Frigidity

Fridge matters are part of the learning that singles (widows) must learn. My large fridge after three years of apprenticeship is finally down to only what I use and not what I think I might use. When you go from being half a couple with friends to entertain or relatives who drop by or "the kids and their kids", you need to keep some emergency supplies on hand. When you are a single, it's only you and your lover or girlfriend(s)who  need to be fed on occasion. And they usually call ahead. When the kids and their kids come over, you plan bigger but  prepare and stock up on their favorites but only for the one meal.  For the most part, the Widow 101 fridge lesson is to buy small quantities and only enough for a short time. What else do you have to do but go shopping every week? Not a bad way to get out and about and to meet people in this solitary existence called the single life. If it is possible, given spoilage, family packaging that can be taken apart and repacked is one solution. Buying a stock of Lean frozen dinners isn't cheap but if you don't want to eat sandwiches on the granite every night, it does force one to take out plates and cutlery and a napkin and sit at the table like other civilized folk at dinner. After throwing out dried up cheese, soggy cucumbers, wilted lettuce and turning milk, you learn. Cudoes to the suppliers who make small quantities without the "senior" label and call them single sustenance or something similar. It would be nice to see such as milk in pints, packaged meats for one and half dozen cartons of  eggs. In the meantime, we singles haunt the loose vegetable bins, grab the small packets and jars and somehow get by without tossing out too many remainders.  My dream is to see empty air around everything in my fridge but being a cooking freak, I find I  must have the olives, the anchovy paste,  the exotic cheeses and the chutneys, the mustards and sauces. Fortunately pricing calls for them to come in small sizes. One handy innovation is tomato paste in a tube. Now that makes sense when all you need in some dishes is a hint of tomato. One wise single I know goes one step further and cooks a full meal, then makes up her own frozen meals on wheels sans wheels. My fear of boredom in eating the same thing for days at a time behoves that plan. My friend, the potato, is the most versatile of the veggy fraternity. Fry it, bake it, mash it, salad it, pancake it or shepherd pie it, it's king. And the greatest king of all is the Russet. And then there are frozen small sweet peas and the ever present carrot. These are royalty.  A ninety year old neighbour of mine, continues to do  her own cooking using skill and a skillet. In goes  a little water,  meat, the veggies and all is simmered in slow time sprinkled with her windowsill herbs and at the end, thickened with some cornstarch. The appetizing olio is poured into a pretty bowl and dinner is served.

Blaming Mrs. Simpson

What braver or more honest love can a man have for a woman than to give up his throne to be with her, turning his back on the disapproval of his kin and country's duty to make a decision to be with the "woman he loves" over all else?  Edward and Mrs. Simpson's love is another example of the Romeo and Juliet tale. But, as always, the woman bears the brunt of the blame in this kind of setting. Mrs. Simpson was berated by the press and thus public, for being the temptress and instigator of the romance.  Edward got off with public pity and head-shakings while Mrs. Simpson was hated. And while this matter would not be a similar issue today, given  our times and events fairly recent, women are still held responsible in matters of the triangular heart. There is proof. Are not women in other countries, and even here, stoned or branded or arrested while the "offending" male skulks off  to hide, untouched and frequently, pitied. It appears that only females can be called guilty. If you have ever been in a similar situation, you realize this attitude remains at ground level, indelible. But why? Every family or societal group, has in its midst, a tainted female who is rejected or clucked at or shunned, very often while she is the innocent party but, traditionally, is  blamed. The male gets away with sympathy for being taken in by such a female.  Fortunately, woman are much stronger and more resilient when it comes to love. She can withstand the foolish disapprovals. It's historical if one cares to check out examples. Mrs. Simpson got her man - and her man got her. At ground-level, that's what was desired and that's what happened notwithstanding. Public disapproval only served to cement the two as great lovers forever in history. On analyzing the matter of public reaction, however, and how it works, it is likely that the woman is considered the weaker of the two sexes, thus easier to place public ire and chagrin upon her rather than on the man. The move smacks of cowardice and truly, only cowards would deign to have an understanding of this kind of love and "think outside the box" . Fortunately, today there is greater intelligence and cooler heads about matters of the heart and lovers, no matter how difficult their feelings are for others to fathom, are able to turn aside such old-fashioned re-actions branding them as ignorant and archaic.

Love Lately?

A widow has a chance to observe other singles since most of her melee are these. In the older range, women singles are mostly out there hoping for the ideal male to come along on his white charger and whisk her off to his castle in the sky. I have yet to see that happen. What I do see, consistently, are desperate ,"hungry eyed" females doing anything and everything to find their man. They get a make-over, a new hair-do, up-dated wardrobes and worse, join "meet markets". And then there are the pretend-married women who go with a man for years acting as "the wife" with no hope of a certificate. One sad, thin, chestnut auburn, member of a "meet market",  told me about her first dozen or so experiences in the man-hunt game. "We met for coffee but I knew he didn't like me right from the first."  To me, that is the most demeaning kind of thing anyone could tolerate. First, to be so desperate as to put oneself out there for "sale" is embarrassing. Second, to have to meet under  artificial circumstances is tragic and third, to sit and converse with a guy  with whom you obviously got an F for failure on your personal self, is disgusting. These individuals' reasons for sinking to such levels is apparently loneliness. Loneliness is that empty space and silence you meet when you come home. It's sitting in your parlour watching television or reading and there is no one with whom to discuss the material. There is just you for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Going out? Forget it. A table for one at a restaurant even though you read a book, is worse than your own dinner table set for one. So what to do? First of all, get out somewhere. Go shopping, have coffee on your own, join things such as classes, groups and sport events. Just get out there and most of all enjoy yourself. Nothing is more attractive than smiles and laughter. It is highly unlikely you are going to find a male companion at your age anyway, to be brutally frank, so give it up. Even if you do find one, he is likely to be in questionable physical shape. Some of the old men looking for a woman want a housekeeper/gardener and nurse. There are much worse things than loneliness. Cases of women involved in family squabbles, the new old woman being the intruder according to the off-springs' limited concepts, occasions when the man is abusive after  the marriage, aging health matters: all of these are realities that can make late love problematic. Perhaps it is best to simply enjoy friendships and companionship and leave the late love to the few lucky ones who do find it.

Good-bye Dolly

Came across my old doll the other day. Yes, doll singular. I had only one doll. Her name was Belinda and Belinda, although rather worn in spots and the rubber bands that hold her arms and legs and allow them to move, are much stretched. Resting on the bodice of her little dress of red and white gingham is a gold filled locket with a picture of Mother and Father inside. Belinda's eyes continue to open when she is up and close when she is lying down. The paint on her bisque body has faded and is marred here and there but she remains my "baby doll". She is formed as a  three-quarter-size new born. But her shape is that of a healthy six month old. She arrived one Christmas, and from that one on, each winter holiday, there were prams, cribs and small furnishings including a sofa and chair built by my mother. My sister and I had identical dolls we truly loved. Hours on end we played with our bisque babies. In that time, many girls had more dolls than one, but they were all of the baby kind.  With our dolls we imitated mothers we knew and gave our babies all the same maternal attentions. We changed their diapers, pretended to bathe them carefully, dressed them for bed and rising and allowed them naps and took them for rides in their buggies. We carried them like babies ought to be and at times, tried to teach our dolls to walk. We read them stories and had them visit other dolls for tea. We attempted to feed them. It didn't help their hollow insides when we gave them bottles filled with water.  Soon learning what a mess it made, we settled for imaginary food and drink for our charges. Today's dolls are most often adults and dress as such.  Barbies go places and do things.  My grand daughters had numerous wardrobes and their Barbies enjoyed racks of elegant party dresses. Their hair was curled and their shoes and jewelry selected. Little girls today have put aside baby care and entered the world of fashion. Questions are no longer, how do you put on a baby sweater but are now, what does a woman wear for her date with the male doll? What dress is appropriate for each occasion and what accessories match and are suitable?  Dolls skate and shop, ride horses and go water skiing. They attend rock concerts and debutante balls and get married any old day they wish. They have a bevy of bridal gowns. What they wear becomes the most important aspect of playing dolls. The child becomes a dresser and not a mother to her doll. I wonder when this happened and why? Is it a good thing or not?  The pattern has changed. Young women take courses in babysitting to learn baby care. In our day, it was modeled by mothers around us. Times have changed and the days of Belindas are over. Bye-bye dolly.

Forget Memoirs

There comes a time when your grandkids, if you have them, begin to drift off into their own lives and their visits are token. It's all quite natural. You remember when once your own life became so big, there was little time to do anything else but it. But the days of holding their little hands and telling them family tales and tucking them into bed with a kiss, are not wasted. Those times have already become part of their lives even if they are not aware of it now. It's all to the good. But before you get to the end of your life's trail, you want them to know who you were. Writing a memoir is not about dates and places, it's about how you felt about what you did and where and how you did it. Be honest. It's not about recounting the illustrious - or not - history of the family. Let's face it, no matter how many hours you spend gathering up a whole raft of names and dates called genealogy, hard as it is to do, it is not what is interesting to read about. Truly. That is something you pick up, browse and put down. It's only history and two dimensional and does not resonate. Write about the you that is you. That's what your family wants to hear. Reading what you felt and what you were, may be a surprise to your grand children. This is the stuff they will remember, not the string of dates and names in the genealogy. Tell your life - their reference from now on - how you felt about your parents and grandparents and why, tell them about your schooling and how that went, tell them about your marriage truths and about their parents and what really occurred with them, tell them about the love or not you had for your mate or mates. Tell them the raw story. It will enlighten, not destroy. You owe them truth.  Tell it like it is. You'll be dead when the memoir falls into their hands so let the chips fall where they may. Chips start a fire and family is about warmth and closeness. These days we cover up our lives with imaginative over-sweet frosting all decorated with falseness,  to hide the bare truth we are so afraid of.  It is our duty to be honest, to be frank and to be what we truly are - or were. Forget organizing and chronologicalising and just write those stories but make sure they are not fiction. Put them together in a box somewhere to be discovered and when you're gone, let your family know the real you that is part of the real them.

Relative Peace

Some people say there are cousins in every corner. That is almost true but my cousin supply is dwindling these days. Many have moved away or have died or are too old to drive. With eight aunts and uncles on either end of my parents, their off-spring supplied me with dozens of cousins. In those days, none of us lived and worked further than a hundred miles away from each other. While we made friends with the neighbourhood kids, our true friends were our cousins. We were closer to them than other children because we stayed, not at hotels, but at each others' homes. We took "holidays" at our cousin's places. People did not get into campers and go off unless a flotilla of relatives went also. Aunts and uncles came to visit and along with them cousins poured out of back seats of cars and trucks and flew into our yard and we played. Yes, we actually played. There were no plastic parks or "play dates", we just headed out to the bushes and ran around  or jumped rope or got out the board games. We made forts and climbed trees and unfortunately stole apples or plums from the yards of the rich who had orchards and knew it was us or we went to the park and worked out at what we called baseball. We had fun and at eventide and when it was suppertime, we sat at the kid table installed at the end of the big people table. We gabbled about our own matters and paid no attention to the serious talk of the adults. Children in those days were seldom seen and never heard. We had our own lives and freedoms without a lot of parental interference or organized sport schedules. We slept in close quarters, often in the same big double beds. Here we told secrets and giggled over family tales. As we grew up and became more formal in our relationships, we retained a closeness that made us realize "blood is thicker than water". We are still close and although, at times, there are minor falling-outs, we continue to support each other and care about each life. When someone is sick or dies, we are there. Divorce happens but the relative that once was, still is and is not left out. All legals are put aside. Even today with cousins marrying people who live in other provinces or countries and who have families, we feel the same about each other. At family reunions, the cousins bring their children and grandchildren, some with great grandchildren. You can see the family resemblances and hear some of the learned phrases. You recall the enhanced tales of childhood. You see how loved the young ones are and wish they could know each other as we did. If it is a country reunion and there are woods about, we see these newies crash about as we did and it makes us smile and remember. Sadly, at dinner, out come the social killers, those devices, the hand-held nasties and the children turn into zombies with faces that say nothing and mouths that don't speak to another warm human right next to one. At the end of the day, each family goes off to their own tent or RV or house and there is no  sleeping next to the kid who knows what you mean when you hurt or are glad or have something you want to ask.  "Relative peace" that once was is no more. And we wonder where gangs come from, the new-age "cousins"?

Hug Mug Slug

I am not a hugger. I hug people I sincerely wish to hug, not those I have to according to a passé tradition that is now a mere gesture and means nothing. I won't even touch the subject of the comedic air kiss. But there are times when the hugging routine becomes fodder for foolish women desperate for affection and who see the event as recompense for their lonely married lives.  I think of a particular woman I met for the first time at a dinner party the other day. As my date and I entered the house, she flew at my man, arms out-stretched and crawled up his front to plant kisses all over his face while groaning and grabbing. Shocked, I waited some time for her slobbering to stop. I think she was setting a world record for holding and if on a rugby field, would have received a penalty. Should I have been the ref, it would be a yellow card at least. I was embarrassed for her. And her husband must also have been, as he stood in the audience trying to appear amused. When the attack was over, I promised myself that next time, I would have to take action. Ordinarily, I am lady-like, but I could see that my role of being a polite individual that my mother would be proud of, would have to change. Various scenarios entered my mind as we crunched our way through dinner, this kisser woman being seated next to my date while I was located at the other end of the table via those horrid name-tag thingies. I fancied next time she went at my date, a long hat pin directed to a location low on her horizon or perhaps a sharp pinch to her inner arm, the one raised to my date's shoulder would be effective. Then again, perhaps my pointy-toe shoe might do damage in the shin area of her skinny shank. While that wouldn't be subtle enough, maybe a stray ice-cube down her backless dress to cool her ardour may work. No that is messy. So is a glass of red wine, but no that would spoil her boring pret-a-porter dress. I thought if I stood by the display and held up my watch and counted the seconds or took a photo on my i phone,  that might quell her desperations. Alas, at the end of the evening, as we all bid each other farewell,  there she was again doing her 20 second smooch and all I did was suffer blandly, the picture of decorum. If you have any better ideas, I would love to hear them. For next time.

New Women?

Just read an article about how women, and men, have changed. It said that the "new woman" does not like to commit, that she is a career oriented female who doesn't need a man even to bear children and that if she did have one, perhaps the "changed man" could take maternity, well, paternity leave and rear the children while she trotted off to work each day in her black suit and Mercedes. It recounted tales of women who date males only for temporary entertainment and when the guy becomes "broody", dump him and fast. Commitment not necessary.  The words of the article were followed by a questionnaire that asked if one thought  that the roles of men and women had changed or perhaps, inter-changed. It didn't take long to answer, "no". Of course not. Changes have taken place out of necessity. Women are amazons because men have changed, not the other way around. Of course, a career woman will play the field ( as always) but when she happens on the right man, the one who fits her psyche perfectly, she will revert to her true hormonal self and while not denying her professional role, become a wife/ career person. She will be a very good wife person who loves her husband and family but finds herself a hostess, a mother and a lover of her man. There are career women who simply do not find that man and these are the ones about whom the author of the article writes. Why have woman developed into the "career" person? Mostly, it is because of men. Bad men. Men don't seem to have the same ability to remain true to a single female. Most of them, not all, can't keep their yen for variety down. About middle age, they begin to fade out of the domestic picture and scan the horizon. Proximity is usually what occurs to break up the domestic scene. Woman have learned from others and their own experiences, therefore, to avoid commitment. They have learned to protect themselves by becoming a career woman and doing it alone. Men and their behaviours taught them. If you don't agree, find out how many of the career bent females you know began a serious career after their divorces, having gone back to work or school to make themselves over. How many traditional marriages failed after unfaithfulness? And how many stuck regardless? Touché.