I must be starting to feel better as I am typing again.
Perhaps I need to hear the sound of my voice tapping in my head….it has been a very quiet week.
I woke up remembering a promise I made and failed to keep: I declared that when the rains came I would stand up and defend the right to dance in the rain. I would take to the garden and twirl and splash and then we would all go bowling. For isn’t bowling the best of all rainy day games?
But I did neither. The rains came late at night and carried on through the dark hours and when the sun came up and rains stopped the urge to bowl and dance was no more.
So now I will probably have to wait 7 months to keep my promise.
On the domestic front, with little to report and digging for something good, Princess and Trooper have discovered The Gilmour Girls. Remember that? They are half way through season two and I am catching snippits while I walk through the living room enroute to the kitchen/bathroom/bed. It is making me believe I am back in Montreal and it is Sunday night. Was it Sunday night? I can’t believe back in those days we had to wait a whole week to watch the next episode. No flick of the remote to move forward a week. My girls watched 10 years of Friends in 5 months! It was like fast forwarding through Jennifer’s Hair, Matthew’s Weight and the Evolution of Jeans from too high waisted to low and hippy.
Today I am going to take a thick black sharpie and place a juicy tick next to an item on my list. Princess is going to the Orthodontist.
Why I am so undomesticated? The little sewing project that I undertook, worked, only just and at some cost to my already feeble sanity. Most people would have whipped those spaghetti straps into shape with a couple of sharp moves of a knuckle and the sound of some thread being snapped between two teeth. I had to ask handsome green eyes to thread the needle first and then I had to do some messy guessing work with threading and knotting and where to start. It has got me thinking about matters of a domestic nature.
Some women are domestic goddesses and some are not. I was nearly one for a while back there in Montreal, I think I even made home made donuts at one point. Certainly my oven always had something in it and I was quite crafty with an icing pipe. But those days seem a distant rumour now. Where and how do people learn to be naturally domestic? I didn’t know how to boil an egg until I was 22 and I baked my first cake for my 30th birthday, I blame it all on my mother as one is wont to do in these circumstances. She was a highfalutin business women and we had a wonderful woman at home called Perlita who took care of everything. (Did I mention I was an expat brat? )So I never watched my mother, clad in an apron with flour smudged cheeks baring a rolling pin in one hand and a knitting needle in the other. We never had a garden and little pots filled with soil were too much trouble so I never learnt anything about planting and growing, seeds and watering and what not.
My mother is an excellent cook but she is an occasion cook who pulls her skills out of a hat when there is a dinner party or gathering of some sort that demands more that just M&S stir fry noodles. So I never learnt a stitch from her and I fear I might be leading Princess and Trooper down the same garden path, a path with no pretty flowers all in a row.
I wish I was domestic. I really do. I make a wicked lasagna and brownies, and soup and salad can be quite fun but when I stumble across one of those blogs with a name like Juniper and Velvet and I see gorgeous pistachio and cranberry granola bars sitting next to ricotta and cream cheese muffins I just groan. I cannot make anything out of material or marzipan, I cannot whip up a cute knitted baby bonnet for a friend or play any musical instruments. And while we are on this line of thought, what of sports? I cannot catch a frisbee, play tennis or do any sports at all, quite frankly. I cannot.
Is it too late?