Tag: Thoughts

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Christmas is over and the goose got very fat!

Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh boy. Did I/we/me and mine have a wonderful, joyous, celebratory Christmas and New Year celebration. Thankful I am. Grateful I am. Stuffed-to-the-gills I am. And oh-so-glad it comes just once a year!!

Truth be told, the month of December is utter madness in our home. Has been ever since my beautiful daughter decided to pop into the world two days before my birthday (Dec 5 – which also happens to be a national, Dutch Christmas Day of sorts as well). 22 years later we’re still trying to work out a way of making the month a little less… manic.

Of course it’s all good fun and there are huge globs of happiness thrown in, with both of us wallowing to our hearts’ content in what we’ve dubbed our ‘birth week’ (steadfastly refusing to acknowledge anything Christmassy until we’ve exhausted ourselves and everyone around us with birthday-making jollities). We decorate tables for early morning delights, hang up themed stringers and balloons, wrap gifts in glistening paper and do everything possible to make the days special. It’s a thrill (and hubby almost faints with relief when it’s over). But by then Christmas is gasping for a look in so I shift gears – fast – to catch up.

Lists I’ve compiled over the years with recipes (traditional, iced Christmas cake: check! Mince meat filling for pies: check!); addresses for REAL cards (I can’t stand e-ones – must get the ones for abroad into the post before 8 Dec!!) and gift ideas are yanked out of boxes covered in dust. Ribbons, gift wrap paper and pretty bows are hauled out of drawers. Candles (red of course!) – lots of them – bought in in BULK. Not to mention a thorough review of the table cloth, Christmas dinner service and glasses to see if anything’s missing or cracked and last year’s wreath for the door…

Geez. I’m even running out of breath writing this! And that’s before I started buying actual gifts – both for my own family and the extended one in Ireland. Plus surprise, small treats for those who’ll join our table over the holidays. A huge bone for the dog – wrapped tightly so he can join the merriment on Christmas Day and have his moment of ‘unwrapping’. Mulled wine and snacks for after Christmas Eve midnight mass (or was it before??!).

And exhale…

This year, because I was hugely thankful to be out of a wheelchair (knee problems a year ago), I kept reminding myself how lucky I was to be able to shop repeatedly in mega-filled streets and over-stuffed stores. Smiled as I hobbled slowly around the stores, mouthing “on my own two legs” to my mirrored reflection when my feet began to shriek in protest. I do believe I may have fooled myself quite well.

But it all came together in the end. The tree went up, glorious and golden. The turkey fitted into the oven, the ham baked divinely. We ate, we drank, we made very merry and revelled in the joy of doing so together.

Roll on next year. Who knows, maybe I’ll have grown wings by then…

Happy New Year, everyone.

image of woman with filled shopping trolley
Bread for the stuffing… where can I find goose fat… oh look the red wine’s on special offer…
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Walking is good too…

I’ve had many unforgettable moments or minor dramas in my life. Usually they make me laugh, cry or see life differently for a while. This was one of those.

Hubby and I were relaxing into week one of this year’s jaunt around Europe in the trusty camper van. With plenty of laughs, wine, good meals munched lazily in the fresh, open air and carefree indulgence doing… as little as possible!

We’d driven through Germany and were now parked before a beautiful lake in Switzerland. The sun was blazing in the sky and the air was still. With mountains on every side – that looked as if they’d been vacuum-cleaned – all we needed was the purple Milka chocolate cow, neck bell a-dangling to complete the picture.

We decided to go for a short cycle. A courageous move on my part, given the knee problems I’ve had all year. But hey, we were on our ‘hols’ and what could go wrong I reasoned.

With hubby leading the way, I slowly and steadily puffed my way up the hill, towards the road. It was a tad steeper than I’d imagined, and the higher I got, the slower I went. By the time I’d almost reached the top I was practically at a standstill, sweat was dripping down my back and the front wheel was wobbling in every direction. “Focus woman, focus” I told myself, “you’re almost there”. I could already see the main road, just one last effort and I’d have made it…

Suddenly I heard a shout from up ahead, “stop! There’s a car coming!”. I panicked. Unable to put my ‘good leg’ down at that exact second, I lost control and crashed to the ground, the bike straddled across me, my legs askew to minimise the fall.

“Shit!” I shrieked, top of my voice, “Shit!! Shit!!”.

“Are you alright?” yelled himself from across the road.

“No, I’m bloody not alright” I hollered back, “I can’t get the bike off me!”

Bent forward, my legs clamped in and my eyes glued to the ground, I suddenly realised a pair of sandaled feet had come to a stop beside me. The ankles were bare, and as I lifted my head I saw to my astonishment that a gown-clad, Tibetan monk was standing right beside me. He reached down and began pulling at the bicycle, trying to lift it off. Terrified that his skinny arms would snap in two, or that he’d mangle my already-aching knee in the process, I gestured wildly for hubby to come help, my eyes berating him for the huge grin on his face.

Three minutes later I was free again. We all shook hands, it seemed a good thing to do. Recovering my equilibrium I talked, quietly, calmly with this gentle man. He advised me to let go of my cycling efforts, saying, “I was watching you go slower and slower, (ouch!) walking is good too“. Told me he’d lived and worked in Asia for 30 years, but was now home to recover. I asked from what. He gestured to his face, “cancer”. I asked if he was getting treatment. “Not the usual kind” was his reply. He’d returned to spend time with his sister.

It was an unusual meeting. Later that evening I held my head in my hands (while my husband laughed out loud) to think, with no small amount of embarrassment, that I’d yelled ‘shit’ in front of a Tibetan monk. In the Swiss mountains. And not just once.

Swiss mountains biker
“Shit!” I shrieked, “shit! shit!”
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Bus 39, A or B?

Earlier this year I enjoyed a few days back home in Dublin with my sister and her family. It’s always such a treat, something to look forward to, relax into. Every time again. The wonderful, easy familiarity of their home and hospitality covers me like a warm blanket, smoothing out the stresses and strains of ‘normal’ life.

There’s the great food; endless mugs of strong black tea; hot buttered toast in the morning and regular shushing of the lazy, family dog. Which, when combined with the continuous chatter and sharp, unforgiving humour of my family (natural talents in fast, merciless verbal spats) makes short shrift of my more serious, control-freak self. In no time at all the lighter, giggling, who-cares-less version of me has been resurrected. Life takes on a new, cheerier perspective. I luxuriate and take distance from humdrum stuff and wake without an agenda in my head.

Having woken to a clear blue sky on day two, I decided to walk to the shopping mall, a 15 minute trot in my flats – but as I set out the weather made a sudden shift and within minutes I was breathing in a fine mist of Irish rain, the sky filling overhead with plump, dark grey clouds.

Known for pontificating on the benefits of walking to my car-loving nieces, I was reluctant to take a bus. To do so felt like cheating (honestly, even I’m a bit irritated by me as I recall this!). But as the cold droplets dribbled slowly down my neck I gave in and hurried into the shelter. And that’s when the interesting part began.

Inching my way into a dusty, grubby corner, it took me a moment to shrug off the cold and notice those around me. An elderly man with long, scraggly legs bent carelessly beneath him, looking slightly the worse for wear, was seated on the thin, metal bench. Paying me no attention whatsoever he stared off into the distance, his cheeks flushed from the air’s chill, his feet encased in heavy brown shoes that had seen better days. I wondered where he was going and to whom. Home? On his way to pick something up, drop something off? Whatever it was, he didn’t seem to give two hoots about it. Or much else, for that matter.

The other occupant of the shelter was easier on the mind. As I raised my eyes to hers I realized she’d been observing me in turn. I smiled across to return her open interest. Late-seventies I figured, dressed carefully – not expensively – but WELL. Wearing what my mother would have called a good coat. Plain black wool, solidly buttoned up. No gloves but a pale blue scarf tied loosely around her neck. Short, silver, curled hair. She smiled back. Then, ”is it the 39A or B you’re after?”. “I haven’t a clue, to be honest. I’m headed for the Centre”. “Then it’s the B”. Decisive. No room for disagreement. How Irish. I thanked her. She smiled again.

“I’m only home for a few days, I hardly ever take the bus,” I added for no reason, the way I often do, especially in Ireland. There, people expect it. No one looks strangely at you if you offer easy conversation, as Dutch people sometimes do.

“Really? So where do you live then?” she threw back, moving a few steps closer. We fell into an easy conversation. She told me she knew others, like me, who’d moved abroad in the eighties. Neighbors’ children, some of whom had recently returned. “But they’re in trouble now”, she said with regret, “this country’s in a right mess. Big houses, big mortgages and no money coming in to pay for them”. I nodded in agreement, my heart aching mildly in recognition of the missing. I understood very well what had brought them back because it never completely goes away, the longing for home.

She blamed it on the banks. Who didn’t, I thought, not mentioning that I’ve worked in the financial industry for almost eight years now, and loved every minute of it.

She wondered what it felt like to live abroad. I needed longer than a bus ride to explain the good, bad or better of the matter but gave it a stab anyway. She listened carefully. By the time the 39B came lurching into view, we were on a first name basis and had shared details of our lives, families, children (she had one daughter, still making bad decisions now and then is how she put it, it made me smile to think how a parent stays a parent, no matter what age) and laughed out loud more times than you’d believe. It warmed me, despite the drop in temperature. On the inside.

This was what I’ve always missed, living out of Ireland. The ease of connection, the casual interest, the warmth. The lack of barriers and I guess, just the simple, easy humanity of it all.

The bus pulled in. We lined up. I began searching for coins to pay my fare. She stepped in ahead of me, turning quickly back to say with a hint of pride, “put that away, I can get you in for free with my OAP pass”, her hand covering mine gently. I didn’t object, I could tell it pleased her to do it. What a nice start to my day, I thought. What a lovely lady. Isn’t it great when life throws you an unexpected gift like that?

Waiting for the bus in Dublin
Is it the 39 A or B you’re after?
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Spring cleaning but not really

This morning I experienced a few hours of feeling almost ‘normal’ again after weeks of PJ lolling around on the sofa. Decided to celebrate the happy little event with a touch of Spring (erm…Autumn) cleaning. My wardrobe in particular, followed by a brief scrum with the kitchen cupboards (just two, no need to get hysterical about it). But…

The thing is… I’m a bit of a hoarder, you see (a big bit). Especially with clothes. I hold onto them until they’ve not only gone out of fashion, they’re begging to be set free or have begun self-destruction. Each time I give it a try, a little voice in my head pipes up and bids me keep them beyond the sell-by date, as in:

”Maybe it’ll fit me next year when I’ve lost a few pounds. Maybe my daughter will decide she loves that jacket after all. Maybe I’ll get a chance to wear this cocktail dress again soon (it cost a fortune!). Maybe my bum will look great in these pants if I stop eating bread. Maybe my son will want this beautiful fabric for a school project…”

On and on it rumbles.

Then there are the emotional attachments I have to certain outfits. The suit I wore to interview when I got that great job, five years ago – sure Goddamn it, ‘t would be bad luck to let that one go! The dress I wore to my daughter’s 18th birthday party – wasn’t that a fun night? Gotta keep that one! The blouse I wore to my mother’s funeral, just one glimpse and I’m right back there, almost hearing her voice. How can I ever get rid of that?!

So I moved to the kitchen. The ice cream bowl set we got as an engagement gift. I was always iffy about them, yet here they still are, taking up a full shelf for 27 years. But they were given with such love! A set of huge plates we bought, what – ten years ago? No! 20, holy crap! – for an extended family dinner. Haven’t used them since, but maybe my son will? Three pepper mills, stuffed into the back of a shelf, because I’m still looking for the ‘perfect one’ and can’t bear to throw out the old ones. Help me Lord. Martha Stewart I am not.

But it’s not just me (is it?). It’s a chore for all of us, right? We start out full of determination, visions of a gleaming, clutter-free house looming before us. We yank things from closets, bravely toss them onto a growing pile for the recycle store, but after a while the doubts creep in and we start picking out a few things that can wait till ‘next time’. Before you know it half the gunk is back in the cupboard/wardrobe and you’re wondering why you ever started in the first place!

Oh well. I’m not completely dissatisfied with the morning’s work and the small heap that’s now lying on the floor, looking up at me, is NOT going to win me over. It’s for the chop and that’s that. Iron Lady, that’s me!

Can’t wait to show hubby. He’ll be relieved I’ve stayed away from his pile of clothes (including the wedding suit he’s still trying to get good use out of). We are a right pair, to be sure.

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In Sickness and In Health…

I love my husband. I do, I really do. Happily married to the dear man for 26 years. We still giggle at the same things. He is my best friend, the first person I share news with when something significant comes along… the only person who makes me feel ‘safe’ if the world comes too close or shouts in my face.

He still brings me a bunch of long stemmed red roses every year for my birthday. Not a lot to complain about there and I know it. Very well.

BUT…

The thing is… Let’s face it. All men have their flaws. And he, as many others before him, is just a little bit of an eejit with certain things. Especially when it comes to finding items in our house. Items that have been IN our house for generations. Or are lying right under his nose. Like the butter in the fridge.

Now for some reason, this one pops up with alarming regularity. Some heinous member of our household ‘moves’ the butter from its usual place to a different spot on the shelf. Maybe 10cm to the left or right – and what does he do? He panics. Instantly jumps to the wrong conclusion, every time again. Standing with the door open he’ll yell to me, “There is no butter!!”.

“Yes there is” I’ll say.

“No, I’ve looked. There’s none!” He’ll reply.

“Yes there is. Look again” say I.

“I’m telling you, there’s none here!”.

Me (slow exhale of breath): “Did you look beside the cheese?”.

He, after a pause, “Well … who put it there??!”

Same thing counts for milk, bread… tins of beans. All of which can be right there in front of him but he just won’t see them unless they’re placed EXACTLY where he expects them to be. Every single time.

Nor does he flourish well if put on the spot to make snap decisions, as I was reminded last month when he was given just ten minutes to prepare an overnight bag for my hospital admittance.

As we waited for the last test result, I suddenly thought of it and wondered how he’d coped. “You did pack some things for me, right love?” I queried. “Yes!” he replied, pride glowing on his face. “Did you grab my nightgown from the bed?” I wondered, with a little bit of hope, “No… ” he replied, his voice a little weaker. This is when I got worried. “So, what did you put in?” I ventured. “The nice black one, hanging on the door” (still proud, but definitely some doubt in there now). “Jesus Christ, not the black, transparent negligee??” I squeaked, my face aghast to think of what the hospital staff would say if they found me lolling in the bed in my ‘sexy bit’. White faced, he whispered, “was that not good?”.

Half an hour later (and one super speedy race back home by him to walk the dog AND pick up a cotton nightie), he was back, the missing nightgown and a toothbrush bundled into a large, garish plastic bag. Smothering my inner, “Mrs. Bouquet” streak – I let that one go.

Two days later, when he showed up with a set of four, seriously HUGE granny knickers – I’m talking deep enough to pull up to my chin – in response to my plea for some new, loose underwear, I let it go too.

Because you know what? once we’d made it past the blips and bloops of the whole process, it was his face (and only his) I wanted, needed to see coming around that door at visiting hour. And when you think about it, finding the butter is a highly overrated skill, after all.

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A paler shade of pyjamas!

My PJs have long ago decided to mix and match perfectly, for ever!

Since coming home from hospital last month, it’s the funniest thing really but I’ve totally become Queen of the Pyjamas. Every shape and colour I have in the house – with a few new ones thrown in for good measure – they’re all I want to wear right now.

And – slightly to my surprise – I find wearing them, lounging around in them a seriously enjoyable change from my normal routine! Slowly pulling a nice, soft, comfy (loose!!) top from the drawer and sliding it over my head before shrugging on a wide-banded pair of loose pants that won’t bother me in any way is so relaxing!

No fuss, no bothersome mix and match skills required… just one, happy and cosy little collection of pale pink, blue or grey cottons on offer, morning after morning. Fuzzy slippers. Fluffy socks. Maybe a bed jacket? or should I go all out and wrap myself into a bath robe? Decisions, decisions. Easy little ones without a hint of pressure butting in to spoil the mood.

Take today, for instance. I woke up wearing the loose, soft grey oversized T that I wore to bed (no surprises there, aint a lot of action going down these days, thank the lord!). After breakfast and a shower, I quietly and very slowly made my way back up two flights of stairs to ‘change’.

Now, under normal circumstances, i.e. when I’m working (which I’m not right now) and my health is good (which it aint right now), this routine would see me galloping at top speed back upstairs, my morning coffee threatening a reappearance as I raced to get into an outfit suitable for the office to make it out the door by 8am.

Sometimes – it all worked perfectly, because I’d more or less decided what to wear the evening before – and the vibe was good. But there have also been days when Mother Nature played tricks on me and the anticipated warm weather turned into wet, cold, rainy skies. That’s when my careful deliberation raced straight out the window into the damp mist. That’s when a mild panic would kick in. With 12 minutes left I’d be shovelling hangers back and forth, frantically pulling skirts and blouses from the closet in a rush for the bus but also to ‘look the part’.

Not so on the good ole PJ days! Lying quietly in wait for me, my PJs have long ago befriended each other and agreed to mix and match perfectly, for EVER. So the minute I’ve chosen just one piece, the rest of the gang join in like a happy little choir and I’m greeted by a humming, muted array of items, all perfectly amenable to being worn with my first choice.

What more can I say? Happy days. Pleasurable even, which is not what I expected at the start but just what I need right now.

So yay for PJs.

Yay for a calm and relaxed start to each day.

And yay to my on-going recovery, in the palest shades of grey.