I made a decision today to carry around a notebook with me everywhere, to motivate me to stop for a few minutes every day and write something – anything. Writing helps me to focus, which in turn helps me to calm down.
So, I set about gathering all my notebooks and assembling them in the order in which they should be used. Then I did something different today – I put the best ones on top. I’m going to use those first. That’s quite different for me – I’ve always saved my best things for special occasions, but I’ve just decided that every day is special, and I’m going to use the best ones first.
While I was making this decision, I had a memory of my mother. She was feeling the blues one day, and it had a lot to do with getting older, so while I was visiting, I took her shopping. One of the things we bought were pretty underwear. I told her just because she was getting older, and just because she was not thin anymore, was no reason not to have pretty underwear. Even if no one ever sees them, YOU know you’re wearing them, and that can make you feel better.
Years later, when she passed away, and I was clearing out her house, I opened her underwear drawer. There were all the nice, pretty underwear – still new and never worn. Knowing my mother, she was saving them for a special occasion.
That always confused me, because when I was a child I remember her once saying that life is short, eat dessert first. I don’t know when that changed for her, but I know that I have a tendency to save things for a special occasion as well – whether it’s a notebook or underwear or my fine china.
Today I decided that being alive is a special occasion, and when I die I hope the only empty notebooks will be the cheap ones. The good ones will all be filled with my writing. And I hope that my underwear drawer will be filled with pretty underwear; none of it new and unworn.
When I entered the workforce in my late teens/early twenties, the fight for equality was just starting. When I think of where we are now, it seems almost unbelievable how far we’ve come. Women entering the workforce now have almost no idea what it was like in the 70s.
I’m going to relate a couple of situations that I experienced back then.
The first situation was when I got a part-time job pumping gas. There were no self-serve gas stations back then – attendants pumped your gas, checked your oil, and cleaned your windshield. You never even had to get out of your vehicle to pay; attendants came to your window to accept payment. I was hired by the guy in the evening shift. I looked like a young lad – short and thin, with a very short hair cut. Until you looked at me close up, which the owner did one day. He felt it was unsuitable to have a “girl” pumping gas, and I lost my part-time job. Funny how it became suitable when self-serve gas stations opened. (Interesting fact – did you know consumers were promised cheaper gas by pumping it themselves? Funny how that never happened, isn’t it?)
A similar situation happened when I got a part-time job as a DJ. The owner of the disco company reluctantly “allowed” me to play at weddings and parties, until one night they were stuck and needed someone to cover in a club. Then it became my second full-time job. When the owner went on vacation, the vice president of the company promoted me to area supervisor, and I started helping to install discos and train DJs. Until the owner returned and was very upset about that turn of events. When I lost that job, I went to New York City and ended up employed by Juliana’s Sound Services in Manhattan, a predominantly female DJ company.
The Good Old Days?
When I started working in an office, dresses or skirts were mandatory. There were rules – so far below the knee, so far above the ankle, no bare midriff, no halter tops, no going bra less (I always wondered how they tested for that). When tellers at the Bank of Nova Scotia were given the right to wear slacks to work, it wasn’t long until most women were given the same right. The first step towards equality.
Outside the office, women were discriminated against as well, in the increased cost of products and services. Let’s take razors as an example. Razors for women were more expensive, despite being almost identical. The only main difference is the handles were pink. Must have been expensive pink.
Besides products, services were more expensive as well. The one that irritated me the most was dry cleaning. The cost of dry cleaning for women was almost 30% more. It irritated me so much, I started to lie to my dry cleaner. Here was a typical conversation when dropping things off:
“2 men’s pants, 3 men’s shirts, 1 dress.“
“These are women’s pants.”
“No, they aren’t. They’re my brothers.“
“No, the button is on the other side.”
“Ha! I wonder if my brother knows that.“
“This is a woman’s shirt”
“No, it isn’t. It’s my husband’s.“
“The buttons are on the wrong side.”
“Wow, I guess my husband didn’t notice that.“
“The material is really soft, too.”
“Yeah, he likes soft materials.“
Staring war ensues until he gives in.
Reluctantly.
But I hated having to do that every time I had to drop off dry cleaning.
Equal doesn’t mean looking the same
It’s worth mentioning that my shirts were not the frilly kind. I’ve never been the frilly type – in the 70s and 80s I was too busy believing that emulating a man would help my career and let me be taken more seriously. So, you have to picture me in white business shirt, short hair, and tailored pin stripe suits with padded shoulders. No frills.
By the 90s, friends were calling me a feminist. No, I’m not a feminist, I would say; I’m an equality. Why should I be treated any different. If a man had a rough day at work and stopped by a bar to relax with a drink on his way home, that was acceptable. But for a woman to do the same was not. If a male manager raised his voice to a staff member, he was “authoritative” (considered a good trait at the time), but if a female manager did the same, she was a “bitch” or maybe it was “her time of the month”.
I now realize that I’m more than an equality – I am a feminist. As all women should be. It’s amazing how far we’ve come. We can do the same jobs, we have the same rights, and those who feel that a woman’s place is in the kitchen are quickly becoming a minority.
But we’re not there yet.
So, what made me think about this now?
A bra.
Actually two bras.
I bought two bras at a Giant Tiger store in Sutton, Ontario. Signs around the store hanging from the ceiling said “Don’t try clothes on”, so I tried them on at home, and they didn’t fit.
When I went to return them, I was told I couldn’t. It was “unsanitary”. It was a young lady, who told me that they were like underwear. I had an email from Giant Tiger’s head office, stating that “Bras, and swim tops such as tanking and bikini tops are not to be classified as undergarments and will be refunded.” The sales clerk phoned the manager, who said I could return it “this time only”.
I’m not trying to slam the store. This Giant Tiger store actually does a lot of good in the community, and I love Giant Tiger. I love the one in Newmarket, in Stouffville, in Lindsay, and the two in North Bay. But here we have a store that hires predominantly pretty young women, who tell me that returned bras (still on hanger with all tags) have to be thrown out when they’re returned because they’re unsanitary.
Despite being a franchise, I was told they could make their own rules, that they didn’t have to follow the rules of their head office. I think they should read their franchise agreement again. I’ve seldom seen one that includes that clause.
I asked why they were considered unsanitary – I’m way too old to be a lactating female. What is the difference if a man returns a t-shirt? What if I returned a t-shirt that I tried on without a bra? No answer.
Because there is no answer.
There are still those who feel that it’s acceptable to have different standards and rules for men and women. Who believe that it’s okay to pay women less than men, or to deny them promotion opportunities because they might take time off to start a family, and who feel it’s appropriate to treat a woman as a sexual object – the sex trade illustrates that.
In the Euro 2021 beach handball games this year, the men’s team wore shorts and tank tops. The Norwegian women’s team wore thigh-length elastic shorts during their bronze medal match against Spain in Bulgaria, to protest against the regulation bikini-bottom design. They were fined 1,500 euros total ($1,700) for “improper clothing”. Women are required to wear midriff-baring tops and bikini bottoms “with a close fit and cut on an upward angle toward the top of the leg” and a maximum side width of 4 inches, according to International Handball Federation regulations.
Pink has offered to pay the fine. I should listen to her music more because I admire her standing up.
I’m standing up by writing this and by refusing to visit the Sutton Giant Tiger location until they change their policies. I’ll do the same for any other store or business with the same attitude.
Because that’s what we all need to do. Stand up. Women are not “less than” a man. We are more than sexual objects or cheap labour. We are equals.
All this rant because of a bra. And because of what it signified – we’re not there yet.
“Men, their rights, and nothing more; women, their rights, and nothing less.”
There’s a growing movement to cancel Canada Day celebrations this year, in light of the recent graves discovered at the residential schools and the reminder of that terrible part of our history, when children were removed from their homes on reserves and sent to schools. These schools were nothing less than re-education centres, run by a few organized religions, predominately Roman Catholic. It was, in fact, cultural genocide and many children were abused and died of various causes, their unmarked and undocumented graves only recently discovered.
I’ve thought long and hard about whether we should be celebrating Canada Day this year, even taking into consideration the fact that some of my ancestors were Aboriginal.
Every country in the world has shameful events in their past. In our multicultural country, many of our citizens come from countries where exploitation, torture, and genocide are still happening. Our local newspaper just published an article about a refugee from one such country.
We cannot change our history, but we can change how we respond to the tragedies that are part of it. By coming together and recognizing our strengths and our weaknesses, we are demonstrating what it means to be Canadian. As Canadians, we must not cover it up, but bring it to light and find a way to reconcile what has happened with who we are today.
The current pandemic has forced us all to live and work differently, and everyone (me included) is struggling to remain positive and optimistic. There’s so much that we’ve learned from all of this though, so I decided to make a list. Some items are short and obvious, while others have a deeper explanation that might just apply to me. Some might be the same as yours, and some might just be a bit weird.
The most important thing I’ve learned is that I am truly blessed in all of this. I could easily focus on the fact that I live alone, I’m socially isolated and lonely, but I choose instead to realize that I am still healthy, still employed, and I still have a home, and I still have food to eat. So many people have had their lives devastated during this pandemic, so I need to focus on how grateful I am to be in the position I am.
Here are some other things I’ve learned during this pandemic.
#1
There are pros and cons to everything. With the pandemic, the pros are less money spent on gas and dry cleaning, less time spent commuting, and better work-life balance as we commit to the job itself and not the clock.
The cons are that there is less life-work balance. Wait! What? I listed that as a Pro, so what gives? I’ve had to learn to set firm time commitments (8 hours a day, or 40 hours a week or similar) to avoid working too much. Since I live alone, it’s too easy to get up in the morning and immediately sit at my desk with my coffee and start working, just as it’s too easy to check again before bed to finish something I started earlier.
#2
I’ve learned I can save money by not buying new shoes or dresses – where would I wear them to? By the time they let us loose, they’ll probably be out of style.
#3
Everyone pities the person who lives alone, as families at least have each other, right? Well, with that larger family comes more exposure through each of their networks. Not everyone is taking this social distancing seriously (although most SAY they are).
#4
I’ve learned that everyone is feeling isolated in some way, and I’ve learned it’s important to reach out to each other, using the phone, messaging apps, and even video apps.
#5
When you only have yourself for company, I’ve learned that it’s important to like yourself. You have to consciously treat yourself the same way you’d treat a friend; be patient and try not to be judgmental. Forgive easily and focus on moving forward – the same advice you’d give your best friend. When talking to yourself, try to always be encouraging and helpful. Learn to have fun by yourself – crank the tunes, sing along and dance if you can.
#6
This pandemic is dragging on so long, and I now believe we should have just bitten the bullet right at the beginning – nip it in the bud and be done with it! Because we didn’t do that, and because our government tried to not offend everyone, we are starting to feel as if this will never end. If we don’t get it together, it never will. That’s taught me to do the right thing always, no matter how unpleasant and difficult that may be.
#7
I’ve learned that if I get up, dress up, wear makeup and style my hair, that I’ll feel better emotionally throughout the day. At least for now, I can pretend life is normal. Shoes are optional.
#8
I’ve learned never to underestimate the healing powers of a dog. They are fairly good roommates, and are a good excuse to get outside for a walk at least twice a day, which helps improve our mental states.
#9
I’ve learned that nothing beats homemade, healthy meals. I feel better, I’ve lost weight, and I’ve saved money. The couple of times I treated myself to restaurant or fast-food takeout, my tummy didn’t feel very good afterwards.
#10
I’ve learned not to be drawn into conspiracy or political debates. It’s healthy to look at the funny aspects of the situation, although I think that people who don’t socially distance or wear masks are idiots, but it’s a waste of time trying to reason with often unreasonable people.
#11
I’ve also learned to speak up to people in stores who are standing too close and demand that they move back 6 feet. Whether they’re 19 or 79. And if a store doesn’t enforce the social distancing policy, I will abandon my cart and flee the store.
#12
I’ve learned that there’s more safety in smaller stores, where there may only be 2 -3 people in the store at a time. It may cost a bit more, but since I’m saving money (see #1 above) I’m fine with that. Besides, our small, local stores need our help.
The tradition of breaking bread has always related to people coming together and sharing a meal. It’s a ritual of communion and friendship.
I began the quest to learn to make bread when I was in my 20s. Everyone told me that it was impossible to explain the texture of bread dough – that it was something you had to experience. Since I didn’t know anyone who made “real” bread, I signed up for a Saturday bread-making workshop in Don Mills, Ontario, and there I made a perfect loaf of bread. While others couldn’t explain the texture to look for when kneading bread, I can. Tug on your ear lobe. That’s it. Seriously – that’s the closest thing I’ve found.
Having made the perfect loaf of bread, I promised myself never to do that again. That is a LOT of work, and I don’t have strong hands or wrists. So I bought a bread machine. While I detested the texture of bread machine bread, I used it for many years to make the dough, which I then shaped and baked traditionally.
When the pandemic of 2020 hit us, everyone started making bread and if you search the internet, you’ll find thousands of recipes for No Knead Breads. I played with some of those and experimented with different yeasts and rising times. For Christmas, I decided to make a Roasted Garlic and Rosemary Artisan loaf. It took me 3 variations to come up with what I feel is the best.
Artisan bread should be soft and airy inside, with lots of holes and crevices. The crust should be crispy and golden brown. I tried to hold true to that while I added in the savoury flavours of roasted garlic and herbs.
The list of ingredients is at the bottom of this post, but I wanted to walk you through my process.
Roasting the garlic
I like to use a medium-sized garlic with at least 8 to 10 cloves. I cut off the top to expose the cloves and drizzled olive oil on top and sprinkle a bit of kosher salt. It’s roasted in a small covered baking dish, but since I don’t have one, I used a Pyrex bowl and covered it with tin foil. It worked perfectly. I baked it in the oven for 45 mins at 400 degrees F. until the cloves were soft and golden brown. Then I took it out and let it cool before using.
Proofing the yeast
Most of the recipes I found had the yeast mixed in with the flour. I like to proof my yeast. It only takes a few minutes, and I’d rather find out at this point that my yeast is not good, before I use it in the bread and be disappointed with the results.
I use active dry yeast and instant yeast interchangeably. I’m currently using two types of instant yeast – Fleischman’s, and British Class. The latter is finer and performs better, but Fleischman’s is easier to find in Canada. I found the British Class in No Frills, by the way.
I start with warm water – around 100 degrees F. If it’s too hot, you’ll kill the yeast. The warm water helps activate the yeast faster. In a large bowl (preferably glass), I add 1-1/4 cups of warm water, 1 tsp of sugar, and then sprinkle 2-1/4 tsp of yeast on top. I stir it all together and wait 5 to 10 minutes, until I see the bloom on top.
Then I know I’m ready. While I’m waiting, I mince up the roasted garlic so it will be ready.
Add in the seasoning
When I see the yeast bloom, I mix in the salt, rosemary, and garlic. When substituting dry rosemary for fresh, remember that dried herbs are stronger, so only use a third. In this recipe, I added 2 tsp of dried rosemary, but you can substitute 2 tbsp of fresh if available.
Mix in the flour
When measuring flour for the bread, do not pack it down in the measuring cup. You want the flour to be light a fluffy. I stir my flour and then gently spoon it into the measuring cup. Add it to the water in whatever way works best for you. Some people prefer to mix the flour in a little at a time, others prefer a mixer with a dough hook (which I don’t have).
I use a Danish dough whisk, which does a great job mixing the dough and scraping the sides of the bowl. When there’s no more dry flour, you’re left with a wet, sticky dough. This is often referred to as shaggy dough. I drizzle the dough with 1 tbsp of olive oil, and roll it around so the oil covers it all.
First Rise
We’re ready for the first rising. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and place in a draft free place to rise. You can use a tea towel to cover it, but I find it takes longer to rise. Since it’s winter at the moment, my house is a bit cool, so I put my bowl in the oven. Even though it’s off, it is draft free. I let it rise for around 1 to 1-1/2 hours. What you want is for the dough to double in size. If you’re in a hurry for the dough to rise, leave the oven light on while it’s in there.
Second Rise
When the dough has doubled in size, turn the bowl upside down onto a floured surface. This dough will be a bit sticky so sprinkle a bit of flour on it so you can work with it. Don’t punch it down or you will lose the bubbles in the dough. Fold it in half and keep turning and folding it until it’s no longer sticky and it’s stiffer and resembles a dough ball. It’s usually around 5 times. Place the dough, seam side up onto a sheet of parchment paper, place in a bowl and cover with a clean tea towel.
While you wait for the dough to rise again, place your Dutch oven into the oven and preheat to 450 degrees F. If you don’t have a Dutch oven, use a large pot with an oven safe handle and a good fitting lid. My oven takes about 30 mins to reach 450 F.
Baking the bread
Lift the parchment paper and gently place it with the dough ball into the preheated pot (carefully – don’t burn yourself). Those seams will create the lovely crevices at the top of the loaf. Cover the pot and bake for 30 minutes. The steam inside the pot makes the bread so soft inside yet crispy outside. After 30 minutes, remove the lid and keep baking for another 10 to 15 minutes, until the loaf of the shade of golden brown you love.
Carefully toss the loaf out of the pot onto your counter or cutting board. Let it cool and resist temptation to cut into it for at least 10 minutes.
Ingredients
Roasted Garlic:
1 head of garlic
1 tsp olive oil
salt to taste
Bread:
2-1/4 tsp active dry yeast
1 tsp sugar
1-1/4 cups warm water
1-1/2 tsp salt
2 tsp dry rosemary (or 2 tbsp fresh rosemary)
8-10 garlic cloves, roasted and chopped
3 cups all-purpose flour (Americans may find bread flour better)
1 tbsp olive oil
Directions:
Roasted Garlic:
Cut the head off the garlic to expose the cloves and place in an ovenproof baking dish.
Drizzle olive oil over the cloves and sprinkle with salt.
Cover and roast for 45 mins at 400 degrees F.
Remove and let cool.
Bread:
Stir sugar and yeast into warm water in a large mixing bowl and let sit 5–10 minutes until the yeast blooms.
Add in the salt, rosemary, and roasted garlic.
Add flour to the bowl and stir until all the flour is mixed in, using a spatula to scrape the sides of the bowl. The dough may look rough and shaggy.
Drizzle olive oil all around the dough, turning to coat all sides. Cover with plastic wrap and leave in a draft free place to rise (I place in the oven). Let rise at least one hour, or until the dough has doubled in size.
Place the dough on a floured cutting board. Sprinkle the top with flour to make it easier to work with.
Pull and fold in the sides until the dough becomes relatively stiff. Shape into a round ball.
Flour a second bowl and place the dough seam side down into the bowl and cover with a clean tea towel.
Place an ovenproof pot or casserole dish into the oven and preheat to 450 degrees F. When the oven reaches temperature, carefully place the dough, seam side up, into the pot and place in the oven.
Cover and bake for 30 minutes.
Remove the lid after 30 minutes and continue baking for another 10 to 15 minutes until the top is golden brown.
Remove the bread and let cool approx. 10 minutes before trying to cut it.
Bon appetit!
Final Comments
This bread has no preservatives, so it will go stale quickly. Here are some of the ways I use it:
Warm it slightly in the oven to bring back the crispy crust.
Slice and toast for an exceptional artisan sandwich with your favourite ingredients.
Cut into cubes, drizzle with olive oil and bake at 350 for 20 minutes for homemade croutons to use in salads and soups.
Slice and let the bread dry out, then toss in a blender for savoury bread crumbs.
I don’t usually post recipes but this one has been asked for a few times so I thought I would share. This is not a recipe site though, so I don’t have an easy print button for you. Luckily, this recipe is easy to remember.
This recipe has become my go-to dessert when I need something quick. It might be because I’ve been invited somewhere at the last minute or just found out company is on the way. The recipe can be easily doubled.
If you object to anything made in a microwave, stop reading now. This is pretty much the only thing I “cook” in a microwave.
Serves 4-6
Ingredients
4 medium tart apples – I use Granny Smith apples – peeled, cored, and thinly sliced.
1/4 cup of sugar
1 tbs flour
2 tsp lemon juice
1/4 tsp cinnamon
1-2 tbs of maple syrup (optional and to taste)
Topping
2/3 cup of old fashioned oats
1/2 cup brown sugar, packed
1/4 cup flour
1/2 tsp cinnamon
3 tbs cold butter.
Directions:
Toss the apples with the flour, sugar, lemon juice, and cinnamon and put in a greased 9″ pie plate or baking pan. Drizzle with the maple syrup.
In a separate bowl, mix the oats, flour, brown sugar, and cinnamon. Cut in the cold butter until the mixture is crumbly.
Sprinkle the topping over the apples evenly and cover with wax paper.
Microwave on high for 6 or 7 minutes, until the apples are soft. Each microwave is different so find what works for yours.
That’s all there is to it. Serve with whatever you want. Enjoy.
Every now and then, I find myself needing to vent about a recent event that has irritated me. It doesn’t matter if you care or not but you’re more then welcome to add your comments or even share any recent pet peeves of yours in the Comments.
Purolator is a courier service owned by Canada Post. I’d love to complain to them directly but after being on hold for an hour on the phone, together with my inability to find an email address for them, and having received no response from @PurolatorHelp on Twitter, I have decided to turn to you, dear readers, for sympathy.
I ordered a desk online and it had been shipped via Purolator. I won’t even go into how Purolator takes 3 times as long to deliver things compared to other courier companies; I’m just going to vent about the delivery experience itself.
The day it was delivered a Penske truck pulled up and a very healthy-looking young man rang my doorbell and explained he had a delivery for me but it was too heavy for him to lift off his truck and he wanted me to do it. I’m NOT young (and I’m not saying how old I am – suffice to say MUCH older than him) and I have a bad back, so I explained that I was unable to assist and offered him the use of my dolly. He said he already had a dolly but it was too heavy to lift from the truck to the dolly.
I told him I thought it was being delivered by Purolator and he explained he was with Purolator (I think maybe they’re contracting out jobs, who knows). I finally said if it’s too heavy for you to lift, and since I’m unable to lift for you, I guess you’ll have to take it back and explain you’re unable to deliver due to the weight.
I think that confused him, but I wasn’t about to have a staring contest with him at my door, so I reiterated that he only had two choices – lift it off the truck himself or return it saying he was unable to deliver it, then I closed the door.
Five minutes later I heard noises outside my door and he had just finished putting the large box on my porch. The young, healthy man who had said the package was too heavy to lift off the truck to his dolly, had managed to bring it to my front porch, sans dolly.
So what was the problem? Was he really unable to deliver it? Is Canada Post outsourcing to incompetent individuals, or was this one individual so lazy that he tried to get an older, injured lady to do his job. What would happen if he was delivering to somebody in a wheelchair or walker?
Companies that take orders online for delivery take note – FedEx and UPS are willing to work harder for your business than a company like Purolator.
The summer had drawn to a close, much like the remnants of my previous life. I had spent the hot, humid days packing up my house in Georgia and moving across the country. It wasn’t quite like “Go west, young man”, more like “Go anywhere but here, young woman”, and so I’d gone north, to start again.
I was starting this leg of my journey alone. I’d lost my husband, Bryan, in the early spring from COVID-19, and it has taken me this long to manage all that I had to deal with – the estate, the funeral, selling the house and buying a new one. Somewhere else. Somewhere without Bryan. Somewhere without memories.
I was an only child, and I lost my parents six years ago. Bryan and I were never blessed with children, so after he passed away, I realized that I was truly alone, for the first time in my life.
The days were getting shorter now, and the leaves on the maple tree in the front yard of my new house were turning a vibrant shade of orange. I’d missed that, living in Georgia – the changing of the seasons; the changing of life. Of losing one thing but gaining something new. Even the sunsets were becoming more vibrant, a rich mosaic to accompany the dying sun, followed by the hauntingly blue hues of the rising moon. A flock of geese in V formation flew overhead, heading south, honking out their farewell message.
Life was changing, there was no doubt about that. From Georgia to Boston, the scenery was as different as day and night. Fall was a season of preparation – since the beginning of time, the turning of leaves has signified the start of winter preparations. My ancestors gathered supplies to get them through the long, cold winters in northern Quebec, chopping wood for stoves, making quilts, salting meat, and preparing jars of preserves to sustain them. They even saved pig fat for oil lamps and candles to light the way on those dark, cold nights.
I have been gathering and preparing as well. I have garnered all of my strength and I seldom allowed myself to wallow in self-pity. I had left behind a career in corporate finance and taken a chance on opening a small gift shop and I know it’s going to take some time to feel at home in my new community, but I have an idea that might help me get to know the people in my neighbourhood
With Hallowe’en approaching, I’ve overheard people talking about how nervous they are about letting their children go out trick or treating, so I decided to open my shop as a drop-off location for treats. I’ll use my own gift bags and create little grab bags for different ages of children, and then instead of having to go door to door on October 31st, parents can bring their children by the shop to collect a gift bag full of treats from all their neighbours. That would also let parents go out with their children instead of having to stay home and shell out.
I’ll need a costume, of course, something memorable. I just remembered I had a serving wench costume that I haven’t worn in years. I will wear it this year while I’m serving treats to children and spiked hot chocolate to parents. That will be memorable, right?
Bryan and I loved Hallowe’en, and we always made our front yard look like a cemetery. We used to go to parties dressed like famous (or infamous) couples – Sony and Cher one year, Bonnie and Clyde the next. Continuing the tradition this year will be a great way to remember my time with him, bittersweet though the memories will be.
Time to get busy – there are flyers to make and then drop off at the houses in my neighbourhood, so people will know my idea. This will be a great way to meet my neighbours!
Today’s pet peeve is programs that scan your computer for one purpose or another – like your antivirus program or a disk utility program. Very few of them tell you how long it’s going to take and that is what peeves me.
I’m left sitting here wondering how long it’s going to take. Is it going to be 2 minutes or 20 minutes? Do I have time to start (or finish) something else while I’m waiting? As our disk drives are getting larger (and fuller), scans are taking longer and longer. Even those useless progress bars are better than nothing, but still useless. They take forever to finish less than halfway, then you blink and it’s at 100%.
It must be a fairly simple mathematical equation. Since it should know approximately how long it takes to scan 100 MB for example, it should be able to see the size of the drive and estimate a time for completion.
And while we all hate generic messaging (causing us to just go glassy-eyed and click OK without reading), why not make messages more relevant? Here’s some ideas:
Now might be a good time to get a coffee.
Do you have a dog? Now might be a good time for a walk. No dog? Are you sure you don’t need a shower?
Morning: See you when you get home from work. Evening: Have you heard how important 8 hours of sleep is?
There! I’ve shared my idea with the universe, so in the words of Jean Luc Picard,
I remember when I was a child, being envious of my friends, who would run home and tell Mom about their day; slamming the screen door and the noise interrupting the spring sound of awak’ning. Standing in a warm kitchen, apple pie baking and she, with a whiff of flour on her cheek, radiant with smile as she listened to the story of the home run that almost was. Seeing me standing there on the breadth, she flashed that smile of understanding, and scolded us both for running so hard in the heat. Then she sat us down at a white pine tree kitchen table to a treat of ice-cold milk and cake. She, silently singing to herself, today’s a treat to tomorrow’s desserts. I knew she understood how I felt; a small child so alone, and she, another one’s mom, with enough love left over to treat me as her own. Thanks Mom.
I remember often my foster home, I being fortunate in my time. Time sometimes spent searching for another one’s love – you see, I don’t have those childhood memories of a mother, Mine left for the other side of the tree. I only remember her as seen in other kids’ eyes, and I realize – that mothers the world over, are really all the same. they love all children, somehow never forgetting a child’s name, so – thank you Mom, every Mom, everywhere.
