Adventures on the lawn

You know those days when you go past angry, take a right turn at crazy and force yourself to land on laughter so that no one gets murdered?

That was my yesterday, mowing my mother's massive lawn, or more accurately, trying to mow the lawn. I go there on Thursdays in the summer, so the lawn's done for the weekend. The last few weeks, my Moppets have been visiting; nieces and nephew tearing around the farm on a tiny tractor. A camera just can't capture the delight on their faces at the wheel.

Have you ever had that feeling when you're closing the door of your car and you suddenly realize, deep in your bowels, that your keys are inside? That's the frisson I had as I sat on the seat of the lawn tractor and put my hand on the key, the key that was NOT in the off position.

Yes, some little twerp, or possibly my mother, had left the key on, the life draining from the battery since it was parked.

"No problem," I thought to myself, "I'll just roll the tractor backwards, out of the shed, use my trusty jumper cables to boost the battery, and we'll be in business!"

Not so much.

Now, I'm generally a fan of safety features; my car doesn't move without the seatbelts being done up, I wear a helmet to ride my bike. But I'm not sure a safety feature that means a lawn tractor can't be rolled either forwards or backwards when the battery is dead makes much sense. There was a lot of grunting and groaning as I tried to depress the clutch/brake with one hand and push the tractor backwards out of the shed. Yes, I fell down. Twice.

So, a dead battery, the tractor deep in the shed, facing away from the door and no way to move it out. Into the shed I bring my car, open the hood and... where is the battery? I got a new car a year ago and have yet to need to boost it or use it for boosting.

There is no battery visible under the hood of my car. There's a fan-type thing, a place to put the washer fluid, many other things I don't understand and lots of heat, but no battery. It's a European car, same as my neighbour's, so I decide to look in the trunk, where his was when we boosted him a few weeks ago.

To get to the boot, I remove grocery bags, emergency equipment, a jack, washer fluid, mittens a blanket and snow brush, (see? Safety first...) only to discover the blessed battery is not in there, either!

The owner's manual is not of much assistance, but I finally figure out the battery is tucked inside a case behind a doored panel just below the windshield, on the passenger side, a lucky break because my jumper cables are not very long. I maneuver the car into the shed, as close as possible to the stupid tractor, hook up the cables, and voila, the tractor starts! It's like magic!

I figure I can leave the machine running while I remove the car, and get on with the job at hand, but safety got in the way again. There's a switch of some sort in the seat of the lawn tractor, which shuts down the engine if there's not enough weight on it. It's quite frustrating for my niece, who's not quite heavy enough yet to keep the motor running.

Two large chunks of wood wrestled from a far corner of the shed were not enough to do the trick, sadly, so I sat on that seat, bored silly, for as long as I thought it might take for the engine to restart once it was turned off. I even gave it a try after removing the jumper cables and before moving the car out of the shed, and it worked.

Once the car moved out, the stupid tractor wouldn't start, though, giving a little tiny and pathetic grinding noise before lapsing back into a sulky silence.

At this point, I'm thinking long grass might not be such a bad thing, and since I've been mowing all these years, surely Mom can deal with a scraggly lawn for a few days. She can just call the company that services the blessed vehicle.

Instead, I persevere, bring the car back in, re-hook up the cables, smash my thigh into a random piece of farm equipment nearby, curse like a sailor and sit bored and in pain for an interminable amount of time in the hope that this time, it will be enough to re-start the ding-dang lawnmower.

It worked, finally; I got out there to mow, and the tractor ran for nearly 10 minutes before it sputtered to a halt, out of gas.

sigh.
Of course.

I trudge to the garage, where my mother keeps not one, but two large portable containers of gasoline for this express purpose. Both of which are, as you might have predicted, empty, without gas, useless and as they say, 'drier than a popcorn fart.'

And that's when the zen kicked in. Up to this juncture, I had been alternately determined, annoyed, bemused and angry, but I found myself, with a bruised leg, broken fingernail and an hour behind schedule, bursting into laughter. What else is there to do, really, but load the Jerrycans into the car and fill 'em up? For fifty dollars, I might add, at the nearby farm supply store where the gas is never cheap, of course.

I managed to finish the lawn and it goes without saying that when I looked in the fridge, there was not even one single solitary cold beer waiting for me as a reward.

Burn, babes, burn

I plan to have a good laugh or two this weekend, at my own expense.

Each summer, I spend a weekend with a group of my best girlie buddies at a cottage in Muskoka, solving the world's problems and discussing earthy matters. Oh, who am I kidding, we drink and dance and swim and suntan and read garbage entertainment magazines on the dock.

A few years ago, one of my friends brought with her the diaries she kept as a teenager. We had a few belly laughs as she read out some of the sillier passages before putting the books into the fire.

This year, there will also be reading, and it will be much sillier. I have challenged my girlyfriends to bring along any old love notes, letters and assorted detritus from their youthful romances. We will read them aloud before depositing them into the flames.

I will bring shoeboxes, the ones stuffed with the letters (yes, on paper, with stamps and everything) from the admittedly very few sweethearts of my past.

I now know why I've kept these things all these years: it's for the comedy!

I'm not exactly sure of the contents of all the letters, but I know there's a poem about my beautiful "blue eyes that sparkle in darkness". Dude, my eyes are green. No wonder we broke up. Another guy's letters tended toward the porny, the 1990s version of sexting, I guess.

I also know somewhere in there is a long lovely tome from a biker dude I went out with twice, but upon whom I clearly made an impression. All I can think of when I think of that guy is my poor, poor father who was so very worried when a scary looking man showed up at the farm to take away his beloved 20 year old daughter, to who knows where. Looking back, I imagine my dad must have been so torn, wanting to give me wings but hoping I did not return with tattoos and a nose ring and who knows what kind of carnal knowledge.

I will not, of course, get rid of the letters written by my high school sweetheart, who is now my husband. Those stay forever. Not just for the comedy. They're for blackmail. Sweetie turns 50 later this year, and there may be another public reading to come.
Insert evil laugh here.

On Tidying Up

If you see me barefoot on the streets or in a yellow pair of overalls in the next little while, blame it on a Japanese lady whose ideas about homekeeping are taking over the first world.

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up has sold more than two million copies even though it's still in hardcover. It's been on the New York Times bestseller list for about two years now.

The theory Marie Kondo posits in her slim book is not about how to make the stuff you have fit more nicely into well-arranged boxes and bags. It's about owning only things that make you happy.

I have taken to heart some of the more practical advice, but I'm having a lot of trouble with the big gesture she recommends. What she says about how best to fold and store clothing in armoires and dressers is indeed life-altering. (why did I never think of this? It's SO perfect!), but I have so far only slightly embraced her ethos of, "gather everything up and throw it all out - except the things that 'spark joy' in you".

That's what she saying: throw out EVERYTHING except those things which make you happy. And: don't buy new stuff unless it thrills you. Kondo suggests gathering up each and every item of clothing from every single closet and cranny, and then choosing what to keep. There's no limit on what to keep except whether the item sparks joy when you touch it. Items to go receive audible thanks for what they brought to your life, and then are shoved into bags and ushered out of your world.

Earlier this year, I did get rid of bags and bags of my 'fat clothes'. More recently, I started getting rid of clothes I no longer like, or which don't make me feel happy. However, as I purge I'm keeping clothes that don't make me unhappy.

The white jeans I loved but which fit well for about five minutes before stretching out to give me what my sweetie calls 'satchel ass': gone. A pink linen suit my mother so lovingly made at my request but which looks exactly like the year it was sewed: 1998: gone. Ill-fitting but expensive suits given by a former friend's mother when I had a 'corporate' job: gone, gone, gone.

The problem is this: my closets are tidier now but they're nearly empty. Seriously, there's just about nothing left. I am keeping three pairs of jeans, three skirts from FIG, two blouses, (also from FIG) one shirt and four dresses (two from FIG - sensing a theme here?) along with my running gear because I know for sure those items make me happy. Nearly everything else I own is on probation. If I continue along this vein, I will have to put my wedding dress into regular rotation, worn with an aging pair of Blundstones, because they are among the very few items which 'spark joy' in me.

The wedding dress and boots are a pretty good look. Just not very practical for mowing the lawn.

Well, That didn't take long

There's a bit of tempest in feminist and social justice circles these days following the introduction to the world of one Caitlyn Jenner, formerly Bruce. There has been a flurry of opinion pieces including one in last weekend's New York Times that has garnered a lot of response. Elinor Burkett's piece about Jenner mused about the implications for feminism of Jenner's coming out, wondering about how one defines womanhood, and whether the new Jenner's arrival on the scene should have been done with scanty clothes and less-scanty makeup and what that says about the state of women's equality or lack thereof.

I note with interest there were very few comments about the lushness of Chaz Bono's beard when the former Chastity Bono came out as a man. There was also little comment on the cut of the suit worn in Bono's official photos.

Now, shortly after the Jenner reveal, a woman in Spokane, Washington is revealed to have been pretending to be black as she led the local chapter of the NAACP. Both of her parents are white, of Czech and Polish descent.

Jenner has been universally applauded for courage and valour in the face of adversity, but Rachel Doelzal? Well, not so much.

The argument being put forward in the Jenner case is that we should call Caitlin a woman and use the pronouns, 'she' or 'her' because she believes herself to be a woman. If you agree with calling Jenner a woman because Jenner feels like a woman, it would follow that you'd have to back Doelzal being black because perhaps she believes herself to be black.

Really, can't everyone just be who they want to be, and it be no skin off anyone else's nose? (pun intended)

Contrary to the view held by Elinor Burkett in the New York Times, I think there IS room for people born male who wish to be known as women, to be known as women. Having more women around doesn't diminish anyone else's womanhood. That said, it saddens me to see Jenner's rather narrow take on femininity: all fluffy hair and fake eyelashes and honestly, was it really necessary to strip down to skivvies for the very first photo?

Taking the he/she argument to the next step, if we're all to present to the world who we really are on the inside, regardless of the circumstances of our birth, what are the implications for race? Be honest with yourself and think it through. Check to see where you land - it might reveal to you some uncomfortable truths about your own prejudices when it comes to race, gender, power and politics.

Unintended Truth

"It's not about you!"

Those were the most chilling words from the CITYnews report that has gone viral this week.

Two of the twerps who were harassing Shauna Hunt as she reported on the Toronto FC game told her, even while they were preparing to shout into her microphone a particularly vulgar phrase about things to do to a woman, it wasn't about her, particularly.

They may have revealed more than they intended, since their shout-out is yet more proof that men and women live in different countries, even in this great country of ours.

The goal of the shout is to take away the woman's power, all women's power, to take away the woman's, all women's, right to be in public, doing her job, any job.

And yes, I've heard that the yells of, "f her right in the p" are also aimed at male reporters sometimes, in a 'bubba boey' kind of frat boy stupidity, but I bet the male reporters take it vastly differently than the female ones do.

If you sat these guys down at a nice dining table to have a real conversation about what they mean when they shout such things in their drunken post-game frenzy, the probably couldn't articulate the fact that deep down, they just really hate women. But in those shouts, they say it loud and clear for all women to hear, live on TV. Unchecked, they tell men it's OK to feel the same way, to put women 'in their place', which is not in the public realm.

It's not just guys being funny. If it were, they wouldn't make reference to the female anatomy.

I'm proud of Hydro One for firing this lout from his 106-thousand dollar job, and I'm proud of Shauna Hunt for finally speaking up to the abusers who harass her as she works even while denying her right to be upset about it.

It's gonna stick

I took a chance on myself this week and it felt really, really good.

I finally got rid of about forty pounds of clothes that no longer fit. And yes, I'm bragging a little when I say, they're all too big.

When I took up running a few years ago, it wasn't very long at all long before most of my clothes started to hang and sag. I'll never forget slipping off what my husband called my, 'good ass pants' without undoing the buttons or zipper, just a few months after buying my first pair of running shoes.

I have now run through two pairs of shoes, and have settled and stayed at about 30 pounds lighter than when I started. However, instead of getting rid of the the clothes, I stored my too-big items in one of those big bins, in a back corner of our jam-packed basement.

Yesterday, finally, prompted by the search for spring sheets and jammies, I sorted through the bin and bags with a girlfriend and what she didn't want was delivered to the Sally Anns.

I don't know that I can accurately describe the feeling of driving away, leaving behind those clothes. I sort of felt like I was leaving behind a version of myself, one that didn't know the joy of such solid legs, a jutting collarbone or donning a bikini without feeling bad.

There was a lightness, a sense of accomplishment and a satisfaction in knowing that not only had I taken control of my weight and health, I have managed to stay where I want to be for all this time, which means I feel capable of staying here as long as I choose to.

For me, getting closer to having the body I want came down to deciding I wanted it more than I wanted certain other things, then deciding to take the steps (for me, strides) to get there.

If you're not happy with your body, it might be that you aren't willing to make the necessary trades to get it. In our busy, connected world, you might not want to trade a few extra minutes playing with your kids or a precious few minutes sleeping in, for exercise. With so many fabulous food choices available to us, you may not want to trade in those tasty tasty burgers or beer for salads or smaller portions. That's perfectly OK; get on with what you would rather do, but do yourself a favour and admit that you have made this trade-off. You'll be happier for it.

Fools for Love

I call her our lifesaver and she was.

I don't pretend that Sweetie and I got a dog for any other reason than to soothe our broken hearts. Early in our marriage, we were the victims in a horrible case of parental alienation, losing contact with a beloved young girl who was bullied, browbeaten and bribed into hating us, particularly me.

I couldn't stand the thought of my sweet man suffering through Christmas without his child, especially after we discovered that the rest of her family had moved, leaving no forwarding address.

We had talked about a dog, fought about what breed would be best (Lab versus Poodle: is there really a question?) and December 4th, 2004, a darling little Weimaraner chose us as we sat cross-legged, surrounded by nine other puppies at a home in Coldwater. She curled up in our respective laps and generally let us know that we were the ones she was prepared to love.

Sweetie said, "Honey, they're all so cute!"

"This one's nice...." I said as I stroked the grey-nose beauty whose drain chain collar had a bead in the shape of a purple flower. Purple Flower it was, and we brought her home that very day, forgetting that we had committed to attend not one, but two Christmas parties that night. We didn't have a bowl, leash or food, a nest or even a plan except an edict from me that there would be, "No dogs in the bed!"

Well, 'no dogs on the bed' lasted about four sleeps, and for the last ten and a half years, Emma Doodles would curl up on top of the covers until I would turn out my light, whereupon she would rise, circle, and we would lift the sheets for her to slip underneath. Most nights, she would rest her chin on my ankles or waist as we drifted off. Many mornings, I would find her tucked along the length of my sweetie's back, her toes touching his and her head on the pillow.

Tuesday afternoon, in our living room, surrounded by her favourite stuffed bunnies and covered in my tears, our friend slipped away after losing the battle with Wobbler's Syndrome, a degenerative disease more common in horses than dogs.

Starting about two years ago, she started to lose her grip on the floor. She was like Bambi on that frozen river with Thumper, feet splaying on the hardwood. We put carpet down the front stairs, got dozens of throw rugs to help keep her feet beneath her and found her a chiropractor. Anti-inflammatories also helped, but did not stop the progression of the dysfunction. We took apart our bed and moved our mattress to the floor when she could no longer jump up onto it.

Wobbler's robbed Emma of her mobility, but not her gentle, sweet spirit. Even the day she left us, she was still rubbing her head against me in a loving greeting when I came home and rushed over to nuzzle her neck. But she could no longer walk or stand after a fall while trying to climb into her favourite chair last Thursday. For five days, we lugged her 70-pound failing body to the backyard a dozen times a day, but she got weaker and weaker and we finally let her go.

Today, all those throw rugs are in a heap in the laundry room, we've taken our mattress back upstairs, the toys are put away and I can leave my tights on the bedroom floor if I want to with no fear they will be chewed up and barfed out. We will reassemble the bed sometime in the days to come. I can now leave the lid up on the toilet and food on the counter and Sweetie doesn't have to put puppy pads at the front door.

I also realize I no longer have an excuse for talking to myself, "I'm really talking to the dog, you know..." Sweetie and I are cuddling each other instead of the doggie and we burst spontaneously into ugly-cry tears more often than we would like to admit. I will need a new running partner and I will never change our answering machine message which features our lovely Emma's voice.

I will have to cut down on the amount of popcorn I pop and Sweetie will have to reduce his morning toast, since we have no one to 'share' it with. Sweetie's shirtsleeves will remain dry at the dining table, and there will once again be room for both of us on the couch.

Emma survived two pounds of dark chocolate, two cancerous tumours, a bowel obstruction caused by a pair of my apparently delicious tights, blue water from the toilet and a cross-town solo adventure when a contractor accidentally left the back gate open.

We feel as though we might not survive her death. We were fools for her.

We pampered and loved her and tried to teach her good manners, just like we would have done for another little girl who was also ripped from us at about 11 years of age.


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Thank you so much to everyone who has sent notes and flowers and been kind and generally awesome through this ordeal. Thanks also, to those friends and relatives who held their tongue about how much we spoiled our girl and made our lives revolve around her; we had a lot of pent-up love to give.