I received a housecoat as a Christmas present years ago that was ill-fitting and not my style at all, but I had the gift-giver’s blessing to exchange it.  Unfortunately, January’s selection was so heavily picked over, I had trouble identifying its least ugly replacement.

At first I was simply glad to own a new robe and wore it with a sort of pride.  A new thing, a present!   I wore it every evening as I hunkered down on the sofa, cat in lap, to relax in front of the TV.  It felt like a big hug, warm and inviting.  Even Kaley the dog was interested in it judging by the amount of sniffing attention she gave it.  Soon, however, I started to notice that it was becoming somewhat…well,  uncomfortable which is exactly the opposite of what a good lounging garment was supposed to be.

A bit later, I became more aware of how heavy it was.  So much fabric that felt like it was dragging me down.  My old shoulder injury burned a bit when I had to heft it up onto its closet hook or lug the robe-laden laundry hamper up and down the stairs.   It took forever in the dryer; so dense that I dared not leave it out to dry naturally in case some kind of toxic mould might develop in the weeks needed to achieve complete dryness.

And then the nice cocoony feeling was replaced by being… a bit overwhelmed.  The thing encircled me two or three times, and it was getting increasingly difficult to pull around me, or disentangle myself from its folds when moving from a supine position to the upright.  I tripped on it occasionally too.

And so hot.  This greatly exacerbated the intensity of my hot flashes – I was sure that blisters were erupting all over my body when I couldn’t get it off fast enough!   Jinx still sat on my lap but got her claws stuck in the terry cloth.  She couldn’t seem to figure out how to extricate herself, and my assistance only seemed to piss her off.

As time went by, even the robe’s colour started to annoy me.  Unattractive Bleech Blue.  Not quite navy, not quite royal.  Just Bleech.  Its fabric took on the feeling of scratchy motel linens (was this why the rash developed on my extremities?) while the terry part was pulled to pieces from my battles with my feline.  Blue stringy bits were unknowingly jettisoned all over the house, later to be horked up along with hairballs during the night.  When this spluttering woke me up, it was too much bother to hoist my robe on before cleaning up the mess despite the chill.

More mornings than not found me tense and a bit paranoid.  As I innocently cooked my breakfast on the gas stove all I could think of was Tony Soprano’s TV girlfriend doing the same for him while he schemed how to break up with her. Her billowy kimono sleeves came in contact with the open flame, quickly engulfing her arm and face in an unforgettable fiery scene.  (Yes, he still broke up with her, but the burn part was what caught my attention.)  I compulsively rolled up my own sleeves to prevent the same fate, unable to remove those disturbing images from my psyche.

Jinx now seemed drawn to the robe, but not from her former lap spot.  She would sneak up behind me on the couch, picking and poking at it, sometimes slicing my skin underneath.  Frequently she’d get claw-pinned to the robe but that positioning made it even harder to free her.  I’d get scratched during the struggles, and she would skulk then avoid me for hours.  I often found her hiding in my closet, the robe on the floor though I was certain it had been hung securely.

The robe was beaten up and straggly despite my care.  The old paint smear seemed to be growing, mutating.  Where did it come from?  I couldn’t remember.  I hadn’t the gumption to wipe off the toothpaste stain from the collar or drag the thing down for yet another washing.  I’d lost my energy, my drive.  I stayed home more, showered less often and the desire to wear nice things or put on make-up was diminished.  It was just easier to stay home in the housecoat.

The belt became frayed to the point that sometimes I struggled to get it unravelled before bed.   I tripped on the hem going up the stairs more and more often.  And then not even on the stairs.  I fell.  A lot.  Dark bruises littered my knees which matched my garment and the dark circles under my eyes.  I was sleep deprived and miserable.  The sleeves began to droop towards the burners while I fried my eggs.  Jinx started eyeing me funny.  The lightbulb burned out in my closet.  Kaley kept her distance in the evenings.  My slippers went missing.  I forgot my computer passwords…

In a moment of clarity, I realized its power over me.  Wearing the housecoat had infected me with schlumpedness, sucked out my vitality, and oh my – actually threatened my well-being!  I knew I had to get it off me, and NOW!   I struggled, panicked at my inability to free myself from belt knots I didn’t remember tying.  I had trouble breathing.   I pulled, tugged, and finally with one big yank I almost pulled free, but somehow in the melee the sash wound its way around my neck.  I didn’t want to believe it was true, but it tightened itself around me like a python.  Squeezing and squeezing the breath from my lungs, holding my trachea hostage until…. until…..

I woke up sprawled on my kitchen hardwood, dazed and disoriented, cold in my short nightie.  The French doors banged loudly in the night wind.  The light had vanished, and I had no inkling of what time it was.  A dark figure stood above me, panting, and I could smell the harsh stench of its breath.

I froze, gasping with terror, my throat scratchy and sore.  My eyes adjusted to the dim just as the shadow whined.  It sounded … familiar.  The muzzle that nudged me was Kaley’s.  Faint with relief, I reached for her but she yelped.  My hands felt wet and sticky from her coat.  What was happening?  I managed to kneel upright on sore knees, dizzy, teetering for a moment, reaching, grasping for the kitchen light.

Kaley’s soulful eyes met mine in the sudden fluorescence.  Her soft fur was matted with blood.  Remnants of the belt dangled from her mouth like a dead squirrel while her breathing laboured on.  The housecoat lay in a heap nearby, crumpled and still. Whatever lifesblood it had contained drained out onto the floor in a pool of stagnant goo.  Indigo canine prints detailed the map of the struggle between robe and beast, a twisting, turning dance to the death.

After a week had passed, the crusting had all come out of Kaley’s coat and she quit limping.  The vet said she was lucky.   My bruises faded to yellow-green, and it no longer hurt to swallow.  The curious friend who helpfully replaced the jambs on the French doors was unsatisfied by my lies about how they got busted from the inside.  I  avoided his gaze or further interrogation by giving the kitchen floor a scrubbing of epic proportions.

I could almost forget what had happened without the third or fourth martini.  Until a clear, lovely, bright October day which transformed my yard into a paintable fall canvas.  Soaking up the sun on my deck, something moving caught my eye.  Up, way up in my gnarly old mountain ash was a raggedy blue terry belt hanging eerily from a broken branch, a bloodied limp nuthatch clutched in its strings.

I harbour a silly & secret fear of losing my teeth.  Advanced technologies and preventative dentistry make it nonsense; I didn’t say it was logical.  The origin is unclear as I’ve not experienced anything more traumatic than the filling of the usual childhood cavities.  My first dentist was a kindly grey-haired gent who reminded me of Herman Munster’s dad.  A mumbling, humming fellow in a priestlike white high-collared costume whose instructions I could never understand much less follow.  I liked his receptionist/assistant who called me Princess.

This silly dental fear reared it’s ugly CROWN (sorry – couldn’t resist) while I lived in the Virgin Islands.  As I worked in the local Emergency Room, I was intimately aware of how filthy the poorly-equipped hospital was, and how undertrained the staff were.  One of the EMT’s (not quite a paramedic yet) who I will call George was the scariest of them all.  He was a nice enough guy who tried to be helpful, but failed epically due to his inappropriate enthusiasm for inflicting the most painful, oversized IV’s possible with no regard as to patient suffering.  His rationale for inserting a missile-sized angiocath was simply the presence of a juicy large vein.  Did I mention he wasn’t particularly accurate?  I still get shivers of fear when I think of him turned loose on society, or the possibility of spending any time sequestered in that hospital.

I suffered a recurring nightmare wherein I was involved in a late night head-on collision on a blind curve/hill on a main road, the source of many of our accident victims.  I felt the shocking impact after being blinded by bright headlights.  After certain unconsciousness, I woke in a pool of warm, sticky blood that smelled of gasoline, every inch of my body stinging from ground-in shattered glass. Moans of agony could be heard from the dark long before the moans of the emergency sirens.  I was disoriented, aware there’d been an accident, but unable to actually move or act.  I fumbled my way back to consciousness in time to see George excitedly lumbering my way toting his tools of torture.

I tried to escape only to realize my left femur poked out from my thigh skin at a disgustingly obscene angle making normal ambulation impossible.  Frantic, I attempted to claw my way across the pavement, leg screaming, fingers burning.  George closed in.  When I opened my mouth to beg for mercy, only teeth came out along with some unintelligible sounds.  My tongue explored the tender holes in my palate and I screamed!

OK, so it never happened, but I’m still uber vigilant of good mouth care to prevent toothlessness in real life.   I can’t say that I enjoy tooth cleaning, but know I dislike it less than a sagging empty mouth, pureed food or mumbly speech.  My kind hygienist, Viv, has great focus and attention to detail.  Lucky me to have someone so…. well, delightfully picky in my dental corner.

I’ll bet you can guess what the only problem is:  I CAN’T TALK WHILE SHE WORKS!

Doesn’t just the mention of a Jammie Day make you smile or give you the warm fuzzies (as in flannel)?  Everyone loves ’em!  Or so I thought, until my hiking partner, Ron, revealed the very idea of spending most of the day in pyjamas was distasteful to him.  Maybe it’s a girl thing…?

Most GIRLS (!!) then, love to be able to just take the day off from the usual chaos & responsibility.  Just sometimes.  A fitful, long sleep followed by an entire day to cocoon yourself in your home without the need to rush out somewhere early, and the freedom to concentrate on whatever your fancy all day long.  Guilt free.  You can watch a movie or read a book.  Do your toenails.  Earn a Nobel Prize.  Or do absolutely nothing at all.

My best version occurs in winter.  Definitely winter, and on a weekend.  Perhaps waking up during the night knowing there are many more hours of slumber ahead with no urgency to go anywhere.  Feeling the mattress shake with the appearance of my dog’s happy furry face over the side, a reminder that she will most likely expire if not fed immediately.  Then her heavy dog sighs of resignation to wait ‘just a little bit longer’ as she flops back down onto her Princess and the Pea bed next to mine.  Being lulled back to sleep by the purring of the cat cuddled up in the crook of my arm. Eventually I will excise myself from the warm covers, immediately aware of my home’s meat locker-like temperature necessary for an optimal sleeping environment.  Shivering, I locate the little socks lost overnight in the linens during a hot flash and put them back on before my feet turn blue.

Next I don my raggedy housecoat that is spattered with old paint overtop of my ridiculously ugly 2-piece flannel pyjamas given to me by someone who apparently thought I was a size 26.  I’m too cheap to replace them – no one will ever see them on me after all.  I do not comb my hair.  Sometimes I don’t even splash my face with water.  It doesn’t occur to me to look in the mirror.

The animals race – and occasionally trip – me down the stairs in frenzied excitement eager to show me where their food bowls are in case I forgot.   I can hear them gobbling their kibbles while I stumble up the stairs (damned housecoat is too long) to the kitchen.  I peruse an Oprah magazine, a Safeway flyer or an old Globe & Mail (recycled to me from my friend Jackie who, unlike me, is up on current events) while my giant vat of coffee perks.  I wait patiently for a cup to be ready, confident I will drink the entire carafe.  The animals, now sated, are sprawled in repose in sites that prove most inconvenient for me.  The cat favours the cupboard corner where a heat vent blows since I turned up the thermostat.  The dog prefers the middle of the kitchen floor, vigilant for dropped crumbs or stray cheese.  I step over them repeatedly in the course of making a delicious eggie breakfast.   I dawdle and savour all of this.  I have the whole glorious day ahead of me.

I always seem to end up at my keyboard in my cluttered yet quaint little office, surrounded by lists, papers and photographs.  Kaley, the dog, will check on me intermittently by pushing her nose under my elbow to remind me that that she is adorable, and indicating that NOW would definitely be a good time for a walk. Failing that, she gets my attention by giving a doggie ‘wooooo’ or happy growl accompanied by the thumping of her tail on the hardwood.  She is rewarded with tummy rubs and compliments.  The cat, not to be ignored, will appear several times during the day making herself known by helpfully walking across my keyboard with her bum and tail in my face, batting pens off my desk or sinking contentedly into my lap which makes typing difficult if not impossible.  Although she will enjoy the pettings, she will eventually leave in a huff for other more stationary and satisfactory beds.

The hours will breeze by while I correspond, research, and graze until darkness creeps in and the remindings by The Gurlz become more insistent.   I will finally dress in normal clothes to brave the outside world on my end of the leash.  But I am stronger, for my respite is complete and my day well spent.  Onward!

I’m very sorry about the long delay since my last blog.  The reason?  NO, I wasn’t out of country, in jail, or intubated in some ICU.  It simply boils down to the gig or two I needed to totally update and present (i.e. those are PAID endeavours) which takes time, energy, focus…. and I always want my blog to be fresh and uncluttered like my mind.  

The idea for this blog arrived in the form of a text message containing a question with the tag, “It never hurts to ask”.  In that case, it surely didn’t.  But I got to thinkin’ about this seemingly innocent statement.  Let’s explore, shall we?

WHEN IT DOESN’T HURT TO ASK:  It seems to me that far too many judgements spring forth from ignorance, so I’m all for curiosity and the quest for knowledge. Questions are of course one of the best ways to find out stuff.  A bonus could be that the enquiries can make the questioned subject feel they are interesting, have something to offer, that they matter.  By all means, ask if you are kind.  Ask to facilitate your understanding.  Ask to communicate caring.  Ask if you can help.  

WHEN IT DOES HURT TO ASK:  The obvious here is when the asking is ill-intentioned for the injurious purposes of trickery, slandering/gossip, or general meanness using information that is none of their business.  Like asking a woman if she is pregnant simply because she has a protuberant abdomen.  That kind of curiosity women all over the world can do without.  I personally am particularly sick of being grilled on “WHY don’t you have children (insert gasp of incredulousness here)?!” as if I were some kind of freak.  Asked gently by someone I care about, I might expound. Some strangers can take a hint with a reply such as “I’m bipetual.  I have a cat and a dog”, or stoney silence accompanied by a blank stare and a bit of drooling.  Others require intervention of a tougher sort.  In my experience, 99% of the those who would NOT cease interrogation were angry that I had successfully dodged inclusion in their Obviously Miserable Parents Club.  My lifestyle, not theirs.  Their problem, not mine.

My responses have ranged from changing the subject (with kind-hearted grannies), making a joke (“I was always afraid I’d leave the baby on the bus”), returning the volley (“Why don’t you lose 50 pounds?”) to varying levels of fiction depending on how pushy & inappropriate they continued to act.  That’s right, in extreme cases I didn’t hesitate to lie to get those clowns off my back.  If these strangers are that unkind or obtuse, I care not if they are upset or offended.  After all, I will never see them again.  And if I did, it substantially decreases their chances of haranguing me yet again.   I admit I have told people I had been born without a uterus.  Had cancer. That I needed a second mortgage to pay for failed IVF.  (I drew the line at revealing I was a sterile hermaphrodite – but don’t push me!) I even felt it necessary once to describe fictitious gynaecological  symptomalogy in gory detail (suffice it to say that not only am I a seasoned ER nurse with experience in such matters, but I also have an excellent imagination) until they turned away in nauseated disgust.

My point?   If your motivation doesn’t include kindness, mind your own beeswax.

RANT WARNING!

I have spent most of this week dealing with a certain as-yet-to-be-identified-but-don’t-put-it-past-me mortgage company in order to make changes to my house title.  Their telephone info person said FIRST SEND US $350 (cheque only), then they would send out an application form within 5 business days.   Expedited delivery ($14.43) apparently got it there quickly as the cheque was cashed within 2 days.

By 8 business days, I had received nothing so called their line again.  It took 28+ minutes to answer, transfer, hold, and to speak with a real live person (Does this sound familiar to you?) who emailed me the application package within the hour.  They wanted:

• My 2014 T4
• 2 recent paystubs
• Verification Work Letter (If I’m being paid regularly, doesn’t that imply that I am employed?  Yes, this is foreshadowing)
• Proof my property taxes weren’t in arrears
• Copy of my lawyerly document (all 30 pages, hitherto referred to as The Document) which contains exquisitely detailed financial information practically down to how much I spend on toothpaste.
• FULLY filled out 4 page (redundant) Application Form

Like a good doobee, I locate/request all the various papers, including extras for my 2nd job (two letters, two T4’s, four paystubs), complete the application for a mortgage I already have.  Scanning of the above compilation takes an hour, and the large files had to be sent via 10 separate emails.

The reply from “Jeff” (yes, his real name) claimed some files weren’t received, and further needed a 2013 T4 from my casual job employer.  Duly sent.

My ‘missing’ files eventually find their way to Jeff (probably via carrier pigeon or perhaps the most recent edition of Financial Hacking For Dummies), but it matters not – he didn’t really read them judging by his questions. He asked where I was getting the funds to pay out?  Cheeky Bastard, I think.  I refer him to The Document instead of a reading retention class which he clearly needs.

Jeff replies that he didn’t see said pages, now wants MY BANK STATEMENTS.  By this time, I wonder if he’ll soon ask for some naked photos and the name of my first pet. Smoke seeps from my ears and out the window.  I’m briefly concerned that a neighbour might call 911 figuring my office is on fire.

I refer him specifically to Page 19 of The Document, and snark, “If you must know, I’m paying with (The Source).”  Next email Jeff wants a copy of that too!  I count to 4,582 before sending that statement, re-refer Jeff  to Page 19 where all of this freaking information has been from the beginning, and point out that The Source amount will more than cover everything and that I know someone who can size him up for some cement overshoes.  ANYTHING ELSE?  (OK, I didn’t mention the shoes or use shouty capitals but I really really wanted to).

Jeff wisely ignores my e-outburst, but sends me an attachment with:

1. A full page of instructions for me and for my lawyer
2. An agreement letter which outlines again the (unchanged) mortgage parameters that has to be witnessed.   It contains a giant error.
3. A preauthorization agreement with all my banking information THAT THEY HAVE ALREADY BEEN USING FOR YEARS plus a voided cheque.
4. A form listing my solicitors contact information

By this time, my eyes are bulging from my skull, I’m rapidly developing an aneurism, and lockjaw is setting in.  I experience fleeting joy by pointing out the error and commenting that I need not fill out/return Item 3.  But noooooo, Jeff needs me TO COMPLETE IT AGAIN but he doesn’t need a cheque.  What a prince.

All of this to take 3 words off my mortgage title and for the privilege of paying them money. The total?  So far, 19 days, 26 emails, $364.43, a trip to the Post Office, > 2 hours scanning & emailing, bleeding scalp where chunks of hair have pulled out, many expletives, a new printer cartridge, a query fractured toe stubbed moving back and forth between scanner and desk, and an appointment with a psychiatrist.  All in hopes maybe, just maybe I WILL BE APPROVED FOR A MORTGAGE I ALREADY PAY.

I never thought I would look back fondly on the ’80’s when, as a young woman (then legally referred to as The Spinster Stevenson) with little or no savings, simply asked for & received a mortgage for an amount almost twice the size of the one I pay now.  Let’s hear it for progress!

A clean house is a sign of a clean mind.  Or is it a neat desk means a vacant mind…?  In any case, I would agree with what that theory suggests because I cannot concentrate on any writing or other work in my office if the kitchen is a disaster.  Even though I can’t see it from my desk.  Why is that?

I can’t help but admire the effortless elegance, flow and ambience evident in fine furniture show rooms, the last few minutes of home improvement programs, and especially in Ikea catalogues.  I long for that perfect balance of functionality, organization and serenity in my living spaces.

However, at Chez Bev’s, the sheer volume of pet hair produced by my much-loved animals has destroyed not one but two vacuum cleaners, and could potentially result in the creation of a new puppy every week if I only knew how to knit.  My freshly washed floors stay clean for maybe five whole minutes, and I don’t wander barefoot in the dark for fear of stepping in yet another cold puddle of coagulated animal barf.  I adore my pets, but I’d also like my house to whisper, “Relax here” instead of “DYSON!  WHERE ARE YOU!?”

I would classify my style as Suburban Lived-In, which is somewhere between Minimalist and Hoarder.  I can’t stand clutter, yet I leave many larger items out in plain view because they serve a valuable function.  Sometimes the items present a REMINDER of important things before my brain is fully operational (read: before 8 AM).  Take the coffee maker, mug, and work thermos trio for example.  These daily-used objects live clustered together in the middle of my counter and therefore are unsightly and annoyingly in the way.  I developed this habit after one morning years ago when I found my entire lower half soaked in hot liquid as soon as I lifted my backpack on.  The problem (luckily I hadn’t soiled myself) was closing off the coffee thermos using just the CUP top without the TWISTY leak-prevention part.  Hence, prominently displaying all thermos bits prevents me from repeating that performance.  I guess I should cancel my request to join MENSA while I’m at it.

My office is in much, much worse shape than the kitchen.  Imagine two trays piled high with crinkled receipts, several lists on scrap paper, a box labelled Computer Stuff, a kitty mug with various writing utensils crammed inside, several stand-up folder holders, and an old-fashioned bulletin board crowded with push-pinned notes for my as-yet unfinished novel.  And the piles and piles of ….. well, uh, PILES.  One heap has Urgent Stuff in it (so I don’t miss a deadline).  Another mound contains Getting-Closer-to-the-Time-I-Might-Need-It papers.  I even have a pile of Just-Kind-Of-Interesting-Don’t-Want-To-Forget-This-Stuff!  I have Gardening Piles, Reno Piles, Financial Piles AND files!  The topper is a giant paper daytimer (what if a sudden internet catastrophe wiped out my phone schedule?) with its own obscure system of coloured highlighting, pencil and pen notations depending on the type and firmness of the appointment. I see now that my organization ‘system’ evolved from missed item paranoia.

The surprise winner of the Calm Room Award is My Beautiful Bathroom.  Still uncluttered since its renovation in 2010, it’s sleek lines, roomy functionality and cool colour palette can bring me down from any hypomanic state.  It is easily the nicest room in my home and for a short period after its facelift, I was even serving drinks in there to show it off!  The toilet tank is a great place to keep white wine chilled, but there is limited seating available.  Alas, that’s not where I spend the bulk of my time.

No – lately I can be found either enjoying my deck, or sprawled on the saggy couch in front of the dusty coffee table with a snoring dog scrunched in between, and with a contentedly purring cat draped over me.  I can’t be bothered with haute design if it means I have to get off the sofa and disturb my pals.

I spend a LOT of time on the city bike path system especially around the Glenmore Reservoir (aka ‘The Rez’) and  the Fish Creek area.  So much time, in fact, that my trusty 15-year-old mountain bike could probably do the route itself given the chance.  My good rides often result in a quick time fuelled by arguments in my head with people who irk me (which I always win).  My most enjoyable rides occur when I’m alone with my thoughts and nature.

I know where the best wild bee balm meadow is and where I’ll see the most blanket flowers.  I’m familiar with where to expect flitting yellow warblers, and where a merganser family replaced the loon gang near the water’s edge.  I enjoy watching the South American swallows swirl around their birdie condominiums that they build each year under one of the bridges.  I’ve named the mallards who putter around on the beaver pond in the Weaselhead leaving trails on its colourful algae ‘skin’.  Only once have I gleaned a fleeting look at one of the shy beavers before he dove into the coagulated green water.  I laugh when I see his giant toothy marks on the man-made wooden supports at the path’s edge.  I have witnessed several deer, but only one spotted fawn with her mom heading into the safety of the aspens just last week.  My bear interaction has luckily been limited to recognizing his scat only – in the middle of the pathway.  Didn’t he know he was supposed to go in the woods?

One day near Woodbine, a passing cyclist yelled “BIG CAT!”  I was stunned into stopping where I saw a beautiful wild cat calmly staring back at me.  My silent awe was shattered by a fireman yelling, “M’am.  Uh, M’AM!  Her kitten is up a tree over here, so maybe you’d like to be on your way”.  Oops.

I see lots of dogs in the off-leash areas.  Big dogs, little dogs, hairy dogs, dogs chasing balls, rolling in the mud, playing with their doggie buddies.  Mostly their owners are a good bunch, but there’s a few who mistake OFF LEASH for Canine Right of Way.  Safety first!  Interestingly, I find the pooches pay more attention to my bell-dinging than the owners do.

Speaking of PEOPLE (!), my unofficial survey clearly revealed that only about half of cyclists wear helmets, and of those only 80% have it on correctly with the strap fastened.  While kids are compliant (it’s the law), parents often aren’t.  I wonder about the dubious rationale of the lone parent pulling a Chariot with a (helpless) toddler inside.  As an ER nurse, I am dumbfounded by those who won’t protect themselves from drooling on a pillow for the rest of their lives.  Evidence of path danger is made obvious by the presence of large bloodstains, rubber skid marks and battered railings on the steep sections.

I confess I don’t understand why path strollers obviously not at ‘the game’ insist on wearing often ill-fitting sports jerseys emblazoned with athlete’s names on the backs.  I get the fan part, but… um, is it necessary to show your preference off to park attendees?  I mean, I don’t wear a giant jersey with AVOCADO written on it in block letters.

In closing, several burning rez questions come to mind:

1. Why do pedestrians on this well-signed bike path system seem so freakishly surprised when they see…. a BIKE?
2. Has the beaver pond ever been used to hide a body?  It is so foul-smelling and coagulated with green and red slime from early in the season that no one’s diving in to check.
3. Has anyone else noticed that the contour of the rez is eerily similar to the anatomy of a stomach?

     

I guess that’s just me.  🙂

This weekend’s conversation with my gal pal revolved around her recent frustrations dealing with the fellows she hired to rebuild the deck at her condo.  My friend is no slouch; she has studied engineering, business, and project management.  Not only that, she is well travelled, well read, personable, successful.  And on her own (Read: No Man To Give Directions).

She did her homework;  she researched the most recent condominium rules, took measurements, and worked out the exact design she wanted using features created by a landscape designer the last time she built a deck at a different unit at the same complex years previously.  She drew out the plan, emailed and explained it to the two gentlemen who would be doing the work.  She also insisted that they look at her previous deck to get ‘a visual’ on how it would work & look.  Everyone on the same page as they say. But did they look at the plans carefully?  Did they listen to her?  I’m afraid not. Errors were made. Big ones.  Only then, reluctantly, did they agree to view the other property mumbling and dragging their feet. Like they were doing her a favour.

It seems to me that still in the year 2015 women have only a few ‘roles’ available to them when dealing with (primarily male) labourers or salespeople:

1. The Silly Little Woman:  Nice but dumb.  This woman is pleasant and cooperative (as women are trained to be) but ill-equipped to complain even if she sees something is desperately wrong.  Or if she does complain in her nice way, she is ignored or treated with condescension, “Don’t worry, Dear.  We know what we’re doing.  Don’t you worry.” No one takes her seriously.  She is often subject to subpar work or overcharging because “she’ll never know the difference.”
2. The Slut:  (Do I really have to explain this one?)  Appearing vacuous, she uses her sexuality (and possibly free time on the meter) to get attention and good rates.  Do men really still fall for this one & why can’t some women quit acting like this?
3. The Bitch:  She is unpopular because she is perceived as pushy, obnoxious & difficult to deal with.  She definitely doesn’t dish out tea and cookies like The Silly Little Woman might.   The Bitch usually gets her way, mostly because no one wants to be subjected to her wrath as she’s also not afraid to call a spade a spade (or a f’ing shovel) in a direct confrontation. However, she can suffer poor follow up or miss out on deals or upgrades because she’s disliked.  Interestingly, this label could be an improper perception by insecure workers who might be threatened by her knowledge and assertiveness.  She is made to be the problem so workers look good. In actual fact, she could be….
4. The Educated Individual:  She is smart, direct, polite.  Often (in the experience of my friends and I), men can feel very threatened by her intelligence or confidence.  Their egos all in a knot, they argue, override, put down. They have to be better than her, and heaven forbid she’s right (they would never admit it).  Bingo – imagine my friend’s picture here.

I’ll bet some men have major difficulties with similar situations sometimes.  Why can’t we all just deal on the same page (and the same font) without all these judgements and egos plugging up the works?  Can someone PLEASE come up with a better system?  And then let me know about it before I need to buy another vehicle.

There I was today, sitting minding my own business innocently typing away at the computer researching which kind of tree or shrub I should plant next to my garage.  As an avid gardener, I had the basics of soil type and sun exposure figured out, and knew which zone to pick from to ensure the thing wouldn’t die in Calgary’s strange climate.  I thought a boxwood would be nice.  Sounds simple, right?

To start, there were about thirty nurseries to pick from in my area.  Which was best? And how could I tell it from the ones that paid to have their ads appear first?  And pictures.  I needed pictures!  After checking reviews, I settled on a site, dug through alphabetical lists of common plant names vs Latin ones before zeroing in on boxwoods, excited that I was closing in on the finish line… until I saw there were no less than ten different types of boxwoods!  By then it was almost lunch time, I was suffering a pulverizing headache and ready for a cocktail.  Why couldn’t there be a system for plant purchasing like Kayak is to travel?

I mentioned in an earlier blog that I recently painted my house.  Good thing I had that caper planned since last fall, leaving me plenty of time to choose from myriad colour palettes (not pilates as spell check wanted to say) finding exactly the right paint type and hue to compliment the new deck covering.  The winner also had to be visually compatible with the available siding for the garage.  I quickly realized I was a Siding Ignoramus.  I had been totally unaware that siding came in such a variety of colours, costs, shapes, sizes and textures.  And then there was the matter of choosing stone accents that would blend in with all of the above.  About five minutes before spring, I gave up figuring how to coordinate who was going to install what and when.  I thank my lucky stars for an honest contractor.

This all got me to thinking about how difficult it must be for young people trying to choose a career these days.  How on earth do they do it?  It was tough enough all those years ago when I was starting out.  To be honest, I kind of skipped over the research part of pinpointing where I would spend many thousands of future working hours.  While taking General Studies, I hoped that some kind of inspiration would strike.  It did – sort of –  in the form of a statement made over the telephone.  My friend, Jennifer, announced that she was enrolling in the nursing program.  “If you don’t need math, I’m in.”  Thus it was settled.  (Don’t try this at home, kids).

Why can’t most reasonable decisions be as easy as whether to add the lime to the gin BEFORE the tonic or after?

Hi all,

You’re probably wondering what happened there with that last post – WORK IN PROGRESS.

No, I wasn’t drinking!  I hit the *^&$ publish button prematurely.  Error Error!

See what happens when I get too excited and try to compose 2 blogs in 1 weekend?

Sorry for the confusion.

I hope the ‘regularly scheduled’ blog will come out on time and reading better than that one.

Please continue with your regularly scheduled activities!

Beve