Thursday, April 25, 2013

Bold, Restless Extremes

Today I wore red pants, a red sweater and a bright orange BIG BAG, with black flats.

Taken together with my white hair, it's a pretty edgy presentation.

-You look like Doris, he said.
-Really?  My mother-n-law????
-Yeah, she wore a lot of red.

Hubby is Conservative, with a capital C, especially in regards to clothes, mine, and particularly his own.  The number one go-to items in his wardrobe are several, identical pairs of black jeans.  Top that with a button-down, heavily starched shirt and he's done.  It's a uniform--every day, every venue, every agonizing avoidance of change.

For my part, colour, style, texture, comfort and cost are all considerations when it comes to choosing what to wear and the more variety the better, in my book.  It's an ongoing issue. 

-oooo...try this.  It would look amazing on you, I suggest.  He doesn't even look at whatever it might be.

-You're not going to wear THAT, are you?  It's sooooo...(choose one:) short, see-thru, clingy, revealing, loud, strange, he worries when he see's me dressed for an outing.

Between us there exists a tension between opposite extremes in the world of fashion.  It's been push and pull for the past many years and it's getting worse.  He is more set in his ways, and I am getting bolder.  At my age, why not risk a bit of flare?  At his age, why bother? 

Under the banner of "live and let live", we are "dressing and wearing".  Personal preferences are allowed free expression.  Every once in a while, for State and Holy Occasions, we pull out all the stops and make a pretty good-looking, well-put-together couple, if I do say so myself.  Can't wait for our portrait at an upcoming wedding to prove my point.

What's it like at your house?  Are there discussions of what people are going out to be seen in?  Do you agree to disagree, or are there real battles?  Do tell!

Saturday, April 20, 2013


I was ... what?  Five years old?  My family's house was just three blocks down the road from the high school.  A massive structure in the eyes of one so young, it had a curved, ground-floor classroom on the northeast end which housed "the little kids".  It amazes me the hodge-podge of specific memories I have from my one year association with that place.

There I am, the blondie beside the teacher, in the upper right corner.
(This is actually nursery school, because I couldn't find one of Kindergarden.)

I can still picture the colourful, crib-size blankets spread out, side by side, on the floor and me trying to keep my eyes closed, lay still and not fidget.  Nap time came at some point in my day/half day in the tender clutches of ...

Miss Parslow, the teacher, 

(read:  "GOD").  My mother reports that during their first parent-teacher interview, my dear teacher said to her:  -I won't believe everything I hear about you if you don't believe everything you hear about me.

The triangle and striker was my favourite instrument during "band".  What delightful cacophony it produced!

On group excursions to the bathroom down the hall from our classroom, I was fascinated by the bay-style, pedal-operated sink that sent beautiful fountain-streams of water in a semi-circle.  How many times did Miss Parslow have to cajole me to -leave it now, let's go!

I remember my younger brother clutching my mother's leg and weeping silently on visitors' day, as they sat outside our circle of happy, shining faces singing lusty verses of The Farmer in the Dell.  It would be his turn soon to start attending, but he was less than impressed with the glories of education.

Was I the only one brave/stupid/loud enough to beg for the responsibility of the class mascot over the Easter vacation that year?  I will never forget the tickling sensation on my fingers and thumb as he scrabbled valiantly to escape my clutches while I held him upside-down under the running water at the kitchen faucet as Mum and I cleaned his bowl.

-I'm not touching that thing!  You pick him up, she instructed. When I dropped the wee beastie into the sink, surprised and somewhat shocked at his antics, we all screamed--not that we could actually hear the turtle screaming over Mum's loud protestations -This is the VERY LAST TIME I EVER....!!!!!!!

There are a few, very few, memories from when I was three and four, which explain my abhorrence of bananas and a delicious delight in cutting hair, but that's about it on Kindergarden for me.  I am sure some very happy living came between then and Grade Three, but I seem to draw a blank on the next two years of my life.  

How about you?  What memories, happy or sad, can you recall from your early childhood?  

Friday, April 12, 2013

April Showers Bring May Flowers

First off, I just have to say, it's soooooo good to be land-based again to get super-fast, readily available internet service.  The past three months have been a challenge for blogging.  Yippee!  My pictures are uploading in seconds as opposed to half an hour for each one.

Now that I am home, it is supposed to be Spring in Ontario.  Someone forgot to update Mother Nature's date book.  She has tantalized us with a couple of delightful, sunny days, but for the most part, she keeps thinking it's still winter.  Here I am with a killer sun tan, but nobody can see it buried under layers and layers of clothes, shoes, socks, scarves, gloves, coats ... you get the picture.

I am trying my best to bring spring colours indoors, where they won't freeze and die overnight.  Check out this huge bouquet of pink beauties!

Our living room chairs are decked out in bright accents to liven up the place.

Captain B's pet fish is colourful, but bashful.  He really didn't like the whole flash photography thing!

They are not edible, but these glass cherries remind me that spring will surely come soon.

See, I really am trying to think Spring,


My Christmas Cactus is still thinking winter!

How is the weather treating you in your neck of the woods?  Are you out in your gardens, enjoying the lawn chairs on your decks, firing up the BBQ?

Bruce, if you are still reading and don't have a google account yet, you can leave a comment here by checking the anonymous box and just sign your name at the end of your comment.  I love getting feedback on my blog.  Unfortunately, I've been royally spammed all winter and have had to fall back on the dreaded word verification ritual.  Sigh....

Happy Wet Weekend to you, My Blogging Buddies!  Until next time....

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

There's No Place Like Home

I feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, repeating over and over again, "There's no place like home.  There's no place like home.  There's no place like home," as she turns in slow circles, trying for a balance, a way to peace, a way through the maze of her life, trying to go home.

My life is like a maze.  For three months of the year, I am a sailor, living on a 47 foot boat, sometimes in the sunshine and glory of the Caribbean at its best, and sometimes in the teeth of a gale, sea sick and miserable.  For three and a half months of the year, I am hanging out in blueberry heaven in the state of Maine, playing in the fog, making friends, taking pictures and harvesting muscles.  For 6 and a half months of the year, I tour Canada, from Ontario to Alberta, to British Columbia and back again, with a little gardening thrown in, and always, the reorganizing of cupboards and closets.

When there's been a recent transition, as when I made it home to Ontario this week, I feel like Dorothy:  Where am I?  Where do I belong? I want to go home.   When I wake up to pee in the middle of the night, I have a difficult time navigating around the boat, when in fact I am in the dark, in my house.  Oh right!  There's a door there!!!  Ouch!!!!!!!

Thomas Wolfe wrote the great American Classic "You Can't Go Home Again" in 1947.  His premise was that we change and "move on" when we leave home.  Everyone at home changes and moves on too while we are gone.  Nothing is ever the same when we turn up on our old home turf after any extended absence.  This is my life.  Ladies and Gentlemen, the life and times of Rosemary-The-Gad-About has a down side.  This is it:  I'm turning in circles, looking for a way home.