Poozie’s Ponderings

Missed the chance
Often in life I find myself drawing an imaginary circle around what is happening...
Men and math
What is it with men and math? I suppose, to be fair, I shouldn't generalize...
Gardening is never work
I have grown to appreciate wonder in the simplest of things. It may be why I enjoy...
Being a pain
Cat. This one solitary word can elicit a myriad of emotions. I think it rates up there with "liver"...
Damsels in distress
Many men have come to my rescue when the car's making a noise...
The new neighbors
Why is it some things come so easily to some people? The rest of us struggle along...
Raising Melissa
No one warned me raising children would be filled with moments when I couldn't keep a firm grip on reality...
Rude awakening
It seems just when I thought I was adjusting to adult children, I am back to counting sleeps...
A circus life
This past week I was fortunate enough to stumble across a movie I've been recomending to...
Of squirrels and scoundrels
Yes, I know. It's supposed to read "Of Mice and Men" but this involves a different rodent...
A little push
Sometimes being an empty nester means one has to give the nestlings a little "push"...
Priceless
I have spent years of discipline enforcing the age old adage "No, means no."...
Barriere or bust
I remember when I first arrived in Barriere, I came kicking and screaming...
Boys will be boys
I will admit in life there are times when brawn is a necessary commodity...
To three sisters, love Mom
I had a visitor the other day who hadn't been to my home in about 5 years...
Too much information
The other night my husband and I climbed into the hot tub for a soothing soak before retiring...
The "aunts" came marching...
Recently, a cousin who lives in our neck of the woods had a baby. The first birth to take place...
Drooling Toad
Pond liner $125, feeder goldfish 25 cents each. Originally, our pond was created due to...


Missed the chance
Often in life I find myself drawing an imaginary circle around what is happening, mentally “stepping outside” and looking in. I observe what is taking place even as it is taking place.
This leads to many ponderings.

As for “Poozie”, that’s another column, another time.

Back to my ponderings… I tend to look for solutions to problems rather than just whining about them. Not that anything I dream up with would lead to world peace, these are just suggestions perse or flights of fancy.

Today I found myself in a room full of fretting grade niners all awaiting their booster shot.

A wonderful cocktail of chemicals, a triple martini if you will to ward off the evils of tetanus, diphtheria and whooping cough. Afflictions that are so successfully eradicated they sound almost tropical, not really a threat in today’s western society. Research has not only provided a viable solution, we have managed to implement it successfully.

This in itself is almost a miracle.

Two of the boys asked if they could have the shot administered in their butts and thought themselves quite funny until they were informed it was possible, with a larger needle. That shut them up right smartly.

As each fifteen year old sat down, near panic set in as the needle appeared and I found myself making a connection. As the public health nurses were chit-chatting with the girls to put their minds at ease, they were missing the perfect opportunity for sex education.

I remember being a niave newlywed and waiting with baited breath as the doctor delivered the news, “Congratulations, you’re pregnant.” Immediately, I was sent down the hall for “routine” blood work.

In went the needle as one vial filled, in stayed the needle as another vile was filled. In stayed the needle as yet a third vial was filled!

I was shocked. I was faint. I had no idea being pregnant meant I was about to be drained of blood!

Now, I know the small talk was a tool to squelch the fears and I’m sure many would argue this was neither the time nor place to trigger new anxieties. To that I say,

“Horse pucky!” (actually the pucky involves a bull, but you get the picture).

As a mother of three teenage girls, I find it perfectly acceptable to use any situation to my advantage. My choice of words would not be,

“Just relax, this won’t hurt a bit”.

My choice of words would be,

“You think this is bad, just wait till you see the needles that come along with being pregnant! Much larger than this and administered much more often than once in 10 years, which is when you will have to update your tetanus next. Now run along young lady, you did fine.”

Food for thought. (top of page)



Men and math

What is it with men and math?

I suppose to be fair, I shouldn’t generalize and lump all men into the same category. There is a slim chance it is only my husband who is afflicted with a cockamamie formula for figures.

But somehow, I highly doubt it.

The other night while enjoying our hot tub, I casually mentioned to my husband that his mom had called and was already dropping hints about her 50th wedding anniversary next year.

This threw me for a loop. I am not good with dates. For whatever reason, ever since I turned 21 I have had to “do the math” to calculate how old I am. (It may be as simple as; my brain stopped developing and mentally I will be 21 forever.)

I usually begin with my birth year, round my age up to the nearest even number and work my way to the current year. Stay with me now... born in ‘63, in 2003 I turned 40, which makes me 41 this year. Simple.

Back to my darling mother-in-law.

Born in ‘56, in 2006 he is due to turn 50. This being 2004, the 50th celebration is two years away, not one.

I know the facts, yet my respect for my mother-in-law makes me question my figures. I ask my husband if I am correct in thinking the year he turns 50 will also be the same year his parents should celebrate their golden wedding anniversary?

He begins to do the math, mumbling to himself. Let’s see… ‘56… 4 plus 4 is 8 which is an even number… and with a 6…yup, this year I will be 48.

All I hear is 8 and 6, which to me is 14.

We sink back into a comfortable silence as I pause and contemplate the big picture. (Mentally, I thank God it’s dark and he can’t see the look of utter disbelief on my face). It’s a nice night out, stars are twinkling above, the wine tastes good. I should just enjoy the moment.

Like a dog with a bone, I can’t let it drop. “How on god’s green earth do you figure 8 and 6 equals your parents 50th wedding anniversary?”

He doesn’t disappoint me, immediately launching into some complicated, convoluted calculation that evolves into, “56 to 60 is 4, 2000 to 2004 is 4, so from 60 to 2000 is 40 years and so 4 plus 4 makes me 48. Instead take a 6 and that makes me 50.”

I believe you dear, just so long as we agree.

Vive La Différence! (top of page)


Gardening is never work.

I have grown to appreciate wonder in the simplest of things. It may be why I enjoy gardening so much. I cannot however, say the same for my husband. The mere mention of gardening and his reaction is moaning and groaning that I’m forcing him to do work on his day off.

I disagree. (What else is new between me and my darling?) Gardening is never work. It is relaxation. It is nurturing. It is fulfillment. The fact that it goes along with hupping yards and yards of dirt and manure via teetering wheel barrow has nothing to do with it. It is only the end result that counts.

I remember when we first moved to our house. I dreamed of a garden wrapping around the pool. One hundred feet of garden all told. I waited patiently until finally the perfect-weather-weekend arrived (such a shame gardening and golf share the same favorable conditions). First thing Saturday morning I began negotiating (nagging) with my husband. Finally he grabbed the shovel, drove it into the ground and discovered solid clay.

His solution, rent a sod lifter. My solution, get a better husband.

“Sod lifter? That costs money." (Money is an important commodity to a gardener and is to be spent liberally… on plants.) "I highly doubt Stanley Park was built with a sod lifter, they probably didn’t even exist back then. You’re a big burly guy, hop to it!”

Once the clay had been lifted I was left with a nice trench. (Was Stanley Park built during the 1st World War?) I now was in desperate need of top soil. We went in search and shovel by shovel we filled our truck. Hubby was now ready to call it a day.

To be so close to calling it a garden, and yet so far was killing me. After more “negotiation” he began, shovel by shovel to empty the truck into a wheel barrow and transfer it to the trench in the back yard where I was waiting with a big bag of peat moss.

“Your doing that now?” he asked in disbelief.

“Sure!” I said.

“Your doing it wrong.” (Have I mentioned we’re both first born?)

“You just empty the truck and let me worry about how to mix peat moss.”

As the sun was setting late Sunday night there we were, perched on the back porch steps admiring our handiwork. Filthy. Tired. On the verge of a divorce, we watched as all the sprinklers in the neighborhood simultaneously trickled down to nothing.

It took a moment to sink in ~ no water on the lawns meant no water in the showers. 

Both of us looked at each other in shock and disbelief. I don’t know why, but my husband didn’t take kindly to me doubling over with laughter,

“You should see the look on your face!”

“Never mind my face. Look at me! This is all your fault.”

You know, some men can be so unreasonable. (I do admit God’s sense of timing was perfect. I only wish I could have taken credit for it.) We now have a beautifully landscaped pool and to this day he associates gardening with work.

I will never understand men. ( top of page)


Being a pain
Cat.

This one solitary word can emit a myriad of emotions. I think it rates right up there with “liver”. You either love it or you hate it, rarely is there middle ground.

My cat makes the fifth female in our family, my husband being the lone solitary male. The alpha male, if you will. A term usually used when referring to a pack of dogs, which may explain why the only male in our household rarely feels the most important. We tend to feel more like a family of cats, with one very confused alpha male running around (or away).

My cat’s name is Macska (pronounced "Machka"). A Hungarian word which literally translated, means cat. Her nickname is Macska-kitty. The fact that I have dubbed her with “cat-kitty” explains a lot about my life and the way I live it. Backwards makes perfect sense to me, if it fits. And Macska-kitty fits.

Oh, there is one in our household who may not agree. He feels she is a pain. He rarely feeds her and refuses to tolerate her moods.

He will help her off the bed each morning, with a little boot of encouragement to get her on her way. This, due to the fact when Macska honors us with her presence at night, she sleeps at his feet, never mine.

She is most bothersome when it comes to food.

I feel this is only a matter of understanding. One must think like a cat. Once she is appeased, she is quite content to go on her merry way and leave you alone.

Until she is appeased, this is not likely to happen.

Upon rising, and being “helped” off the bed, she will place herself underfoot, remaining just far enough in front of you that you might trip over her ~ every step you take.

Her dish is located downstairs and a special trip must be made to accommodate her. It is not a matter of whether or not the dish contains kibbles, it is a matter of “fresh” kibbles.

There is no point in the alpha male announcing,

“What are you meowing about? You have kibbles.”

Rather, one must place a few “fresh” kibbles on top of yesterdays leftovers and all will be devoured.

Macska has an uncanny sense of hearing that can detect un-wrapping of food from anywhere in the house. Cheese is number one on her list. If one is in the midst of preparing a meal all one has to do is offer a tiny nibble and she will leave you alone.

If one happens to be unwrapping green pepper, or an onion the cat should still be offered some. As green pepper and onion are not on her list of favorite things, one whiff and she is gone. The alpha male approach of,

“Go away, it’s not cheese!” naturally leads to Macska remaining underfoot and hubby assuming the cat is being a pain.

The cat, on the other hand, is thinking “ You’re such a pain! Can’t you just show me what you have? After all, you’ve interrupted my nap to make lunch.”

It seems “being a pain” is a relative term. It would depend on which side of the fence one is on. (top of page)


Damsels in distress
Many men have come to my rescue when the car’s making a noise.

I am not mechanically inclined. I don’t think too many women are, nor do they have to be. It’s one of the reasons we let men hang around. Every once in a while they come in handy.

I think it may go back to the days of knights in shining armor. There’s something vulnerable about a damsel in distress and a sense of gallantry goes hand in hand with the “mechanic of the moment” whom we are eternally grateful to.

I’ve heard it from a reputable source (a mechanic) that women fantasize about mechanics the most. Having said that, any broken parts, repair bills or delays caused by the breakdown are rarely my fault. Nine times out of ten I have described the problem in detail to my husband. The conversation usually goes something like this:

“Honey, the car’s making a noise.”

“What kind of a noise.”

“I don’t know. A noise. It kind of scrapes and ka-chings when I slow down, then it goes away when I speed up.”

“Well, try not to slow down.”

And what man hasn’t experienced this phone call from his damsel?

“Hi honey, the car sputtered, lurched and then it just stopped! What’s wrong with it?”

“Have you checked the gas?”

“Oh. Never mind.”

I am currently raising the next generation of damsels and I’m doing a good job of it. Last year, while on vacation, we received “the call”.

“Hello Daddy, my car’s making a noise.”

“Well, daughter maybe you should have someone look at it?”

“No, that’s ok. It still goes. I am getting funny looks from other drivers though. It seems to be getting louder each day.”

A few days later. “Hello Daddy, the car stopped. It’s ok though, it’s parked at a friend’s.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know the address.”

”Well whose house is it?”

“I don’t know their name. It’s actually a friend of my friend.”

Damsel. In distress. The greater the distress, the greater the feeling of gallantry when rescued. I had a difficult time convincing my husband of this at the time though.

Daughter #2 has a habit of leaving her lights on overnight. She is getting very adept with jumper cables. Of course there was the day her car stalled and there we sat with the hood raised, praying the tow truck wouldn’t take too long.

Then, Ta dut da da! (Picture trumpets blaring).

Out of nowhere, a pick up truck with three young men and before we know it we are pushed out of harm’s way and jumper cables are procured. One gallant young man even took the time to mention to my daughter when she’s in trouble, she should use her emergency blinkers.

Daughter informed him with a dead battery that might be difficult.

Dutifully she stood by as they hooked up the cables.

“Try it now, damsel.”

Nothing. No click, click. No Rrrrrrrrrr Rrrrrrrrrrr. Nothing. Daughter informs them,

“Your doing it wrong.”

Knights in shining armor inform her they rescue damsels all the time and they know how to jump start cars. Daughter throws me knowing look. Knights in shining armor make some adjustments and lo and behold, Vrrrrooooooom (the good noise).

She thanked them profusely and let them know she was eternally grateful, then called to cancel the tow.

Good damsel. She’s learning. Even during times when damsels are perfectly capable of handling the situation, egos are involved.

After all, discretion is the better part of valor. (top of page)


The new neighbors

Why is it some things come so easily to some people? The rest of us struggle along, plugging away and then along comes someone with a whole new approach and we shake our heads and ask why we didn’t think of that?

A few months ago the house next door sold and new neighbors move in.

We stood back and witnessed the inevitable flurry of vehicles in and out of the driveway, the renovations, the unpacking of boxes. They seemed like nice neighbors. Average hard-working folk, like ourselves. No loud music blared (that usually comes from my side of the fence). A young family, little children, a new puppy, everything spelling out compatibility.

Then the day came when that ugly green monster appeared. Jealousy. While outside in early spring we looked over to see our new neighbor installing his satellite dish.

We have a satellite dish, that was not the source of envy. It was the fact that he was placing it on the side of his house rather than up on the roof… he didn’t even need a ladder.

It was a mild spri