Trouble Comes in Threes (but not always in a row)

You know how they say trouble comes in threes?  What they don’t tell you is that the three don’t always come in a row.  You’d expect they would.  I mean when two things go wrong and you’re waiting for the third – because “they” said so! – and then something wonderful happens, you tend to regain your optimism and stop looking for the third thing, which would have brought relief and restored your confidence without false pretences mucking up the system. 

So when my shelving project last weekend turned out really, really well, I cast aside the discouragement of the catastrophic candles and the arduous Argyll and thought that I had side-stepped the troublesome triplets.  Not so!  (See the Dinner Disaster posted earlier for details.)

My original design -
with incorrect measurements!

Apparently, the DIY gods were in favour of my project.  The fact that it occurred successfully in the midst of three things going wrong just goes to show how much the Universe wanted me to have proper book shelves.  They have been keeping me waiting for nearly a year, but, at long last, they permitted all the pieces to fall into place and graced me with success.  The respite from things going terribly wrong was more than welcome.  I must say that I am grateful for the break from calamity and pretty darn proud of how the project turned out.

I started with a plan.  I didn’t want plain rows of shelving.  I wanted something a little more interesting and unconventional.  So I came up with what I thought would be a versatile pair of shelf units.  My original math was incorrect, but I double and triple checked my figures and did eventually work out the right measurements for the pieces.  And that is where the plan came to an abrupt and seemingly impassable halt. 

My tool collection is minimal.  I have a hammer, a tape measure, a level, a mouse sander and a cordless drill.  Oddly enough, I have been known to look longingly at the circular saws in the hardware store, but my fear of using one has prevented me from releasing my Visa and adding one to my collection.  I kept telling myself that I would find someone to build the shelves for me, but that just never seemed to pan out. 

The shelving material cut to length and
laid out on the living room floor
awaiting assembly.

Last Saturday a little voice told me to hop in the van and go to the lumber yard and buy the material for the shelves.  I didn’t argue, but the mission filled me with dread.  I am terribly out of my element in lumber yards.  I knew what I needed, I just felt bizarrely out of place going up to the counter and asking for it.  It was even weirder taking the yard slip out to the area where the material was and handing it to the yard man, who took it from me and disappeared into the shadows of a shed where, presumably, the material was stored.  A few minutes later nine pieces of 7’ x 12” rough pine shelving was loaded into Gracie and I was one more step closer to having book shelves. 

It took an hour to get this far!

The first shelf unit fully assembled
and waiting to be stained.

 On the way home, I stopped at my daughter’s grooming salon to say hi.  We chatted for a few minutes and when she asked me what I was up to, I told her that I had just bought the shelving material for my shelves.  I didn't think any more of it and when I got home I unloaded the shelving into the basement, wondering how long they would be stored there and if they would ever morph into the shelves I wanted and needed. 

The following Monday, my daughter stopped by the library to see me.  When I asked her what she was up to, she informed me that she needed my house key so she could get the shelving material and take it to her father-in-law to have cut to length for me.  I nearly cried.  What a sweet and awesome thing to do!  As it turned out, I was pretty much done for the day and so I went home and helped her load it into her Kia and take it away.  Less than an hour later the nine pieces of shelving were returned in sixteen pieces cut to spec, along with some assorted end cuts, which may – or may not – someday become something else. 

My daughter and I carried the pieces into the house and put them in the living room.  I set to work immediately assembling them according to the plan right between the sofa and the TV and by eight o’clock that night I had both units put together and out on the deck ready to be stained.  I ignored the dipping thermometer and began brushing dark brown, semi-opaque wood stain onto the shelves.  I was amazed at how well everything was going and still waiting for the third disaster to befall me.  It didn’t come.

It was raining and cold outside, but
that didn't stop me from forging ahead!

The following evening, I flipped the units over and stained the bottoms of the shelves.  My daughter and son-in-law came over for pizza and a movie, which kept me from running outside and touching the selves every five minutes  to see if the stain was dry.  The can clearly said that the drying time was five hour (longer in lower temperatures), but I would have kept checking anyway, had I not been distracted.  When the movie was over and both the pizza and guests were gone, I succumbed to temptation.  Though only three hours had passed, I declared them dry enough and dragged them into the house so I could see them in place under the book mural.  It was all I could do not to start schlepping boxes of books upstairs and start unloading them.  The stain was not dry.

The shelves in place under the mural.  

On Wednesday morning, I broke out the drill again and bracketed the shelves to the wall.  Just to be on the safe side!  That night I transferred all my books to the shelves and stood back to admire my handy work.  Not too bad.

I’m fairly certain that the shelves would not be up to book shelf code and would not pass book shelf inspection if such a thing existed.  And I doubt very much that I will take up carpentry in any serious form any time soon.  All things considered, though, they look pretty darn good and I’m pretty darn proud of myself.

I’m almost feeling brave enough to buy a circular saw of my own and learn how to use it.  Who knows what cool and crazy things I might create with just a few more tools and a bit more confidence? 

The finished project!

• A writing desk
• A new bathroom vanity
• A bench and coat rack thingie for the kitchen entrance
• A TV stand
• A bed frame

The Dinner Disaster

It cannot be overstated!  I am not a very good cook.  Cooking is not a skill that I have honed to any notable degree in my nearly 50 years on this planet.  I have learned not to burn steak to a crisp, even though that’s how I like it.  I have figured out how to time different elements of a meal so that they are ready at approximately the same time.   I have a small collection of simple, yet fairly impressive dishes that I can whip up when necessary.  My greatest culinary achievement remains not having given anyone food poisoning (touch wood).

The meals I prepare for myself are simple.  I’m happy with a salad and garlic toast, or a bowl of soup, or a plate of cheese and crackers.  Eating is something necessary to sustain life and I harbour no desire to spend any more time preparing and consuming food than what is needed to fill that requirement.  Fancy dishes don’t impress me.  I am not likely to be found haunting classy restaurants any more than I am likely to be found in my own kitchen creating extravagant banquets of multiple courses. 

Yet, I do enjoy having people over for dinner now and then.  When the occasion arises, I will don my proverbial apron (keep thinking that I should invest in a real one someday) and plan a real meal for my chosen guests.  Last night was just such an occasion!

I was inspired to invite my husband, my father-in-law and my brother-in-law over for a turkey dinner.  Turkey dinners are relatively easy.  I throw a turkey in the oven, boil the hell out of a pot of potatoes to mash, steam some veggies, whisk up some gravy, toss a salad together, put out some pickles and buns and cranberry sauce, zap some Stove-top Stuffing and make something for dessert.  Voila!  Dinner!  Add a bottle of wine – or two! – have some coffee ready, throw in some juicy local gossip and usually the evening is deemed a success.  Usually!

I had everything planned out.  I had all the ingredients.  I was excited about the prospect of feeding my guests a meal that I knew without doubt that I could pull off.

I started in the morning by making dessert – a tropical fruit cobbler, which I would put back in the warm oven after the turkey was done to re-heat in the cooling oven and be served with real whipping cream.  It smelled delicious and looked fabulous.  I was pleased.  While the cobbler was baking, I started the tedious process of turning 10 boiled eggs into Deviled Eggs.  The original plan was to slightly over-fill the bottom halves of the eggs with the filling and then put the top halves back on, add two walnut-piece eyes and a carrot-shaving beak and make them into Easter chicks.  Wasn’t happening!  The process proved far more tedious than my patience could withstand and so they became regular Deviled Eggs with a smattering of paprika, of course. 

The failed Deviled Egg chicks could have been a sign of things to come.  I could have taken heed at that point and been warned of the impending doom that hovered over my dinner party.  But I didn’t.  I remained optimistic and excited about the evening, looking forward to spending time with the guys, and continued to prepare the salad and get the pickles (that never ultimately made it to the table) and cranberry sauce ready.  I was enjoying myself, reveling in the immense enthusiasm I had for my little party.

Dinner was scheduled for six o’clock.  I estimated that the smallish turkey I bought would need about 2 ½ hours to cook properly and so just before 3:00 p.m., I prepped it for the oven.  I dutifully removed the giblets, gave it a wash, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, placed it in the roaster, added an inch or so of water, tented it under tin foil and popped it in the oven. 

At ten to four I realized that I had forgotten to turn the oven on!

Crap on a cracker!  My confidence felt the first inevitable shake as the cloud of doom burst overhead in a thunderous mocking jolt, enlightening me at long last to the fact that this dinner party was not going to get any rave reviews. 

My response was to turn the oven up to a higher temperature and hope for the best.  I altered my potato and veggie schedule, moving it up a half hour, and adopted the mantra, “It will all work out.  It will all work out.” 

The guests arrived at the appointed hour.  I apologized immediately and explained that dinner would be slightly delayed.  They are all pretty laid-back guys and politely said replied that it was not a problem.  I offered drinks and got them settled in the living room where guy-talk blossomed over beer and coffee while I checked on the turkey.  It was far too pale.

I poked it with a fork and was horrified to discover blood dripping out of the holes.  My heart lurched.  My stomach knotted.  A lump of fear swelled in my throat.   I asked my father-in-law to provide a prognosis.  “Was it completely thawed when you put it in the oven?” he asked.  I assured him that it was.  It certainly should have been.  I had taken it out of the freezer the previous morning.  It wasn’t that big of a turkey.  He kindly told me not to worry and returned to his beer and the guy-talk. 

I was determined not to panic.  At seven o’clock the turkey was still not done.  We gathered around the oven positing possible contributing factors.  At seven-thirty, my husband took on the mission to go to the store and purchase a meat thermometer.  I had visions of the bill to fix the oven and it wasn’t pretty.  The guys, in true guy fashion, kept assuring me that it was no big deal.  The rest of the meal was congealing on the counter and the meat thermometer confirmed that the turkey was nowhere near edible condition.  It was a big deal. 

More beer, more coffee, more wine, more guy-talk, desperate attempt to stave off tears of defeat…

I offered the Deviled Eggs, an ironic choice of appies, I must say.

At quarter to nine, my father-in-law pronounced the turkey cooked and I quickly rallied to re-heat the potatoes, veggies and gravy.  We sat down to eat what was not an altogether horrible repast.  At least, I told myself, I got to spend some extra quality time with my guests.  They even went – probably politely – back for seconds. 

When the plates were all empty, I cleared the table and started to get dessert ready.  The cobbler was warm from the cooling oven and, with the aid of my handy-dandy food processor, the whipping cream was whipped in less than two minutes.  I started to dish up the cobbler.  The final blow struck my heart with relish.  The cobbler crust was not cooked.  With all the fuss over the turkey, it hadn’t occurred to me to check it.  The top was a lovely golden brown.  The fruit was tender and sweet.  But the inside of the crust was raw dough. 

Again, in true guy fashion, my guests comforted me by diving instead into the Easter basket full of chocolate that had been the centre piece on the table.   Thank goodness for back-ups!

At 11:30, fully sated, my guests departed, leaving me with the sound advice to purchase an oven thermometer and test the temperature before I called in a repairman.  The general consensus was that the temperature probe - a simple fix, they said – would have to be replaced.  No one, however, knew who repairs appliances in Houston, though they had all regaled me with anecdotes of their DIY prowess in fixing their own various appliances, including ovens, over the years. 

I cleaned up the kitchen, loaded and turned on the dishwasher and got ready for bed.  Exhausted, embarrassed beyond measure and thoroughly discouraged, I couldn't help but notice the full moon hovering in the south-eastern sky as I closed my bedroom blinds.  I sighed.  I should have known… 

Re-purposing Water Bottles

I admire inventive and creative minds.  People who solve problems creatively always impress me and the other day my assistant impressed me with this great idea:  a plastic bottle watering can.

For her up-coming gardening display at the library, she wanted to have some living examples of gardening and so she purchased some soil, some peat pots and some marigold seeds.  She chose marigolds because they sprout quickly – 7 to 10 days – and she wanted to have some green in the display from the outset. 

The newly planted marigolds were placed on trays and set in on the window sills in the staff room where they can soak up the sun as they burst from their seed pods and form into plants.  For the first two days, my assistant took them one-by-one over to the sink to be watered.  This got old fast and she decided there had to be a better way of watering the small pots without making a mess.  We water the big plants in the library with a juice jug.  It was just too big for the job. 

She considered going to the store and purchasing a small watering can.  What’s a couple of dollars when it means an awesome display? 

Librarians are nothing if not frugal.  From the first day of their employment the word budget is woven into everything they do often accompanied by the words tight or restrictions.  Want and need are clearly defined.  My assistant realized that a small watering can for a temporary project fell quite definitively into the category of want.  And so she got creative!

She took a 500 ml water bottle out of the recycling bin and, using a push pin, poked holes in a circular pattern near the top of it.  She then filled it with water, put the top back on and proceeded – successfully! – to water the marigolds in their little peat pots by squeezing the water out through the holes.  It was the perfect no-cost solution! 

Use a push pin to poke holes near the top of the bottle.

I decided to try to make my own, larger version of this practical little invention.  I took a 2 litre pop bottle and poked holes into it like my assistant had done with the smaller water bottle.  It works great! 

This cheap project takes mere seconds to complete and can be totally customized.   Use a small bottle for smaller plants and a larger bottle for larger plants.  Changing the pattern of the holes will also change the spray area.  Adjusting the pressure with which you squeeze the bottle will accommodate different plants’ different needs. I suggest that you make a few in different sizes and see what works best for you.  The rejects can still be recycled! 

Squeeze the water out in a gentle spray.

I’m so looking forward to my assistant’s gardening display, which will include a sample and instructions for making her plastic bottle watering can as well as the future marigolds.  When the time comes to change the display, we will give the marigolds to the kids that attend Story Time as gifts of appreciation for coming to our program.  We may even show them how to make their own watering bottle so they can continue to take care of the flowers.  

Stay tuned for the book spinner garden - coming soon!

The Flu Comes to Alegria

It all started last Tuesday…  Well, it all probably started with the Big Bang, but I think a more recent launching point is more appropriate… So, last Tuesday morning I awoke to a slight crick in my neck.  This is nothing to get alarmed about as cricks in the neck have plagued me since I was injured on a trampoline 35 years ago.  I put it down as a reminder of youthful stupidity and carried on with my week.

 

On Wednesday, I felt like I was developing a slow leak in my energy reserves.  Again, I didn’t think much of it, really.  I mentally kicked myself for slacking off on my exercising and told myself that I would get back into the routine on Thursday.

On Thursday, I was a tad sluggish getting out of bed.  Instead of getting up and getting moving, I lolled about for an extra half an hour, trying to snuggle with Oliver, who wasn’t very snuggly and just wanted me to get up and feed him.

 

By the end of the day, I was worn out.  I managed to assist my daughter in setting up a bookkeeping spreadsheet for her business in the evening, but as soon as she left, I flopped into bed.  Now I was beginning to wonder what was up.  When I woke up at midnight with my book lying on my chest, I noticed that the crick was worse.  Oh, dear.

 

Friday dawned with a promise of spring in the air.  But I couldn’t have cared less.  My neck was aching badly and I just wanted to crawl back into bed and stay there.

 

This is not like me!  Not at all!  I’m typically up and moving between six and six-thirty a.m.  My normal routine is to don my workout clothes and set up my lap top in front of my Gazelle from which I watch some sitcom on Netflix.  The purpose of the sitcom is to time myself on the Gazelle and add some entertainment value.  After I’m done on the Gazelle, I stretch for a few minutes and then clean Oliver’s litter box.  (While I’m there, I might as well get it over with.)  Back upstairs I hop into the shower, get dressed, settle in at the table to check my e-mail and have a bite to eat before packing my lunch and heading off to work.  If at all possible, I walk to work.

 

This past week I’ve barely been able to keep my eyes open passed 9 p.m.  I’ve been slightly grumpy and sensitive.  I’ve had no energy.

I was looking forward to having company on Friday evening in spite of the low energy.  When my company called to say that they were unable to make it over because they were suffering from a terrible cold, I was a bit bummed, but I understood.  Perhaps it was all for the best.  I really wasn’t feeling all that great either.  We promised to connect again post-rhinovirus and I decided to get into my pyjamas and just have a quiet evening on the sofa.

Then it happened!

Without warning it felt like the temperature in the house had dropped to zero.  I was shivering and the crick in my neck spread out through my whole body attacking my joints with stabbing pain.  My guts started to gurgle and then roil and then I prepared myself for a Vesuvian eruption of the rejected repast I had partaken of earlier.

 

Vomiting is not among my favourite activities.  In fact, I have not vomited since I was in labour with my oldest daughter over 29 years ago and it is my determined intention never to do so again.  But still, I was prepared!  I set a bowl down on the foot stool next to the sofa, added a sweater, warm socks, a blankie and a heated magic bag and focused on not puking.

Of course, we all know that when a true flu bug hits, it’s going to come out one end or the other.  I will spare you the details.  Suffice it to say that I managed not to throw up and almost as soon as I didn’t throw up, I fell asleep on the couch.  It was 8:30.

At ten o’clock I was woken up by Oliver, whose deep concern for my wellbeing – after all my behaviour was quite out of the norm – caused him to drop one of his toy mice on my face, a sure way of getting my attention.  I looked at him and groaned.  He pawed at the mouse, hopeful for a game of fetch.  I groaned again and tossed the sodden thing across the room.  That bought me about three seconds to crawl out from under the blanket and sit up.

 

Having accomplished sitting up, I endeavored to heave my aching, shivering body off the couch and shuffle off to bed, still wearing the sweater, the socks and cocooned in the blanket.  I attempted to read a page or two of my book, but that was out of the question.  Two sentences in, I gave up and turned out the light. 

The next thing I knew it was 9 a.m. 

Every joint in my body is screaming with pain, including my knuckles.  Typing this missive is not going well or fast.  My guts are still gurgling, but the roiling has subsided and I’m relatively sure that if I stick to sipping water and nibbling on soda crackers I’ll be fine in a day or two.

 

So much for working on my spare room this weekend!  The thought of scraping the last of the wall paper (I’m so close, too!) and beginning the filling and sanding portion of the project is simply beyond my ability at the moment.  I’m going to have a shower and get dressed and head down town though.  There are a few errands that need to be attended to and Oliver simply cannot be depended on to see them through.

 

Thank goodness this doesn’t happen very often.  I can’t remember the last time I had the flu.  Every couple of years I get a doozy of a cold, but the flu is extremely rare.  I’ve felt under the weather now and then – achy and low on energy – but not like this.  This is so not fun! 

Ten Random Things About Me

This blog was inspired by my daughter, who posted a blog with the same title last week.  So I have challenged myself to come up with ten tidbits about myself to share with you.  Here we go…

1.    1.  I HATE to travel.  I am a consummate homebody and pseudo-hermit.  I have no desire to sleep in strange beds or eat strange foods.  If I want to see something in the world I Google it – photos work for me.  Although, I must admit, I would like to see the Canadian Maritimes and spend a few days with my grandkids in Drumheller. 

2.    2. I HATE being too warm.  Turn down the heat.  Put a sweater on if you’re cold!  Seriously, you can keep the tropics; I’ll happily stay in the Great White North.

3.    3. I LOVE to knit.  I love to design my own patterns and one day I hope to publish a book of original patterns.  I have a particular love for designing and making socks.  The more colourful and funky the better.

4.    4. I HATE driving.  I could happily cut up my license and never sit behind the wheel of a vehicle again.  While it is a handy skill to have and I can almost enjoy it when it’s really cold out, I actually prefer to walk whenever I can – or be chauffeured.

5.    5. I’m an extremely fussy eater.  I do not possess an adventurous palate in any way.  Seafood, especially, is something I avoid, though I do like the popcorn shrimp at Joey’s Only. 

6.    6. Last year I bought my own house.  It’s fabulous and I am having an absolute blast personalizing it.  Last summer I built a 40’ labyrinth in my back yard and this winter I painted a 9’ X 4’ mural on my living room wall.  I’m currently attempting to renovate my spare bedroom and am in the process – the very slow process – of scraping two layers of wall paper over which someone painted off the walls.  I’m pretty sure those walls will be textured! 

7.    7.  I am a bit of a taphophile, meaning that I love wondering around cemeteries.  I am documenting the Houston Municipal Cemetery and have photographed about ¾ of the graves so far.  When I’m forced to travel, the first thing I look for is the local cemetery. 

8.    8.  I have two grandchildren.  Being a grandmother is awesome.  There’s room in my life for many more, but I’m not holding my breath.  The two I have are incredible little people and I wish I was closer to them so we could spend more time together.

9.    9.   I have a cat named Oliver.  His name means olive tree and I chose it because the olive branch is a symbol of peace.  Contrary to his name, however, life with Oliver is not always very peaceful. But it’s very cool that he plays fetch!

10. 10.  My formal education consists of a GED certificate and my YIT 500 hour diploma.  A handful of other certificates grace a binder in my office for things like Reflexologist and Medicine Wheel Facilitator, but my primary education has been in the school of life.  I give myself a high C+/low B- as far as grades go.  But my greatest achievement – a solid A+ - is for my three amazing daughters.  They make everything worthwhile.

      Well, that’s it!  You can check out my daughter’s blog (http://etherealearth.ca/blog/2012/02/19/10-random-things-about-me/) and compare!    

Meet Millicent

I am at home at 3:30 on a Thursday afternoon in my pyjamas sitting on the couch bemoaning a headache that has plagued me for the past three days.  I’ve just swallowed three extra-strength ASA tablets hoping, if nothing else, to trick my head and neck and shoulders into believing that the affliction to which I am conceding defeat isn’t real.

I get headaches.  I’ve always gotten headaches.  They are part of my life.  For the most part (of the headaches, not my life) I can deal with it.  They do not prevent me from sleeping or concentrating or doing anything else that I may be required to do in the course of living my life.  But every now and then a doozey like this one comes along, reducing me to the whiney cow I have become today.  Everything pisses me off and no one need bother attempting to console me, because I’m just as likely to tear them a new one as I am to burst into tears at their feet. 

I have named this particular headache Millicent.  Don’t ask me why.  It’s the name that slithered out of the stabbing pain that is my right eye and jaw.  Even my hair hurts today.  If I close my eyes I can see myself ripping it out by the roots.

Normally I ignore pain.  Well, I don’t ignore it as much as I refuse to treat it with pills.  When I was 15 I fell on a trampoline and gave myself a whopping case of whiplash.  Pain management was the order of the day until I realized that the more painkillers I swallowed the longer it took for my neck to get better because I didn't feel the pain and so would nod or shake or turn it more than I should, thus causing it to hurt longer.  As long as I was aware of the pain and conscious of my movements, I would feel better in days rather than weeks.

 

So it is with headaches.  Pop a couple of Ibuprophen and sure I’d feel better shortly, but in reality the headache was still there.  I just couldn’t feel it.  I have come to the conclusion that pain must be allowed to run its course.  It’s there for a reason and it’s better to get to know it than to try to fight it.  So I decided that Millicent and I were going to become friends. 

With friends like Millicent, who needs enemies?  She’s really quite a bitch. 

She’s holed up behind my eyes and lashes out with spiked heels at my jaw.  She’s winched my shoulder and neck muscles up into tight knots that she stomps on with vengeful wrath.  I’m exhausted.  Therefore ASA is now tracking through my veins delivering its own killing blows to this unbearable wench inside my head.

There was a time when having headaches – even the normal ones – was a concern for me.  I have presented several doctors with the complaint and each of them has sent me home with varying solutions.  All of them have ruled out the need for medical intervention, although one of them merely told me that it was all in my head and suggested therapy.  My response was, “It’s a headache.  Of course it’s in my head.”  She wasn’t amused.  But she did seem to think I was a hypochondriac and admonished me for wasting her time.   (Then again, when I was three months pregnant, she said the same thing, convincing me that she wasn’t a very good doctor.)

The last time I bothered a doctor about my headaches was about 10 years ago.  She – a different she – told me I was peri-menopausal and that they would go away in time.  When I told her that I’d been getting headaches since I was a teenager she said that it was associated with my cycle and not to worry.  I have since discovered that this doctor is all about the uterus and has the unique ability to associate a hangnail with female troubles, so I figured I’d just cling to the peri-menopausal theory and ride it out.

When in doubt, manipulate the data!

It has been suggested (not by a doctor)that Millicent is a migraine.  I don’t know what a migraine is.  Nor do I care to find out.   All I know is it hurts and it make me cranky and when I have to resort to taking pain killers I get even more cranky.  At least until they work.  If they work.  Sometimes Millicent wears Kevlar and nothing gets through until she decides she’s done stomping and winching and kicking my little grey cells about.  Usually it’s right around the three-day mark.  Which is right about now.

Occasionally, she takes a nap – just long enough to make me think that she’s gone.  Then, when I believe that all is well, she leaps out from between my frontal and occipital lobes and unleashes a fresh flurry of bullets in all directions.  I hate it when she does this while I’m driving.  I hate it all the time, but when I’m driving... well it drives me nuts.  Especially, if the sun is shining.  Especially if the road is wet or icy and the glare is magnified a thousand fold. 

The ASA seems to be working.  The tension is beginning to ease a little and I don’t feel nearly as homicidal as I did an hour ago.  Still wouldn’t recommend getting in my face about anything, but there’s no more need to hide all sharp objects either. 

I’m going to go and watch The Republic of Doyle and see what kind of trouble Jake gets into this week.   That should put the smile back on my face.  Alan Hawko is such a hottie!  Even Millicent shouldn’t be able to resist his charms.

Bowling - I Still Suck at It!

Whoever invented bowling must have had a bit of a sadistic streak.  Or people who bowl have masochistic streaks.  Not sure which is more true – maybe both in equal measure!

Last weekend I joined my daughter, her boyfriend, two of their friends and Dave at the Pleasant Valley Plaza’s newly renovated and updated bowling alley for an hour of shear humiliation.  We were there to celebrate Bizz’s birthday and in 15 frames I managed one spare.  But the gutter was by far the most prevalent path my shots took.   The week before, my two-year-old granddaughter got a better score than I did.

Dan, Al, Maike, Me and Dave at the Pleasant Valley Plaza.
And, no, Dave's not really the Stig!  

Mind you, it’s been at least 12 years since I last donned a pair of those lovely blue and red shoes and stepped up to an approach to a bowling lane.  I’m relatively sure that I at least was able to break 100 back then, but I can’t be positive.  That may be why I haven’t bothered going back.

Bowling has never been a game that I’ve had any particular fondness for.  Sports, in general, are not my forte and bowling skills are not at the top of my achievement list.  I get the theory.  I understand the principals.  I just can’t mesh them with my physical being. 

Now for the confession...

I want to go back. 

When I was a kid my parents used to take us bowling on Friday nights.  The family sometimes went out for dinner first – not always, but sometimes we would pull into the A & W Drive-in for burgers and shakes and fries (Does that date me?) before stopping at the library to pick out books and then going on to hit the lanes.  I remember looking forward to these outings with great anticipation, though I do think that the drive-in and library were my favourite parts.  The memory of those Friday nights are fond ones and last weekend I was transported back to them.  I haven’t thought about it in a long time.

The morning after I felt the ache of unfamiliar movements in my shoulders and legs.  It’s funny how the simple act of rolling a ball can have that much effect.  Clearly I either need to do it more, or give it up entirely.  I’m pretty sure it is the camaraderie and not the game that is compelling me to want to incorporate bowling into my recreational activities.   The encouragement we all showered upon each other was uplifting.  The fact that I lost – badly – is moot in light of being together and having fun. 

Only moments away from another gutter ball!  

The Pleasant Valley Plaza (formerly known as the Rec Centre) has been undergoing a major transformation over the past year or so.  New owners have been renovating it, breathing new life into what was once a hub of recreational activity in Houston.  The face lift they have given the exterior has made it more inviting, a place that people now want to go to again. 

The bowling alley has new computerized scoring consoles.  The ball returns have been upgraded and there is less likelihood of smashed fingers now that the balls are caught and slowed down before they roll all the way up.  The consoles are huge, though.  They block the line of sight from the benches to the lanes, but I only figured that my bad shots were less noticeable.  Gone are the hard plastic, orange and grey seats and in their stead are soft, curved benches that encourage conversation.  The atmosphere is convivial.  The country music must go, though.

I’m pleased to see the return of the bowling alley in Houston.  It was great to see a group of teens there last night, having fun and not getting into trouble.  There was a family group there, as well, enjoying an evening out together and later a couple came in for a few games.  Our own little company of inexperienced and out-of-practice bowlers cheered and groaned and laughed for an hour amid them all.  It felt good to be part of this resurrected recreation again.