Monday, February 22, 2021

Stealing from 'Sunday Stealing'

I'm on 'Medium' these days, but visit here to keep an eye on mates who are still blogging on.  I admire their commitment and attitude and writing and ability to keep on going.

Today however, I'm stealing from - http://sundaystealing.blogspot.com/2021/02/coronavirus-questions.html - I love a questionnaire.

In the past year have you–

1. Gone without a bra. Yes, but not for as long as you'd think, being in my third lockdown here in France. I wear a sports bra during the day as we've recently adopted a very active 4 year old Spanish shelter dog, who requires several walks. These total around 12km each day, so I stay in my dog clothes for the day. At 6pm, I finally shower and get into my PJs, therefore bra-less.  With nowhere to go, why bother putting on clothes? The only excursion is to take Felix downstairs for his bedtime wee and going bra-less under a parka is a good disguise.

2. Skipped making your bed.  No. I read somewhere years ago that, even if your depression has really crushed you, as soon as you get out of bed - whether it be 6am or 4pm - make that bed. It feels like a tiny job has been done AND looks less stressful. I've stuck to that advice ever since. It does help.

3. Ordered groceries to be delivered  No. We live about half a km away from a supermarket and I've preferred to drag my nana cart up the street and do it myself. I can keep my asthmatic husband Love Chunks safe and get a tiny outing at the same time.  I think I could tell you where every product is on every shelf now.

4. Cooked a real meal. Rarely.  I have a few reliables - spaghetti bolognese, green chicken curry, corn chowder and quiche but Love Chunks is the chef in our house.  Cleaning up and buying the required ingredients is so much better than doing the cooking.

5. Spent the day in pajamas? Only if suffering a migraine.  Even wearing dog clothes makes me feel as though I've made an effort.

6. Skipped shaving your legs. Oh goodness gracious me yes. Love Chunks and I can fuse together like velcro these days.

7. Spent hours on Instagram or Pinterest. No for pinterest but yes for instagram. If there are cute animal stories (especially dogs), humour or anti-Trump/GOP content, I'm there.

8. Eaten in a restaurant. A couple of times during the summer when 50% capacity was allowed.  We wanted to support our local cafe owners and were gratified at seeing how many people were arriving to collect their take-away orders.  That approach seemed smarter than sitting nervously in a warm room.

9. Skipped washing your hair. Yes.  My hair is very fine, like cobwebs and gets greasy after one day.  Now I'm firmly in my fifties, it seemed way past the time to wean myself off daily shampoos and try every second day.  Well that was a mistake - I looked like a sad old advert for brylcream!

10. Not folded the laundry. Nope, this is always done.  It's a fast and satisfying job that, in these lockdown times, reduces the visual clutter.  An easy win.

11. Worked a puzzle. Nope, no, no.  I'm a wordy gal but hate all forms of puzzles. My brain just shuts down and says, 'Can't be arsed.'  I'm not proud of it, but that's the way it is.  My worst nightmare would be to lose my books and wifi and be stuck in a room with only a game of scrabble and a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle.

12. Had Zoom calls.  Yes.  Both for work and to catch up with friends.  I'm more familiar with facetime messenger, so I'm invariably the one you see peering up too close so that my nostrils and general look of dumb puzzlement are on blurry display.

13. Written letters. Do home made greeting cards count?  My mother turned eighty in September and we could not go back to Australia to celebrate. I made a card shaped like a handbag because hers was always like Dr Who's tardis - much larger than it looked.  Inside the card were five pages of things I remembered that she always had in it.  It was fun to get out felt pens and paper and draw like a child.







14. Binge watched a TV show HELL YES.  Breaking Bad, then Better Call Saul, then Cobra Kai..... Netflix doesn't even bother to ask me if I'm still watching

15.Gone barefoot. Only in the bathroom when stepping out of the shower.  I'm pathetically weak when it comes to my feet.  They always feel so naked and bare and vulnerable, so unless it's hot and I'm wearing birkenstocks, they've got socks on at the very least, with ugg boots for the remainder of the time.

 


Monday, February 8, 2021

Remembering Milly

Readers of my previous blog blurbfromtheburbs might remember that we adopted Milly from a refuge in the Adelaide hills in South Australia in 2004.

On the 6th of July 2019, she died in France.


Not a single day has gone by where I don't almost hear her snoring in the other room, smell her furry cornchip-smelling paws as she habitually snoozed at my feet or sometimes use her name on someone else.

As for her final day......
My husband LC* reminded me that I had fulfilled my promise to her. Milly was not going to feel more frightened and confused as her world shrank due to increasing pain, deafness and blindness.
It was an honor to have been part of her family. Knowing that she returned our love a thousandfold was so humbling it amazed me every single day I woke up and every single time she held my gaze. Who else do we greet with a heartfelt 'HELLLOOOOOO SWEETIE' than our dear dogs each and every time we see them? Certainly no human.

I slept beside her bed on the floor of the living room on her final night, wanting for the millionth time to nuzzle her sweet face and to stroke her velvety back.
In the morning, LC and I gently stroked her, kissed her, booped her nose on behalf of Sapphire* and whispered that we would do our very best to respect her. Our beautiful darling dog deserved to be happy and without pain.
The vet’s eyes filled with tears just as ours had. Milly’s final moments went so fast but I know that she heard my whispered endearments and thank yous and we held eye contact right to the end.

Despite the tears, LC, Sapphire and I are so thankful. Thankful to have found her - this wondrous, indeterminate origin, eighty dollar shelter dog - and to have loved her for over fifteen years.

* LC - Love Chunks (husband)
* Sapphire - daughter. Currently at university

Monday, February 1, 2021

A pad in the hand.....

I'm kicking this new blog off right now. No backstory, no introduction, no summary.


Appreciate the routine and the little things, mental health experts say.  Over and over, if you're online or watch too much cable TV.

Our apartment complex has a rubbish disposal system that's located out in the street but available only to those of us who pay our council fees and have a specific key.  This allows the council to record the number of non-recyclable bags of rubbish that each key holder/household/ratepayer disposes of each year.  Are you gripped yet?

Now, I'm reasonably proud of my effort as we earned a 36 euro refund last year due our ordure amount falling under their estimate for our apartment size and household members.  My ugg boots have worn a regular path along the back alley to the free public recycling bins and, thanks to Coronavirus still dominating 2021 as well as 2020, my lofty aim is to earn an even higher refund this year.  Yeah, that and continuing to make my own bread gives me wild-and-crazy gal status these days.

Every now and then someone just selfishly dumps a heaving bag of garbage by the locked rubbish bin.  It's easy to assume that they're lazy, or refusing to pay for their share of council services or just plain ignorant.  In light of 'appreciating the little things' and trying hard not to scream obscenities up at my neighbouring balconies, my belief is that the dumper has just moved in and is too damn tired to figure out what the tear drop-shaped dongle is on their new key ring. They'll figure out the rubbish process after they've put the slats on their IKEA bed base together and set up the wi-fi.

This morning was one of those mornings.  A full bag, resting hopefully by the locked garbage system, beads of rain streaming off it into the gutter.  I recalled seeing two different moving vans on Friday and assumed - let's be positive and pay things forward - that one of the new tenants left it there; a temporary breaking of the rubbish rules; soon to be amended when they find their bearings and feel settled in.

We're already thirty six euros ahead, my brain reminded me.  Be a nice neighbour and shout them a rubbish disposal.  Give their crap a quick trip down the chute.  Besides, Felix was tugging on the lead, eager to be out walking despite the rain.

The key was waved over the techno receiver thingy.  It flashed green, ready for a new load of rubbish.  I picked up the bag which promptly split and a sticky, soggy item affixed itself to the back of my hand.  It was a sanitary pad.  A bloody - in both senses of the word - used sanitary pad.

Ever the lightning fast opportunist, Felix's nose immediately shoved itself into the frighteningly fragrant mush. No, Felix! NO!  I peeled the pad off and furiously flung it away out of his reach, distractedly noting that it landed somewhere in the hedge opposite before having to grip onto the suspiciously greasy metal rubbish chute whilst hit with another weird dizzy spell.

Yep, my routine of maintaining a 10,000 step walking minimum for the past three months has led to a painful swelling on my left foot and strange fits of unsteadiness if I turn my head too quickly.  Yes, walking.  It makes my heart ache to think that I ran a marathon six years ago and now can't even take a friggin STROLL without incurring a Trumpian bone spur, albeit a genuine one.

As the unpleasant sensations generated by my inner ear canal resulted in a series of imagined somersaults and nervous sweat forming on my upper lip and chest, I had the luxury of time and discomfort to remember a few other things.

The email from my editor saying that payment for three articles written as a contracted freelancer have to be submitted via three separate invoices because their 'budget doesn't cover all three for this month.'  This despite being asked to do all three by the end of January.  I'd dearly like to tell the editor to go jump maskless into a retirement home aqua-aerobics class, but I need the money. I want to contribute and will, of course, humbly and politely resubmit the invoice; thank her for the opportunity to work for her and internally hate myself for the 'please pay me, please' attitude we freelancers have to adopt to beg those who enjoy a regular salary with all the associated insurances and supports to pay us for work already done.

A refund, due nearly a year ago after overseas flights were cancelled by the airline has been avidly chased down, a 'goal' set to ensure that the big guys are kept honest as we little guys get our own money back.  All associated emails, dates and lists of contacts via the complaints system, twitter and phone calls have been saved, as have my communications with the bank, insisting that they check at their end as well.  A bureaucratic challenge that's occupied me for NINE months, only for me to search for the refund via an entirely unrelated online account this morning and see that the refund was paid there, almost nine months ago to the day.  I feel very very stupid, and very very small.

Perhaps the ponky sanitary pad was the universe's way of paying things forward?

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