Floral Fakes Work

Why do I love condo life? At this widow wisdom time in my journey, I do not want to garden or impress neighbours with decor. I live for me, myself and I. It is not selfishness, it's selfness. One of my pet places to be, is on my sun deck. This is an old low rise building, well maintained but spaciously endowed with units that are mostly  redone and well appointed. All are owned, just like houses. Others in my building fancy their street facing, big window units as ideal, but my secret is that where I am on the shady side, away from the street and facing only an outside, seldom-used walkway of the building opposite, affords me more privacy, quietness away from the busy thoroughfare and the delights of choice in what I put on my deck. One must follow the rules. Our rather bureaucratic council demands or as one told me, she "will enforce the bylaws for the intergrity of the community". Whatever that means. My relatively large deck is my go-to place, away from the rollicking world outside. It affords me seagull watching, reading endlessly, yummy bbq, and a little star gazing notwithstanding the blazing security lights next door. My plants are all fakes. I am in a forest of tall leafy trees, a covey of ivy covered trellises with the glass railing in bamboo and wandering leaf. My deck floor is rain safe fake green football grass. When I go out  my only real gardening is a shelf of pots that offer me herbs for cooking, all summer. My big umbrella gives me shelter from hot summer rays and my swinging basket chair rocks me. My fake flowers look real until you touch them. They change with the seasons but they take no water and live all winter rain or shine. If they fade, they're replaced. They offer me shade, static beauty  and a feeling of being in a garden.  Little birds, that I do not feed, often come to my bird bath water and stay to admire a shade they don't quite understand, but somehow, like. 

Election Correction

 Political candidates need to correct their ignorances.  Why would I want to receive recorded phone calls from someone running for office? Do they think I will be swayed to vote for them hearing a voice yapping on and on about how marvellous they are? Not without details. Not without questions. Voters aren't children. Why bother my day with a ringing call, that when I pick it up, I hear a political voice yakking on and on about how miraculously he or she will change everything for the better? Without details, these are fairy tales. Nor do I vote by looking at signage or posters with mug shots on them. These expensive things are a waste of money. If you want to knock on my door and speak to me in person, I would very much appreciate that effort. If you debate issues with your fellow candidates on media, I might be impressed with how you handle yourself in a debate which is what happens in the parliament buildings. Talking isn't action but it is the game played.  It seems that politicians think we voters are voting fingers without brains. Give me your personal presence. Give me print. Give me in the print, your platform that shows me your tactics to make things happen if and when you are elected. Provide facts and figures, and don't make promises without them. I want to see your research, hear your honesty in how you will carry out what you say and believe. Give me facts not fantasy, not pretty pictures and slogans. The bigger and more expansive the promise, the more proof I need of how you will do right and find the money to do what you say, when governments apparently work in deficit. I need hope, not dreams. I need to hear, not criticism of your fellow candidates or what happened in the past, but exactly how you plan to make changes that are advantages to me personally, if and when you are elected. One political acifianado called me and when I told her at the outset, I had no intention of sending  money, and she went on to ask me the same question for a donation, four times in different ways. No means no. My feeling is that if you want to run for office, you pay. It's your bag. Carry it.

De-voguing

 As we all know, denim denotes Stateside people even though it originated in France. Along came the US and adopted it as a work fabric. Farmers and cowboys especially loved it. As I recall, in my teen years, we trooped down across the Canadian border that is not "an imaginary line", to buy jeans. Jeans were made of denim, a US "thing". The other day, paging onto THE online fashion magazine that is usually the site of the most ridiculous looking garments you can imagine, and is also the nouveau movie mag to view fakery glam faces smiling  through their implants. I saw a photo titled "The Canadian Tuxeo". The actress in the photo was wearing "The Canadian Tux" that from top to bottom, was a rather boring two piece pant suit of light blue denim. I suppose it was thought to be yet another insult to Canadians as is part of a current trend by our former allies. After unsubscribing to this large and mostly useless to the average person, magazine online, I looked up the term, "denim". As it turns out, whoever wrote the article obviously had no idea that denim was adopted by the US as its favorite work suit. Not Canadians. The writer needs a heads up and advice to please research before publishing. I am not into the curret tariff war, but this outlet for fashion that only the very rich can afford, has obviously entered into the fray. Seeing who publishes the fash mag, makes it abundantly clear why this goofy article got past the editor of the mag, if there is an editor. There certainly are a host of photographers and  models in it, most of whom are movie stars. Seeing who the owners of the mag are, made it clear why the insulting caption. Cowboys love denim. Not me, not anymore.