Category: Joy

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Garbage

Many years ago I was living with a fellow and we were both very busy and tired people.

I was in University at the time and struggling. I was not a youngster as far as University students go, I was in my late 20’s. I know, young, but I was in over my head taking biology. I’d been out of school a long while. There were many late nights.

My boyfriend was a real estate agent, and in those days, business was booming.

One morning, bleary eyed, we collected the trash and headed to the elevator to leave for the day, me to school, my friend to the office.

We stood at the elevator, in silence, waiting for it to arrive.

You know, when you are really beat, you can have a moment where your brain goes to another place, or shuts off entirely and you do something totally absurd and it seems perfectly fine.

When the elevator arrived and the doors slid open, my friend, with trash bags in hand, threw them into the elevator, to a much surprised passenger, and we waited for the doors to close.

I looked at my friend, and he looked at me, and we suddenly realized what had just happened.

Shame faced, we took the stairs out.

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Body Identity

I have watched a lot of videos about animals that are disabled and how they live their lives. One in particular gave me a lot of pause for thought.

A beautiful cat with no front legs and hops around like a kangaroo, plays, rolls, head butts, gives chase and does all the things my cat does and has just as much joy. And he doesn’t seem to notice that he is any different than any other cat. He is unaware. Problem? What problem?

How can that be?

And then I realized it is because they are not identified as their body. They are a cat. It does not matter the body. They are cat no matter what their body looks like.

So what does it mean to be human?

Who am I other than my body?

Women are heavily identified with their appearance, so it is not an easy question to answer. We have been taught from the moment we arrive on this planet that our appearance determines our future, our success, our ability to win at life.

The gift of me getting older is this, my body no longer cooperates with my efforts to remain attractive.

It says, ponder that message from the kangaroo cat. He has the answer. He knows the secret.

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I Don’t Have To Go Out

All the familiar sounds of winter.

Snow plows clearing the parking lot and streets.

Tires spinning on icy pavement.

People scraping an inch or two thickness of ice from their windshields.

The silence of no bus coming.

The deadly silence of no train coming.

The north wind howling and angrily shaking my windows.

Ice pellets clunking on my balcony.

Me making another pot of tea, munching a shortbread cookie.

Hey look, I’ve spent most of my life battling winter trying to get to jobs I hated. Long commutes. LONG commutes. Hours to go a couple of kilometers. Non existent buses. Walking miles. Freezing. Hungry. Tired. Wet. Miserable!

So I don’t have to go out now. I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.

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Pencils

My cat has a homing device for pens, pencils and most anything else resembling these things. Like plastic pipettes, ink bottle droppers, makeup brushes, tweezers, you name it.

The more expensive it is the better.

All artist supplies are expensive. If he can’t haul them away, he’ll chew them on the spot.

I have some very expensive pencils. I have to keep them in drawers and hidden away or suffer the consequences. I’ve watched him on occasion, he will carefully select the pencil he desires from my pencil holders. Not just any pencil will do.

Then he runs off with it and hides it. I don’t always find them, even when I give chase. He is quick and clever!

He professes innocence when I do find the pencil much later but he can’t hide the evidence; the pencil end sports many puncture wounds.

Some people don’t believe it is the cat, they say it is me chewing them.

But it is the cat, I swear.

He never eats them, thank goodness – I can’t imagine the lead or ink would be too healthy, and what a mess it’d make!

So he is not totally destructive. Just mischievous!

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Casts

Writing about my adventure with crutches, reminded me of an adventure with casts. A cat in a cast that is.

We had a tabby cat, one of many while I was growing up, and in those days, pets were free to explore the neighborhood and do whatever they pleased. Occasionally a dog might get loose too. No one was upset about it, usually.

Anyhow, our cat had an unfortunate encounter with a dog. Fortunately my Mom saw it and saved the cat. But the dog had broken the cats hind leg.

My Mom was only 4 feet 5 inches tall, but man, you did not mess with her. And when she wanted something, you were going to comply, or die.

The cat sported a cast for a long while, which kept us awake at nights. As we all know, cats love to torture their owners (they have a diabolical streak) and he would run up and down the stairs and across the kitchen floor, all night long. Thump, thump, thumpety, thump!

Now, back to Mom. She wasted no time finding out whose dog that was that committed this crime and the owners were going to pay the vet bill. And get a piece of her mind too.

The dog belonged to a world famous photographer that lived by the river near us.

With me in tow, we marched straight over there.

The woman, I presume it was the photographers wife, tried very, very hard not to part with any money for any vet bill. At first she invited us into her home and immediately regretted it, as Mom was not going to take any shit from her!

It was an awesome home. I’ll admit that.

I don’t know if Mom got the money but the cat got better. Eventually we all got some sleep.

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Crutches

Over the 2020 Christmas holidays I sprained my foot and had to dust off some crutches I got several years ago. Many times I thought I should get rid of those crutches, but was awfully glad I hadn’t.

It was a memorable Christmas, as was most of 2020, not in a totally good way, as my bathtub was also backed up from December 22nd into the New Year, as no one wants to come and deal with that during the holidays. Sigh. So I took a shower and afterwards, sat on the toilet and bailed my bath water from tub to sink. Picture that.

2020 had it all man.

Anyhow.

As I hobbled around my house, I remembered my ill fated introduction to these crutches.

They are beautiful, extremely light weight aluminum, as light as a feather. But crutches, I have discovered, could weigh 500 pounds, because it is not so much the weight of them to consider, as the effort required to use them to propel yourself.

In my infinite wisdom, I decided to use them one day at work, replacing the cane I normally employ for a hurt leg. Typical me, whatever works in a small situation is bound to work in a grander circumstance. So just shuffling from my office chair to the bathroom a couple of times convinced me I could do greater things.

I launched myself to the library at lunch, because when I was well I had no trouble going the few blocks there, a mere 5 to 10 minute walk. I swung merrily along like those mechanical monkeys on bars I’d seen as a kid.

When I got to the library, I had one of those moments where I was sure I was about to die.

I collapsed on the nearest bench in the foyer, sweat bursting from my every pore, my heart pounding like tribal drums. I desperately needed to lie down on the floor and wanted to moan, loudly, like those professional wailers at funerals. All I could do was put my face in my hands and cry.

Using crutches demands that you be in some kind of decent physical shape before you try to go miles with them. The physical exertion is unbelievable!

At least I forgot about my hurt leg for a while.

And, I still had to go back to work. How the hell was I going to carry library books anyhow? Duh! I was just so enthusiastic about going to the place I love.

I opted to drag my poor leg back to the office and carry the darn crutches.

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Bare Face

It has now been 10 months since I’ve worn makeup.

Not that I miss it.

When I was young, I wore makeup to enhance my looks. When I was older, I wore it to cover up my looks.

But now, who cares.

I’ve been out of work since we closed the office in mid March 2020, so I put away the mascara and blush and concealer and whatnot.

No more poisons on my face. Just look at the ingredients in those things! I tried at one time to make my own cosmetics from natural stuff and failed miserably.

My cat could care less what I look like, as long as the food dish is full and the litter box pooh free.

I have no idea how to do skype or zoom so no worries about what I look like. And I’m a senior, no matter what you plaster on my face. I don’t get asked for ID at the store on Seniors day. Mascara, concealer and blush ain’t gonna fool them 20 somethings at the cash.

Makeup won’t catch me a 20 year old for a fling. It’d kill me anyways.

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Oh Danny Boy!

I am teaching myself to play piano and am now learning the song Danny Boy, and it instantly reminded me of a incident that was quite hilarious. Whenever I play or hear this song, I have a partner in my head. An old lady at the library.

At lunch when I was working, I would often go to the library. I usually had quite a few books on hold to pick up and an equal amount to return.

One day as I entered the library I spotted a woman I used to know from a previous job at a senior’s center. She had been a member there.

So I approached her to say hello.

It was noon, so the library entrance was filled with patrons and staff.

This lady remembered me, I think, but she had other things on her mind. She asked me if I knew where she could get the lyrics and music score for the song Danny Boy. I pointed to the information desk and suggested she ask them.

She grabbed my arm and said, “Do you know the song Danny Boy?”

Before I could say a word, she launched into singing Danny Boy, at the top of her lungs to a very surprised crowd and a very shocked me.

Everyone stopped what they were doing. I think time stopped. She dug her fingers into my arm so I could not escape.

There were baffled looks. Amused looks. Angry looks. So many looks directed at us.

She sang the WHOLE damn song, full blast, TWICE.

And then she just walked away from me, my bruised arm and audience like it never happened.

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Iron Steam

Because my Dad was an Engineer, inventor, handy man and all round creative person, we often had some interesting things in our home.

We had a basement that was really a workshop, an inventors palace. Oh, how I miss that!

One item housed there was a white metal monster, an iron steam roller. Not the kind to flatten your laneway. This flattened your clothes. It was a steam press. It was BIG.

Isn’t it strangely comforting that such weird things as an unwieldly machine can evoke such sweet memories of our youth and home?

It was awesome.

I loved using that machine. I hate ironing, so this thing was a teenagers dream (in those days pressed clothes were a BIG deal), My Mom pressed everything however, and that was a bit overwhelming. Like me, many of my childhood friends had mothers who ironed their underware, some even their shoelaces! Well, my Mom just ran them through the white behemoth in the basement while others slaved and sweated over hot irons.

These beasts still exist, and work! If I were ever to take up domestic engineering (no future plans for that!) I would get a modern steam press. But there is something wonderful lost in the new ones. I’d miss the big cotton cloth roller, the gleaming metal press, those long metal bars to hang your clothes on. The joy of seeing your clothes disappear under the steel cover as they were rolled away to reappear underneath all beautifully pressed.

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Permission Granted

Oh the burden of being an adult! So many important things to do. Important things I hate doing, that I feel I must do. Be a responsible adult stuff.

I am deep in the throes of such adult non-entertainment when my cat throws his favourite toy up into the air and starts a frantic play time.

Do I sit and scowl this time? Like so many other times?

Or do I take the invitation to play and join him? Hell yes!

So we run around the apartment in a merry chase until he tells me he’s had enough.

I know you’ve got that toy!

I am busy doing more adult crap when I see the sun is setting. Do I just take note of it this time? No. I make myself comfortable on the couch and watch the whole sun set episode, and when it is dark, I tune into the dark channel, the city lights and traffic and watch that for an hour.

Sometimes I just sit and watch joyous things until my face hurts from smiling so much.

I used to be so busy. So serious. I had my priorities all screwed up. I did tons of what I dislike and had a miniscule amount of joy. Never stopped to have joy for no reason. Joy is its own reason.

I wasted so much of my life making others happy and/or rich.

Now I play with cat.

Now I play my piano and flute.

I’m not a very impressive cat.

Now I just be silly.

Permission granted.