Skip to main content

Birthday Wishes


This year, my Sista Perfectionista turns forty, which for some reason I keep thinking is my age.  I am partly correct because I am in my forties...just the north end of forty...  

Somehow, her crossing over the threshold has reminded me of that. But wait, this is not about me.

Last year, I got to see Sista on her actual birthday.  It was a Sunday, I had just started simmering soup and she called me.

"Can you come and meet me for coffee?"
"Oh crap, I just started making soup.  The pot is on, stuff is bubbling, I am chopping..."
"OH COME ON IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!"
"Ok.  Meet you at the bookstore in 20."
"What? You're coming?"
"Of course I am coming.  It's your birthday!"

This year we were actually trying to plan to do something fun.  An overnight getaway.  

  • She wanted something close,  so we didn't have to spend time travelling. 
  • Something where shopping was an option and observing or walking in nature available.  
  • However, it should not require work or danger.  
  • There was to be no suspension bridge/zip lining, rock climbing --regardless of how breathtaking the fall view.  
  • No kids.  
  • Sometime after her birthday.


Armed with this criteria, I scoured the INTERWEB looking for something that would check each box.

I forwarded a few suggestions.  Not much interest.

I forwarded a few more.  Nada.

Unsure how to proceed, I asked her for more input.

"What I would really like to do is to go to some sort of pioneer historic recreation type place.  You know, where they bake bread and shoe horses and make candles and grow food.  That is my secret fantasy!"

(Huh?)

Good thing she sent that in an e-mail because that way I could hide my slackjawed, squinty-eyed expression.  I read it twice, looking for the LOL ....there was none.  

I had a hard time reconciling my Vitamix, purse loving, germ conscious Sista with Laura Ingalls Wilder. What was going on?

The next day I asked her about it.  
"Ok so the pioneer thing......I mean.....really?  R-E-A-L-L-Y?  Ummmm ....I dunno what to say, other than whhhhhhhyyyyy?"

She laughed.

"I don't know.  It was a simpler time.  People weren't trying to 'find their purpose' and all this airy fairy crap.  You HAD a purpose---grow food---cook food---eat food---care for your family---repeat.   You used what you made, you saw where things came from, you wasted less.  You didn't have all this time to wonder what is missing in your life. It was all about..."

"...survival?"

"Exactly."

A few weeks have passed since this conversation and I am still mulling this over.  

I dunno.  I think it all looks very romantic with bonnets and spinning wool and the smell of freshly baked, hand kneeded bread, but even Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote about bullies, and disease, and crop failure, and the limited opportunities for women, and how brutally hard it was to even stay warm in winter.  Someone always had it better, you worked hard and long and were up early and late to get things done.  

I am not sure I can think of another time when I would question my purpose in life more than a time when "surviveal" was my only goal.  

I am not saying today is "better"  or "worse".  It just is.  

And I guess that the people spinning the wool and baking the bread at these places know they are getting paid 2014 dollars and heading home to their microwaves, online shopping and freezer meals, turning up the furnace as they walk in the door. 

No wonder it looks so romantic and enviable.

I wonder if in 2214 you will be able to experience a historic reinactment of a day in the life of someone from 2014?  Now what would THAT look like!?  

Maybe it would look like this:

  • fresh, store bought sushi
  • soup from scratch
  • cake made from a mix, fresh that morning with two giant rolls of sweet tarts poking out 
  • coffee
  • all around a kitchen table, on a sofa or doing puzzles on the floor with a 3 year old


...because that was how we spent her actual birthday day.  

The over night trip.....still to come!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Shame is A Full-Contact Emotion (Brené Brown)

It is a cool outside this morning and I have on my fluffy red robe as I sit outside and watch the birds flit back and forth from the fence to the feeder----arrogantly tossing aside imperfect sunflower seeds to get to the good ones.   The discarded seeds, some empty, some full, punctuate my deck, waiting for the squirrels, who will later claim this easy buffet. I am still reading Brené and The Gifts of Imperfection. Feels a bit like learning a new language ---I see the words---I hear the words---but the meaning is so diffuse...I need to read and reread and sometimes, even read out loud to make the words stick It is hard work.    And while the smooth cover of her book lies balanced on my palm, seemingly weightless, many of the concepts have a density that knocks me flat on my ass ---like a large medicine ball. CATCH THIS ONE!   Oooooooof!   I am down.    Eyes wide, trying to catch my breath, wrestling with the weight of hefty concepts like shame, authenticity, wholeh

Getting to Know My Neighbor in Type B

As a self identified "Type A" behavior "enthusiast", getting to know my neighbor in "Type B" might help me get a handle on why I too often feel like I am banging my head against a wall at work.    But before I get too far, after all, there are a bazillion "self assessment" tests out there from, " What potato chip flavor are you ?" to " Which Prince outfit are you ?" In the 1950's, two cardiologists, Friedman and Rosenman used Type A and Type B as a way to describe behavioral responses associated with how male patients with heard conditions responded to stress in their waiting room.    They observed that some of the men actually wore down the edges of the seats from sitting poised on the edges of the seat and jumping up frequently, (labelled Type A) while others were able to relax in their seats and the wear on the chairs was focused more evenly (labelled Type B).   They went on to invest

Dr. Dr.

When we moved to Brampton I needed to find a family doctor---at 37--not married--two weeks into a new job in a different city--sleeping on an air mattress on the floor while my partner and son were wrapping things up in our London condo where they were still living---I found myself pregant . I went online and found a website that provided the names of doctors in various parts of Ontario who were accepting patients.  Of the few names listed I was immediately attracted to one.  Dr. Patricia Francis--a woman --who had studied in Ireland.  This to me was a sign. I am of Irish background and if you know Brampton at all you will know that finding her seems like a bit of the luck o' the Irish.  I was escorted into a room where a lovely coffee skinned, well dressed woman with a gorgeous South African accent I couldn't place asked the reason for my visit.  I told her I needed to speak to the doctor about a bit of a crisis.  Her eyes popped open as she sat down putting one hand on m