmas eve. Every milestone, every achievement is a victory. She is tiny, but determined. The above are cherished memories. Emily is now fourteen and a half. She can and does roll her eyes as only a teenager can. Sometimes, I am treated to the 'you're-kidding-right?' stare. She doesn't intimidate me. Her father tried those moves on me as did his two sisters. I am impervious, perhaps that is one of my skills. Another skill I possess is the ability to live in the here and now, in the moment. I spend time observing, listening, and participating in Em's life as well as that of her older sister, Syd and the newest grandgiggle, Alexandra. |
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Happy June! May was so fun!
