Category Archives: coming of age in my fifties

not quite a meeting of the minds

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eeyores gloomy place

One of our neighbours who we were yet to meet, knocked on our door, collecting for charity this afternoon. We had heard quite a bit about them, as they are academics at the local university campus in an area related to Mr FD’s profession, and were really looking forward to meeting them.

As I opened the door, she didn’t introduce herself, but commenced with “Other Neighbour said you used to work at the university.” I was tussling with an excited Augie Dog who wanted to lick his way through the screen door to greet her and so was a little taken aback. At that particular campus it was over 35 years ago for me, and about 13 years ago for Mr FD so I was surprised that was her introduction, and tried to place her somewhere in our universe.

I murmured something about needing to control the dog and dashed into the garage, hissing at MF FD to get his body out of the car where he was playing with his new sat nav and reversing camera and greet the neighbour at the front door.

Mr FD of course was only half listening and said “This has what to do with me?” and I replied something about the length of his life and so he made his way out of the garage and around to the front door.

Basic introductions over, she mentioned something about her neighbour and I informed her that her neighbour was in fact my first cousin.

Now, if I heard someone was another person’s first cousin I would not then go into overdrive to show that she knew more about the cousin than the new acquaintance did, and I would also not mention that cousin’s intimate family business, nor her mental health struggles. I had the distinct impression that  no matter what I said she would sprout more “information”, so I just let that pathway of conversation lapse, not feeling it appropriate to discuss such things with a person I had just met.

Then she proceeded to have an opposite opinion on everything Mr FD said to the point that I was wishing Augie was an attack dog and I could set him on her.

After what seemed an age, she invited us to their next “organic growers” meeting and I immediately knew that though we are believers I would not be tripping across the road anytime soon.

Later, Mr FD asked me what I had thought and I was only too ready to vent. Lucky for him, he felt the same! It was all such a disappointment though, for we had really wanted to meet her as we thought we were kindred spirits in many ways, but in reality it seems perhaps not so.

it was such a depressing end to the weekend.

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put another log on the fire

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15

winter

Today was one of those grey sky windy, winter days and we were all happy to stay inside with the fire burning. I have never lived with a wood burning fire before and it always seemed so romantic to have one. The house on the hill has both a wood fireplace and reverse cycle air conditioning, but we have been choosing the fireplace as our heating since the cold weather arrived.

Son chops the wood which so far has come from our own property and a generous neighbour, Mr FD stokes the fire while Augie Dog and I sit and watch the flames play before us. It all feels so perfect, but I have the sneaking suspicion that I shall be the cinders girl and that won’t be so romantic!

And to add to today’s little pleasures, fresh, sun dried, white linen sheets on our bed! And so to sleep…

look ma, no hands

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baby 5

Granddaughter. Petit Fille, now 15 weeks old, learnt the mechanics of rolling over this week. She would rather be sitting up, as she is trying so hard to sit, lifting her head and shoulders up off the rug anytime she is laid on her back, but she has to be happy with rolling for now. Her Mummy, Daughter1 shared a short clip of her rolling with the family, so we assumed she was off and rolling.

At her Daddy’s birthday party, Petit Fille partied hardy for awhile, but then showed all the signs that like her Grandma (me!) she found being nice exhausting, so Grandpa Mr FD and I went back to her home with her, so that she could distress and have some quiet time.

I placed her on the rug and she started rolling, and rolling, and rolling. Grandpa even managed to make it down to her level on the rug and set her back to lying on her back, and flip, she would roll over again. She performed very happily for us until the physical effort became too much and I put her down for a nap.

Her parents returned and we told them how Petit Fille had entertained us with her rolling skills. Mr Boy was shattered as he hadn’t actually witnessed a full roll as yet, for it seems that her rolls are few and far between. Even her mother has only witnessed a couple!

Grandparents 1; Parents 0.

an introvert on the rack

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6

lunch 2

Today is our son in law’s birthday. I have a son in law (Mr Boy) who is 40! That is what happens when you are a child bride and have your first child at the age of 21, before you know it you have a 40 year old son in law! (Daughter1 has just turned 34).

They hosted a small luncheon at a local bowls club where we were treated to a lovely barbeque lunch and birthday cake, as well as the chance to play barefoot bowls and listen to the Sunday jazz session. Mr Boy has lovely friends so it was a very pleasant few hours.

It is a strange sensation becoming the “older generation”. At 55 I don’t consider myself “old” but with the passing of Mr FD’s parents, my Dad and a few other elder relatives it does seem that we are the elder generation at family events now.

There is a certain status one achieves. There is certainly a tone of respect from the “younger” generations. What I enjoy the most being a closet introvert, is that there is less onus on having to be a social butterfly. If I want to sit quietly in the corner no one thinks anything of it. I can be a wallflower to my heart’s content.

I did have one moment where I channelled my more extroverted sister and conducted a conversation with one of Mr Boy’s close friends in which I initiated a conversation with a line of inquiry to discover his occupation as a way to appear friendly. My sister can work a room and by the end of the event will have the life story of just about every attendee, discovered at least two long lost relatives and make such an impact that she will receive Christmas cards from complete strangers for the next 12 years. It comes as no news alert that I, on the other hand, am more your bah humbug  introverted type who finds being nice exhausting.

However, in this instance I took one for the son in law and embarked on a “Oh I have forgotten what line of employment you are in” as if I had ever known with one of his friends.

This was where the flaw in my plan became instantly evident, for he replied,”I work for AKX” as if I should be immediately aware of what AKX stood for. More acronyms followed. He worked in JSR and met Mr Boy when he worked in the CFV department. On and on it went and I could garner no further hints as to what he did or where he did it. Nothing he said seemed to align with what Mr Boy did as a food technologist.

I looked from Mr FD and Son who sat on either side, mute as stone. The cavalry was not coming. Later, I learned that Son knew exactly what the gentlemen did and for whom, for which I informed Son that he should not consider it likely that he shall inherit the Wedgwood collection (jasper blue).

Through a process of generic questioning I learned that he had worked there for 16 years, after arriving from England. He worked with very nice people, many of whom had been there for a long time. It got to the point where I had to admit that I had no idea what he was speaking about as I wasn’t familiar with the industry acronyms or jargon, or start on a line of questioning that could lead to learning the colour of his boxer shorts, when the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow arrived.

“I didn’t have a background in computers but did some work with excel and that led to…”

At the mention of software, things clicked for Mr FD and he took over the conversation. I gulped the last of my glass of wine and came up for fresh air.

Let that be a lesson to you, never go against your natural instincts.

Telling an introvert to go to a party is like telling a saint to go to Hell.”
― Criss Jami

allowing happiness to change its form

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country life

I love living in the country, for where else can you walk by a café and see boxes of locally grown cabbage and pumpkin for sale for a $1? This morning I walked into the local bottle shop to buy a bottle of chardonnay and they had buckets of mandarins for sale at $2 a bucket. None of it is “picture perfect” but I know it is fresh, local and grown by locals. Good stuff.

listen carefully, I will say this only once

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woe is me

The mantra these days is to listen to your body, for our bodies will tell us what we need. Mine seems to be screaming at me that it doesn’t like me.

As I write this, my left shoulder feels as though it is slightly higher than my right, with my head going off the perfectly vertical position that nature intended to also lean slightly to the right. It is difficult to turn my head without pain and everything seems to be seizing up. Sitting at my desk hunched over a laptop endeavouring to write creative report comments for my students’ report cards hasn’t helped my spine in the least.

During home class which is a mix of students from years 10, 11 and 12, I only had a smattering of year 10s as the year 11 and 12s had been taken elsewhere for secret seniors’ business. The reduced numbers meant a fairly relaxed atmosphere as we sat and chatted, waiting for the lunch break bell to ring.

Taking my eyes off the lovely little ferals for a moment, I glanced across the room to discover one of the male students was lying on the floor with another male student in socks walking up and down his back! I commanded them to cease and desist as I imagined broken spines, irate parents and law suits. I was informed that they do it all the time after football training! Possibly true but I knew the amount of paper work I would have to fill out if someone was injured, so I ordered them not to resume under my watch. Let them be someone else’s “fill this out in triplicate and sign your life away” problem elsewhere. The student in need of spinal manipulation settled for a back massage from a fellow female student, which was as much risk as I was willing to shoulder.

The entire time though, I was wishing that someone would work on my spine! One of the down sides of living in the country is the lack of choice regarding physiotherapists or the available of a trained masseuse. If I was to drive to the city all good work would probably be undone by the time I drive the hour back home. Locally the choice is not that agreeable. I did manage that lovely massage during the Easter vacation break when I was staying in the city with Daughter1 and at this stage duplication in the upcoming holidays in 11 working days’ time might be my only opportunity; if I can stay moving until then!

So far, the only things I have really missed since our move to the country is the lack of trained masseuses and that the local pharmacy is closed from lunchtime Saturday to Monday morning. If we need medication we have to drive 7klms to the next town, or back to the city. Plenty of pluses to erase that though! The opportunity to live in paradise is worth a little sacrifice because while my body may have its own opinion, my heart and mind have not been so content for a long, long time.

it’s on the tip of my tongue

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food potato pete

I have a really sensitive mouth.

Perhaps I should rephrase that. My tastebuds react to pepper, spices and other “hot flavourings” like a mountain forest fire on a 40C summer’s day after a wet spring and a long dry summer. The tiniest, tinniest hint of a spice and my entire mouth burns, my eyes water, nose streams and I gulp for water. The mildest of mild flavourings and the same result! When the rest of the family enjoy a medium spicy curry I am eating plain rice.
I am told that I make quite a good curry, even by Mr FD’s late father who grew up eating curries prepared by local cooks in Ceylon, but I wouldn’t know as I never taste them – not even to adjust flavourings. It would be akin to burning at the stake to me.

My daughters argue that it is because I grew up with a plain Jane cook for a mother. Overcooked meat and three vegetables boiled within an inch of their life was our custom menu. Exotic was making a cottage pie! However, I argue with their argument. I think I was just created a delicate creature and my taste buds are no less sensitive than the rest of my body and soul.

So the fashion in recent years for adding chilli to absolutely everything, even chocolate, has meant my diet has been severely restricted and somewhat repetitive. Is there no thought for the individualism in tastes anymore? I hazard an opinion that it is to hide inferior ingredients – make the horse meat more palatable in case of point.

Another issue is the penchant to sprinkle sesame seeds or poppy seeds atop breads and other foods, as mere decoration. Not enough to add flavour but too many for a person who needs to avoid small tiny seeds like sesame or poppy in their diet to maintain life. It means that if I buy bread rolls I have to cut it in half to exchange a top for a bottom with Mr FD who can withstand a double dose of seeds. It really annoys me when I get to almost the end of my roll, and look at the bottom bottom and see that seeds have collected there in the baking process as well.

You can imagine the fun of bottom sharing when we buy takeout burger! Mr FD always winds up with the extra sauce and mayo as they are always placed on the top too!

So, when I am Queen of the World as I will be one day, one of my first commands will be to do away with “fashionable” blanket food flavourings and give choice back to the eater. Freedom to consume foodstuffs without fear or repercussions – coming to a kitchen near me, and you, soon!

Or a few heads sans chef hats will roll.

Night tales

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shadow man

Mr FD said that I called out “Please help me!” in my sleep last night. I have no recollection, but I am sure the dream must have centred around Mr FD and my need for an escape!

Earlier in the night, I heard Mr FD muttering in his sleep, “Oh dear, they cut off his shadow.”

Who? How? Where? Why? Another of life’s mysteries…