Excuse me, Mr Trudeau....

We have almost all our Christmas gifts wrapped and sitting somewhere safe, or under the tree, so why do I still have 4 bags of Christmas bags and one of Christmas boxes?  Many of these, and many of the ones we stuffed things in this year are being re-used, some for the umpteenth time and there are at least 8 that my talented sister sewed in pretty Christmas fabrics to send gifts from Calgary over the years.

I believe in re-using and recycling.  I do, even though it's a pain in the ass to collect and store them.  It's just that every year the size of the current gifts don't match with the re-usable bags.  The re-usable ribbon takes ages to untangle, the re-usable tags made from last year's cards require steady cutting hands which I no longer have.

So, Government of Canada:  There should be a law.

So many people have said this better

Every year, with the first snowfall, I feel like the luckiest person in the world to live where I live.  It is absolutely blindingly, blingingly beautiful looking out the window.  I am going to maximize the feeling with a walk in a few minutes, protected by several layers of clothing and scarf, hat and mittens.

I will try, and probably fail, over the next few weeks, not to moan about the cold, the snow, the semi-walking, semi-sliding, the falling, the losing of gloves, the running of nose, the freezing of earrings, the wetness of feet no matter what length your boots are.

You're welcome.

It's All About....

The 6th of December is normally the day in which I come to the conclusion that Christmas is coming.  And I've done that.  I'm wondering if I can manage the Christmas season at the same time as the Trump stuff, Aleppo, remembrance of the Montreal killings, the hope for closure on the DAPL issue and the continued concern for US friends who are wondering if they have to get back in the closet.

I've made a good start: lists and hidden presents and wishing Dave wanted something I could find for him that was more personal than a donation to his favourite charity.  

Well, between Para 1 and Para 2, I'm wondering if I really need 3 hours of sleep a night.

That's right: it's all about me.

How to help old friends

I have a dear friend; she and I have been friends since we were 13, I introduced her to the man she married, and we stayed close even when we lived far away. 

We knew each others family (I had a crush on her older brother, but nothing came of that) we went to the same school, the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Halifax, danced at the same Teen Club and shared many of the same friends.

She and her husband, Jean-Guy, had some hard times: Jean-Guy had two heart transplants, their only daughter died young, leaving her two children to be raised by their grandparents, and her husband died at 64. Dave and I were there for many of these times.  After his death, she became ill herself, and has been mostly bedridden for 7 or 8 years.

As a part of her illness, her speech became difficult to understand, and because I'm hard (read hard) of hearing, we don't spend as much time together as we did.  Dave took over the place I'd had in her life, and has been with her on at least one day out of every seven, doing her shopping, attending her doctor and hospital needs, lawn-caring, banking and helping with maintenance of the house she's lived in for over 40 years.

She needs to be somewhere where she can be cared for but she is not ready to accept that, and continues to live in the main floor of her house, which she's had adapted so that she can walk, with difficulty, while holding onto bars on the wall.

Last Thursday she had 3 falls during the day, and on the last one, she fell into or on top of her wheelchair, leaving her scraped, hurt and helpless.  She has an alarm, which for some reason, she didn't use.  She called me, and with the help of my brother I could hear that she wanted me to come over but from her voice and the calls to God and the Blessed Virgin, I could tell that she needed medical help, which she didn't want. Dave who wasn't reachable, has a key to her house, but I don't and she was upset that whoever came to help would have to break down her door. I finally made her promise to call the paramedics, but she didn't and instead called someone who drives her to hospital and doctor appointments when Dave isn't available.  Luckily, he called the paramedics, he had a key, and off she went to hospital.

I hate it that my second thought after hearing she was sore but doing well in hospital the next day was to be overjoyed that she would now have to accept her situation and that we would help her move from her house to a care facility.  She did accept it, for a few hours anyway, but now refuses to go anywhere but home.

When I think about it clearly, I know that we are assisting her in her determination to stay in her home.  When I see her, I remember her pride in her place and know how much she worked to get that house and make it exactly what she wanted.  Dave and I try to be as practical as we can, and when that's done, we talk about how we can't understand why she is so determined (but we say"stubborn").

Boy, could I ever give someone else in the same position some good advice!

On this 15th of November

It gets harder and harder to write posts, which is very weird because I have so many random yet compelling issues I need to work through. Having said that, I caught myself wanting to make a list, and here it is:

• nothing I can share
• little I can fix
• much that I can mull over to keep from making decisions

When will I learn?

I remember writing a post a few years ago about my dilemma.  If you wake up at 3 o'clock, do you have a cup of coffee to start your day or a glass of wine to finish it off?

At that time, I almost always chose, in vain, to have a glass of wine, and maybe a Pirouline biscuit.  Then I would read for a couple of hours and go back to bed around 6.  This of course, only added to my time-management problem because I'd wake up around 9, starving, but unwilling to consider breakfast as an option.  
I'd do all the houseworky things I needed to do until I felt I'd punished myself enough to have coffee, which I would have loved to have had in bed had I not just arranged all 5 of the sparkly cushions in that very place.

Looking back it seems nothing like a dilemma and everything like a privileged yet guilt-ridden life.

I'm at it again.

The Whole Truth and Nothing But

Another gray day....it matches my wardrobe this year.  and my hair.  and my mood.

Why didn't I just eat a couple of spoons of peanut butter?  That usually cheers me up, but today, getting at the peanut butter meant changing the beautiful yet precarious arrangement of things on the top  shelf of the pantry.  I'm not feeling lucky enough for that.

I've been in full domestic persona today and arranged shelves, washed floors, wrote an inspired shopping list and threw away anything in the freezer that was unrecognizable.  That sort of used up my luck, so I'm sitting on the couch waiting for karma to join me.

While waiting, I'm looking at the books I bought yesterday. This is what I should have done with them immediately after paying.

Baaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!

INSTANT HUMAN

Just add water

Drip and sip

That is exactly what it said.  And that was exactly what I wanted

I came home with books and 3-D dragon bookmarks and other stuff for our Christmas stockings, ready for that cup of coffee.

Part of the problem of course was that because Dave is on holiday in Nova Scotia, with our car, to get to Chapters I had to borrow Emily's car.  It's new; it has screens, I needed young men to help me start it, align the mirrors and find the radio; so of course my jaw hurts.

Here's the thing.  You can't just add water then drip and sip because you need #2 paper filters to make it work.

I feel so fleeced. 

As it should be

A week or so ago, my brother sent me a box full of "mementos" he thought I would like to have, as the family house, in which he has lived for a while, has been sold.

Mementos have always been able to provide sharp images for me of the owner, the position of the item in the room, and who gave it to whom.

I wasn't feeling particularly strong emotionally that day but knew my brother would want to know I'd received the parcel, so I opened it and immediately was totally overcome by the items inside.

Many were pictures that had been up on various walls, others small glass birds and eggs, both of which my mother and I were drawn to.  There were things I'd made for Mom and Dad years ago and other gifts we had given them. Touching these familiar items was magical.

Sean is a careful packer, and he'd included a fragile item wrapped in soft pink fabric, which when I saw it, brought me to tears.  I can't remember a time when that cobalt blue swan wasn't perched on a table or shelf in the many houses we lived in.  What I'd missed on first look though was that the glass swan was wrapped in my mother's bathrobe, which had been hanging on the bathroom door since she died ten years ago.

Even though it was too small for me I couldn't resist wearing it for the next couple of hours, and now it's hanging on our bathroom door.

A test of fortitude and friends

Two days ago I decided that 15 glasses of wine in a week was shocking, and possibly harmful.  I had just bought my usual box, that does indeed last me the 6 weeks it claims to hold its wineliness.  I put it near the door, with the receipt still stuffed into the top, and for 3 days it's been sitting there, waiting to be taken back.

Dave thought I was acting precipitously, and that given I enjoyed wine, having a glass a day couldn't hurt.  Strangely, I found myself drawn to his suggestion.

Wayne Gretzky makes unoaked wine.  Bless him

It took me a day to launch into the new regime.  While I still have the white, I have bought a bottle of non-oaked red, and intend to stick to the single glass per day.  When you read about how a glass of wine per day can be good for you, they're talking red, and I'm hoping the redness of it all will keep me on the plan.  

Leaving the white boxed wine in the hallway is genius.  You can't drink white wine at room temperature, so I'm not even tempted, although I have just written 200 words or so about it.  And soon, one of us will take it back.

One of my friends told me not to be ridiculous---I'm retired and stay around the house a lot, so who's going to know how much I drink and why it should matter.  Emily says that person doesn't care about me at all.

Even deeper thoughts

One of the things I like about Facebook is that I feel close to people I would have lost touch with; another is that it's enabled me to make new friends, or to understand old friends better.

That presumes that people are open and honest and not looking to wrest thousands of dollars out of you.

One of the things I don't like so much about Facebook is that I follow people who have friended me but seem to want only that one side of the process.

Oh, I get it.   That's not about Facebook.  That's about my feelings.

I don't always get it right

Today I was trolling the Rideau Centre, pretending that I knew exactly where I was when I found a new cosmetics store, and thought I could pass a few minutes checking it out.

It was a fun place, great music and opportunities to sample everything, and once I had my rhythm going, I really got into it.

Two of the customer service people had been catching glimpses of   the rainbow at my wrist. Sometimes people come over and ask me if I'm a lesbian---no, an ally, I say which isn't always helpful.  These two just gave me broad smiles and went back to rearranging sequin-loaded nail glaze.

I poked around for a bit and decided to try out the two lipgloss colours that appealed to me. I put Raspberry on the top lip and Purple Gaza on the lower one, placed myself in front of a small mirror and tried to decide which one was more flattering.  Couldn't make up my mind, so I went over to the two young women, made sure I had their attention, pushed out my lips and asked them "Bottom or Top"?  They just looked at me, so I tried "Top or bottom?" and finally one of them told me "Top", so I bought the Raspberry one and headed out for the rest of my errands.

I was back home before it hit me.

Und du, Lorna?

Our book club is reading "Night" by Elie Wiesel, and I've been putting it off.  I read it when it was first translated from the French, and remembered being awed and shocked, and dragging myself around in blackness until long after I'd finished it.

It wasn't that I didn't know the circumstances.  I actually lived for a while in a small village in Germany that had been a training centre for the Gestapo during the war, which prompted me to read everything I could about the Holocaust.  I couldn't make myself accept that my neighbours, who loved my children and bought me beer at the gasthaus and taught me about washing my windows every Wednesday, could have been part of what I knew to be true. 

I think I took a deep breath and did the ostrich thing.  Or fantasized about alternate worlds.

Book Club is Thursday and I just finished the re-read last night.  I see it slightly differently than I did when I was in my late teens and it is even more distressing as I realize that although I was affected, I did nothing other than to choose one of the Jewish boys I knew as a boyfriend.  That's a perspective I'm not proud of for so many reasons.

I'll be dragging my feet to the meeting even though the host-of-the-month always provides fine canapés and a broad choice of beverages.

When I grow up though, I hope I am an activist.
  

From here to there

At almost 20, seeking maturity

at 74, singing along to the Beatles

I was so amazed at the reachout from The Memory Project at the Bruyère Hospital.  They called me last Thursday and I was tested on Friday!  David came with me as they suggest it's a good idea to have someone there who knows the person being tested.  Knowing Dave's strong curiosity, I thought we might have a problem, but he was perfect: sat beside me, supported me and helped me when I needed it but otherwise,while he may have had questions, he didn't put one forth.

The test was not hard, but some parts of it were tricky, such as the time I had 30 seconds to name as many 4-legged animals as I could and found myself screeching "whales" and "chameleons".  Did I mention I'm competitive?

I was really surprised to see how I didn't use straight lines for connecting similar or consequential things and that I had a hard time with the perspectives of images.  My drawing of two connected hectagons looked like the work of a 4-year old architect.

When all the boxes had been filled in, the questions answered, both mine and the nurse's, I was told that they needed a CT scan, and to compare my answers to the formal questions with the general conversation that went on among the 3 of us throughout the meeting. 

I can expect to hear back from them in 4 months.  If I'm as seriously affected as I think I am, they'll start therapeutic and supportive work, and I'll be able to deal with a reality that I can manage for a while.  If not, they assured me that taking the test was a good thing to do given that I was so confident in my own assessment.

Strangely, the minute we were outside and walking to our car, I wanted, wanted, a glass of wine, but when we got home, I made myself a  cup of hot lime juice.  I shouldn't have said "strangely" though because I was appalled at my answer to how many glasses of wine I had in a week.  I lowballed it at 15.

Oh, the wide and winding road!

Not the best lunch ever....

Today I had lunch with a dear friend whom I haven't seen for ages, for several reasons, hers and mine.  Because we remembered how good the food was, we went to a restaurant in mid-town that always has great reviews, and of course, for that reason, was crowded and noisy.

We should have backed away, but we chose not to, and spent our lunch time yelling family disaster stories at each other and trying to eat the beautiful and extremely tasty salmon burger.  So much food!  I had to leave most of the meal, although I did manage my expensive glass of Pinot Noir.  Next time, my dear friend, we will choose a quiet dark place with crappy food, just for the balance.

AND, I forgot to take the picture I had intended to include in this post.

My (early) old age crisis and what I'm doing about it.

I was surprised to see that I haven't been back here since early July, and at the same time, not surprised.  The "not surprised" had to do with the anxiety I've been feeling this year, which I would normally have written about but held back because I didn't want to be boringly bonking anybody over the head seeking consolation.

I live a privileged life: I'm strong and healthy for a person of my age, my husband, my children, my grandchildren and my friends seem to like me and retirement  has been, for the most part, a joy.  Yet I kvetch internally and externally about how I don't feel I'm pulling my weight, about how I can't seem to get access to my own relatively large set of words, about how uneasy I feel behind the wheel of our car, and even often as a  passenger.  I regret the stubbornness I brought to the volunteer work I used to do which unfortunately has left me a person with lots of passion and no platform.

So, I got a rainbow tattoo, and started going to counselling.

I talked to my counsellor and my doctor about my fear that I was heading rather rapidly towards dementia or Alzheimer's and finally today, started the process of being tested.

My doctor ran me through a test I'd taken a year earlier, and as I feared, told me I was just fine for my age; I replied that I'd done well in the test because I'm competitive and described for him the monotonous frustration of deciding to do a task and totally forgetting the task and the reason for it during the time it took me to get to my laptop.  I told him how I could look at my grandchildren and not remember their names; I told him that often I have to search for the words to describe things that I've known the names of since I was 6.

He told me he would make the referral for the next set of tests that would be carried out by a "memory" group at a local hospital, not because he thought I needed it but because he knew I needed it.  He is a compassionate man.

I almost ran home.
  

Dipping my toe in nostalgia

Watching TV is something I have really drawn back from---probably because of the violence, and definitely because books, which have no remote controls, are much easier to enjoy.

That changes when Dave is away, as he is right now, barrelling through Canada in a truck on his way to Calgary with my brother Doug.  I still don't watch much, but I do watch late at night, and yes, Dave, that's all about you.

Last night, I happened upon Jesus Christ, Superstar.  

When I was a young person, it never occurred to me that I couldn't do something in the arts field, so I agreed to direct a student production of that musical.  I loved the concept---the humanization of the biblical characters, the songs, the what-I-thought-was-bold rendering of a story I knew so well.  It was OK, and the kids who worked on it had a great experience pre and post-production.  Choreography for people in long robes and beards was a chore though.

The first time I saw the movie, I was so moved, so excited and so into it that I actually hoped Jesus would be saved from the crucifixion.  This time, it seemed out-of-key, overdone and very preachy, but I still was won by the time it was over.    Also, somehow, I'd forgotten about Ted Neeley.

And I wonder why my grandkids don't think Shirley Temple is even remotely cute.

On Being a Great-grandparent

Some true facts about Lilith Alice Rose Warner:
she looks like this:

she and I look like this:

she and Dave look like this:

she and Dave and her grandfather Chris look like this:

she and Dave and her mother Phoebe look like this:

We all feel like this:

Don't worry, there are still other ways to be the genteel older person I intend to be.

Had a birthday the other day, and thought that a selfie was in order, so I went into the bedroom to set it up.

Crap!This is my first shot.  I wonder when taking photos with my phone will be as easy for me as it is for Robyn.This is her first selfie:

 
this is what 74 looks like:


I did not take a photo of how embarrassed I was when I saw photo 1.

How unlike me...

Little did I think that I would write so often about my fight with the god of sleep whose name I can't even get close to right now.

Monday, I was supposed to go out with a friend for coffee at 10:30.  I slept until 11, even though I'd reminded myself before going to sleep that I had to be up by 9 at the latest.  Then I fell asleep again at 2:00, and stayed up late, reminding myself that my coffee date had been changed to Tuesday at 10:30.  I slept in until 9:30, got up mad because Dave had let me sleep and made it out the door at 10:15 (because Joanne is always early).

I went to bed early, woke up early, had breakfast and fell asleep again even though I had plans to go out later in the day.

Went out, stood in the sun at Parliament Hill for 2 hours so I could see the Pride flag raised by the Prime Minister, walked home and went to bed early.

THEN I WOKE UP AT 10:30 THINKING I'D SLEPT ALL NIGHT AND HERE I AM WIDE-EYED AND BUSHY-HAIRED.

My choices for self-betterment

My "study" snugs up closely with the living room, where we have TV.  Right now, the Penguins vs the Sharks is the show Dave is watching about 6 ft away from me, and as you may know, hockey is loud.  I tried listening to music with my earbuds, but that just resulted in a big fight between some wonderful singers and some terribly excited hockey fans.

I think this means I'm going to go in another room and watch Malcolm in the Middle till I fall asleep.  My other option is to read in the bedroom, but the book I'm reading at the urging of the people in Coles Book Store has really small print, and I've had to put it down....hard as that was.  One of the workers was so excited about this book, "The Name of the Wind" that I bought it without opening it.  Their favourite buyer.

Stanley Cup Final is definitely winning.

Anticipation

Sitting here this morning, breakfast over, coffee still hot, and I'm totally in love with the view from my desk.  In a while, it's going to rain.

I haven't been here for a while, and I can't figure out why.  It used to be one of the highpoints of my day when I hit the "publish" button and posted to Facebook.  I loved it when I was getting the breakfast cleared away and a story jumped up, waiting to be told.  I felt great when friends posted funny or supportive remarks, or one-upped me, and just the writing in itself sometimes gave me an insight that delighted me.  But my last post was quite a while ago, even though I strongly wish to write everyday.

I'm not sure, but I think this might be connected to the feeling I've had lately that I can only describe as fear.  Driving or being driven in cars scares me, the loss of familiar words, the sounds in the house during the night, the moment when I realize I can't remember why I briskly walked into the kitchen, when I look at one of my grandchildren and know exactly who she is and everything she likes but my brain won't let go of her name.

None of these things, taken alone, and at my age, is really unusual, but the consistency and the volume of my "incidents" is adding to my anxiety.

I'm baaaaaack

Today, I decided to write a post about the very things I wrote a post about the last time I stopped by here.  Mostly that post had to do with forgetfulness.  I'm moving on.

That does not mean that I'm getting serious.  Case in point:

Let's Get This Straight.

I'm beginning to feel invisible.  It's weird.

I know that I am pulling back from people, which doesn't mean I don't like them, only that sometimes facing people is more than I can do, and that applies to family as well as friends.

I've felt tempted to write about this---to try to find out what I really think is happening, but that seems attention-seeking and pathetic.  On the other hand, I'm not working it out for myself, so maybe another perspective would be useful.

I do know that part of my reticence is linked to my increasing inability to find words that ought to be available to me, like "cupboard" or "brown" or the names of my friends, children and family.  I don't mean they're forever gone, they just hover over me while I'm talking...just out of reach and incredibly annoying.   My thinking processes aren't suffering, but the tools to share the processes really seem to be inaccessible sometimes, and I hate having to say (as I do and often) "Damn, I know that word!"

David often props me up by telling me that the same thing is happening to him but his self-confidence beats mine, and sadly, I find myself annoyed with this lovely person who is so supportive, but so far from where I am in the descent into the golden age.

Anyway, if I've seemed invisible to you, it's all about me.  Not you.

On Second Thought....

Today is the day I am doing all the things "they" tell you not to do.  I read about the signs of pancreatic cancer, I skipped to the end of a crappy book with a decent story, I noticed that I only have one follower on my blog, I (mistakenly) turned off my computer while a big sign flashed at me telling me "Do Not Turn Off Your Computer", I counted calories, I looked at my nose with a magnifier, I tried to bite off the loose skin on my lip and I actually listened to myself mumbling about how I have to stop pitying those poor old folks who die at 67.

I seriously think I need to nap until tomorrow and start fresh.

Love lives on

For Valentine's Day, I failed to make a terrarium I had intended to put together for Dave...I couldn't find the plants I needed, and I didn't really put on a big search as after I'd decided what to do, I couldn't imagine where we could put a terrarium that wouldn't be somewhere kids couldn't try putting stickers.  I know, that's really pathetic, and doesn't reflect at all the love I have for that man.  Nor does it really reflect well on my grandchildren.

Dave, on the other hand, produced an innovative and loving surprise for me.

The romantic setting for a catered dinner

Post-presentation of the glow bracelet with hearts

The annual Valentine's Day photo which does not show how pleased we are with each other

Just in case

Today is the llth day of February, in the enlightened year of 2016 , and the enlightened location of a certified "green" building in the cold and snowy part of Canada and we're still never sure if we'll get hot, warm or cold water out of any of our taps.

I have tried to be understanding, but this is driving me to drink. And read.  And eat chocolate cookies I bought for Dave.  Soon it may drive me to nap in the daytime.  And possibly to shop online.

Ah, there.  I think I've covered all the bases.

In which I ask for help

John Rayner asked me if I could recommend any new detective books, and I suddenly realized that I read to read, not to enjoy authors or to increase my horizons, but just to read.  I can't remember any amazing detective books that I know John would not have heard of, except possibly Rennie Airth's books.  His is not a new series, but his first, especially, stayed with me.

For John's sake, and for mine, please leave the names of books or authors you recommend, fully understanding that I will read with joy and then move on.

More musing from the bathtub

I believe I must be reading too many detective novels.  How did I arrive at that scary place?

Today, while I was in the tub, and working a pumice stone on my feet, I realized that were I a murder victim, and the only accessible part of my body was my feet, the SOCO team would come to the conclusion that I was a middle class Madam.

I think they would be persuaded by the cobalt blue polish on my toes, lazily and inadequately brushed over the Christmas gold sparkle.

I have no pictures.  And I've thoroughly scrubbed my toenails with a superstrong polish remover.

Let this, however, show how serious I am and how eager to be a victim identified as a granny with cautious nails.

uncensored posts

Sometimes I look like this:

and there are other times when I look like this:

but that's mostly when I'm asleep.

Hop, Skip, Jump

Once upon a time, I had a workstation.  This was years ago, before I retired.  Now, although I sometimes lapse and say "workstation", I have a desk.

My desk is also my study:

My desk in my study is right beside my dining room:

My dining room is adjacent to my living room, and accessible from my kitchen:

As is my desk:

Can you still breathe?

David Suzuki would be proud

Last week, when Robyn and Maddy were here with Emily, Robyn was looking for a craft to get started on.  Emily and I were busy with something and Dave suggested that she check the recycling to see if there was anything "crafty" there.

In this house, we have about 100 coloured markers, 25 two-coloured pencils, enough paper to last until Robyn is 15, scissors, glue, sequins, stickers, buttons, foam forms and modelling clay.  And probably some other stuff.

These are the products of Robyn's recycling our recycling!

a shark with a wide-open mouth

a seafaring boat

a spyglass

binoculars

 Let the creativity continue!!

Philosophically, I'm OK with it

Dave has gone back to work after a stretch of retirement, and I had worried that it would be hard on him to work 5 days a week, even if it's only until May.  I shouldn't have forgotten his skill at taking naps when they're needed

The real worry has become the effect his being at work has had on me---we've never been joined at the hip, seldom watch the same TV, don't relax or gear up the same way, but I find the days without him very long.

I shouldn't complain; I can read anytime (but that was always the case), eat when I feel like it, although I do try to be the dinner-maker, walk where and when I feel like an outing, which again is nothing new, so I can't figure out what it is that is making my days seem so long.

I guess I like us doing things differently together.

Here's how we do something together.  We were out for dinner with our dear cousins Sue and Dennis, and except for the fact that I had to lend Dennis my glasses, it turned out just as great as we thought it would.

BTW, before Windows 10, I would have known how to give those photos more light.

The marriage of the tortoise and the hare

Do you remember the comic who used to make really nasty but hilariously amusing jokes about her husband?  Google reminds me that it was Phyllis Diller.  I remember I did laugh, and sometimes I saw myself in her stories but I always felt it was kind of cheap humour.

Having said that, I have to tell you all the things I did today while Dave was having a shower:

• ran water, got into my bath, used soap, shampoo and conditioner, read a chapter of my book, resigned myself to the fact that Dave was never going to bring me a glass of wine before I got out, used a scrubby thing on my feet
• cleaned the tub, applied deodorant and moisturizer, twisted myself into my housecoat (the sleeves were inside out)
• put a load of clothes and towels into the washer (but none from the room where the shower is)
• dried, styled (hah!)and applied shine to my hair
• got dressed
• moved two rugs from our bedroom to the front hall
• decided I looked frumpy and got dressed again
• made coffee for one
• checked my inbox
• made the bed
• got yoghurt and jam mixed up in a bowl, ate it and put the dish on the table because I hadn't emptied the dishwasher
• emptied the dishwasher
• sat down at my desk and tried to look like someone who didn't notice what time it was

I must remind you, as I do from time to time, that Dave is wonderful, that he and I are an amazing team, and that he treats me like a beloved equal.  I'm just faster, and that doesn't count for much.