Fred and Nina - the myth continues

I'm not sure that Fred and Nina ("Nine - ah"...that pronunciation is  kind of important) really exist. Bill supposedly met these two seniors about 10 years ago. Maybe twelve. He met them quite by accident, on the golf course in Venice, Florida. And ever since, they have been held up as the standard for a perfect marriage.


Fred and Nina are from Wisconsin. Bill describes them as Garrison Keillor describes the Lake Wobegon characters : where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.

Bill will wax eloquent when he speaks of Fred and Nina.  He was paired with them for 9 holes and was enraptured by them. They were decent golfers and kind hearted.They gave him encouragement and praise and they kept the game moving. Fred wore traditional golf pants - not the understated elegance of Tiger Woods,  but more along the lines of the Three Stooges. Nina was rail thin and was a solid player.

Miraculously, he was paired with them again the following year. He learned that they ran a marina together and that they golfed together EVERY DAY.  Not the full eighteen, but  just nine holes - just like Fred's wife's name.  Then, they would return home for cocktails.

When Bill gets to this part - returning home for cocktails - he gives me that 'puppy dog' look.

"That could be us, IF YOU'D ONLY PLAY GOLF WITH ME!"

It's not like I don't love sports (I'm writing this during the commercials of the Sabres v. Flyers 3rd playoff game). I just am not keen about playing a sport against Bill. Because, even though we would be playing together, we would be competing. We are both highly competitive, and I'm not sure that pitting against each other on the golf course is a great idea. Plus, I just don't have the time to devote to nine or 18 holes. That's a big time chewer  and there are other things that I would rather be doing.

However, Bill brings up Fred and Nina so often and with such ardor that I feel I must make a concession.

Today, he very innocently showed me an ad for beginner golfers. " Do you not have enough time, energy or patience for 9 or 18 holes of golf? (notice the Canadian phrasing of "do you not"). Join us monthly for a fun evening of golf - just three or four holes  followed by some cocktails (notice the use of the word "SOME") and a little help from some experienced golfers.

Hmmm. Three or four holes. Some cocktails. With a little practice and some work on my absolute need to win, I just might be able to recreate the myth of Fred and Nina.

Stay tuned.

Hot and cold

OK... WHAT???

It SNOWED today! It's April 17th for crying out loud.

Yesterday, my pal Nancy and I had a pedicure. I wore FLIP FLOPS to the salon. After all, it's the middle of April. I had just returned from Florida so the flip flops were readily available, and I thought they might be handy in the rain.

When we got to the salon, Nancy chose vibrant pink for her toes - a sure sign that she was ready for the season.  I chose a brownish red ( maybe I jinxed us by choosing a winter color?)

And, last night I wore short, sleeveless cocktail dress to a function we attended  - the better to suffer hot flashes in.

What a difference a day makes.

I started off this day with purpose. I woke up early knowing that Bill was going to the grocery store. The fridge was pretty empty - so it was a good time to clean it out. It hasn't seen a good cleaning since January 1, when I was inspired to begin this blog. That's probably a confession that shouldn't be published. But, not knowing the proper amount of time that should elapse between fridge cleanings, I'll chance it.

As Bill left for the grocery store this morning he asked me to come outside. He said he had seen a snow flake. I didn't see any and thought he was a bit loopy. It didn't seem cold enough for snow.

But, then it started in earnest.

This afternoon I pulled on boots ( don't worry - my pedicure had sufficiently dried)  to go outside so I could clean up the recyclable materials that had blown out of the blue boxes. I think the wind speed got up to 55 mph today, too. And, a winter coat! I had on a winter coat. OMIGOD --and gloves. I used my brother's fishing net to retrieve a plastic milk bottle out of the fish pond. But, I didn't see any fish. I hope that this constant flux in temperature hasn't killed the lone survivor. While I was in the garden I had to avert my eyes from the 'about to bloom' tulips and emerging hyacinths.

I know I should be thankful that houses on our street didn't blow away as they did in Bertie County, NC.... but COME ON!

To top it off, I think our thousand year old boiler may have given up the ghost. Despite my oiling the motor three times a year, I think it may be past its prime. The temperature upstairs hasn't moved from 63 degrees. I was in fleece and slippers all day .

Luckily it's laundry day. On Sundays I devote myself to laundry. That means a lot of running up and down stairs. The washer and dryer is in the basement. Our basement is a bit of a labyrinth, too - so there is a significant amount of walking, climbing and stooping involved in doing the laundry. I think of Sundays as my work out day so the lack of heat didn't really bother me.

Bill's cooking also warmed the house. I won't tantalize you with the meal - suffice it to say that I vacuumed my plate - it was superb! And the wine has flushed my face sufficiently so my core temperature is perfect.

I also still have 2 comforters on the bed. I think tonight we may turn in early. And try to forget that it's spring.

Perfume samples

I come from a  family of professional smellers - not that WE smell, but that our noses are very sensitive. My grandfather Martin and my dad both made their living (at least at some points in their lives) in the spice/essential oil/perfumery business. I'm actually not sure if their noses were genetically sophisticated, or that they merely trained this sense with constant practice, but they were able to discern the 'notes' and 'complexity' of a smell and then describe them. It was important  because their business was based on this talent.

I have led myself to believe that I, too, carry on this trait. I am very sensitive to smells and form associations with certain odors. I've actually averted tragedy when I've discerned smoke that no one else could detect.

I can sit still and recreate the smell of the skin of everyone of my family. I don't have the education to properly describe the smells - but I can smell it in my mind. That sounds crazy - but it is something that I do that actually brings me comfort.

I recently made the mistake of buying perfume on line - without trying it out first at the beauty counter. It was a Jimmy Choo perfume  that was being advertised in a fashion magazine. It was one of those 3 x 5 inserts with a folded part that you can rip open and smell. It was being sold exclusively at Saks. I love Buffalo but we do not have a Saks.  I ADORED this smell. I must have smelled the insert a hundred times. I coveted the perfume - I even loved the picture of the bottle. I  broke down and ordered it from Saks online. 

When I saw the brown paper package at the door, I barely made it into the kitchen to find a knife. I was ripping at the tape as I fumbled with the package. Finally, I unwrapped the cellophane, opened the wee box  and gave my wrist a spray. I waited a few seconds then inhaled.

UGH!

It was like fly spray.  What on earth had gone wrong? I sprayed it into the air and walked through it.  GROSS. This was worse. 

Even though I hated it  initially - I was willing to give it another try and I wore it to work the next day. It was like being followed by the pest control guy. Luckily, I had scheduled a squash game at lunch so I was able to shower half way through the day. Thank Goodness. I don't think I could've made it through the day.

The really horrible thing? It was nonreturnable and I had paid $80 for it. 

But, then something wonderful happened. Emma came home for the weekend. That was wonderful enough but, she also tried on the Jimmy Choo perfume.  Miraculously, when it mixed with her skin, she smelled absolutely enchanting. The way I had hoped it would smell on me. 

I told Bill I had given the perfume to Emma.: "'Thank God. That stuff was vile". I guess he may have a touch of the Martin nose, too.

Gods of the Florida Bayou

I tried hard not to let on in this blog that I wasn't home this past week - for my home security sake. I was, in fact, in Florida with my mum and Bill. Bill and I got home last night. Well, I got home and went to bed. Bill jumped in the car and drove to Albany for a case he's working on. I have no idea where he gets the energy.

Anyway, while we were in Florida I did as little as possible. Except, one day, we drove to visit our friends Arthur and Anya. They live near St. Petersburg and invited us to go kayaking with them in their bayou.

Let me preface this story by telling you that Arthur and Anya are the least stressed people I know  - the exact opposite of Bill and me. They are very good for us.  We visited them at the end of our holiday - the timing was excellent- we had hit our peak of relaxation so the transition to their way of life was not so jarring.

After examining the fruit trees in their garden and catching up with news of our respective children, we readied the kayaks. Anya may appear relaxed, but while we were sitting on our bums, she had prepared food and drink for the long paddle ahead. Arthur showed me an aerial map of our route, and I was a little tentative. It looked like we were going to be travelling miles. I hoped I was up to the task. Arthur and Anya kayak a lot so they are in good shape. I didn't want to let them down.
 
Turns out it wasn't a problem.

Bill and I set off together at a brisk and steady pace. We had a rhythm going when I heard Arthur exclaim "Liz, you're working too hard. Relax". And then Anya tossed me a cold Labatt's. We drifted for a bit. Ahhh. 

We meandered through a beautiful mangrove forest and tried to analyse the smells. We floated a while and had another beer. We chatted with other wandering kayakers, watched the mullets jumping out of the water and into the air (Arthur explained that the low oxygen in the water causes them to leap to gather the richer 02 in the air), and listened to stories of manatees on our hosts' last cruise. Anya took us to a place she knew where Roseate Spoonbills sometimes roosted, and we were delighted to find five of them.

 Then we had another beer.

The sun was warm, the water was beautiful and calm and we had two of the loveliest companions who were so happy to share their bayou with us. As we headed home, 3 dolphins crossed our paths as if to say "Hey! You lucky beggars! Enjoy this idyll".

We ended the day with a hot tub (another "ahhhh") and a perfectly cooked salmon dinner. Arthur and Anya may as well be named Zeus and Hera  - they are Gods to me... the day they planned for us was perfect.

Thank you.

Baaaaa

For a bunch of years, I lived on a sheep farm. It start off rather small - we had 15 ewes and my mother had the bright idea that we would we breed champion Suffolks. We lived on a small farm and bred those 15 sheep with a champion, registered ram named Brit-Can-Am. This ram was ENORMOUS. I was only 8 when I met him and he scared the crap out of me. I distinctly remember being cornered by him in the barnyard - he had me right up against the fence. The only thing between him and me (he and I?) was the oat can. He was, in a word, virile. He impregnated all our ewes. In two days. And, then he promptly dropped dead. We had only rented the dude for the 'process' and let me tell you, there was hell to pay when we told the owner that his prize winning stud needed to be picked up by the dead-wagon.

However, his offspring were sensational.

My mother decided that this first bunch of lambs were all going to be named properly. They were, after all, championship material and were going to be the foundation of our stock. She also decided that they would have respectable and memorable names. So, she pulled out "The Complete works of William Shakespeare" and named the first lamb Ophelia. Next was Desdemona. Then Portia. Sweet Rosalind was my favorite - she had the softest face and gentlest dispositon. We were surprised with twins and named them Isabella and Imogene. You may wonder why all girls? Well... we kept the females to breed and sacrificed the males to the Easter lamb market.  My mother had big ideas- she was going to breed winners.

Eventually, we moved to a much bigger farm and my mother's plans got larger, too. It really was my mother who was the brains and brawn behind this venture. My dad had a full time job ( so did she for that matter) but my mother was the force behind the flock.

As I look back now on those days on the farm, it seems like it was someone else's life. We all worked really hard - particularly my brother. He seemed to get the rawest deal of all the chores. And he very rarely complained. There are so many memories of our family time together on the sheep farm: trudging down to the barn in below zero weather, breaking the ice on the water buckets so the sheep could drink, checking the pregnant ewes for progress and adjusting the heat lambs over top of the newborns. It was difficult and wonderful all at the same time. And, we have my mum to thank.

Trying to explain this time of my life to Bill is challenging. He really has nothing with which to compare it. I know that those of you who had the privilege of growing up on a farm will understand that push and pull of emotion - of resenting  the responsibility but loving the results and feeling that connection with nature. It is a feeling that I miss. It's probably all tied up with being with my family and having that time together.

Today, the big sheep breeder, mum,  lives a life of relative leisure. But, she manages to keep a few sheep around. One such example was unearthed today. She asked me to take a picture of her garden before I left Florida today. I think she must still yearn for those days, too.

How old would you be, if you did not know how old you was?*

A funny thing happened to me when I turned 50 and it was completely the opposite of what I thought would occur.

Initially, I ran away on my birthday because I didn't want to have a big party. I figured, if I had a party, people who came would always be able to figure out how old I was...

"Hmmm, remember that party that we went to when Liz turned 50 - that's was 2010,  right? Well,  that means she must be almost 68 now - she looks like hell for her age." That's what I was avoiding.

Except, now I'm happy to announce to all and sundry that I'm 50. I don't know what's taken over my brain. But, I'm telling everyone I run into. Even people who don't care: the checkout lady at Stein Mart; the Tim Horton's coffee guy at the window; everyone at work knows, for heaven sakes - I've been doing the Sally O'Malley kick, and stretch and kick routine for months in the office halls.

My mother was talking about me and Bill to one of her pals the other day and she referred to us as "the kids". I love it when she does that. However, I was quick to point out to my mother's friend that I was FIFTY! The woman didn't even blink.

I think I continue to do this announcement because I'm STILL waiting for someone to say, my GOD! You don't LOOK fifty. That hasn't happened yet.  I thought that my mother's 80 year old friend might say SOMETHING! Not even close.  She just commented that I could hardly be referred to as a kid!

Hmph!

I think part of the problem is that I'm still in a state of shock. I really can't believe that I made it to 50 - when my brain keeps telling me that I'm still a kid. My friend, Bruce always tells me that he still thinks of me as a 25 year old - the age I was when he met me. He's very kind and I like the fact that he has allowed time to stand still for me. He looks past the gray hair, the few extra pounds (OK, more than a few) and the wrinkles. He's what I call a GOOD friend. I'm lucky, too that Bill is older and will always think of me as his younger wife. Maybe that's why I don't mind telling others how old I am... because the only one who matters, thinks of me as his 'young bride'.

*quotation from Satchel Paige

A bittersweet view of life

I have a few really bad habits. OK, more than a few - but tonight I'm focusing on one for which I should probably seek counselling. 

If I'm feeling particularly blessed, if something is going especially well, I start to feel guilty that others cannot enjoy it, too.

This one I don't know how to fix. Tonight, I was having the most marvelous dinner with my mum. Bill is away so we were left to our own devices. We grilled a couple of burgers, steamed some corn, opened up a bottle of Chianti and sat outside to watch the sun set. The air was soft and warm, the sunset was glorious, the temperature was perfect and I was with the sweetest woman in the world - my mum. I knew that I would remember this brief but lovely moment in time. However, rather than bask in the splendor that was before me,  I (a) missed my kids and (b) thought about the Japanese whose lives were turned upside down, focused on the Libyans, and the Syrians, and the Egyptians... you get the picture. All this, while simultaneously trying to turn my attention back to the "moment". Unfortunately, I kept wrestling with my anxieties regarding the present state of the world.

It's a constant theme with me: why am I so lucky while others are so unfortunate?  And, as I found out tonight, it is an issue with my mother. Maybe it's encoded in our DNA, but it seems we can never truly enjoy something without feeling some remorse.

I'm attaching a picture of the dinner we prepared for the evening so you can get some idea of  its idyllic nature.

If anyone has any advice, I will gladly take it. I know Bill will have words of wisdom - he always does - but tonight he is not home to reassure me. Although, usually his reassurance takes the form of : "Let me make you a nice dinner - and I'll pick out a nice bottle of wine". Tonight, without him, that tactic is not working.