31 December 2016

Blimey 2016 went by quick! Good thing really as the year wasn't that great for most of us. OK, the Brexit result in June was definitely cause for joy and celebration...until it became clear the road to restoration of sovereignty and end to vassalhood to the loonies at Brussels was going to be extremely rocky (Gina Miller, you are the dictionary definition of useful idiot!). But really, the rest of the year was so dreary, so bleak, so completely disheartening - I'm thrilled it's over and dare to hope 2017 is going to be a MUCH happier year for most of us - Remoaners can just suffer for all I care!

The end of the year has been especially harsh with the spate of deaths in both public and private life. I honestly got to the point last week I stopped opening the newspaper on/offline or watching the news for fear I'd see another beloved public figure or friend had passed away. I'm 60 now and people my age I actually know and love ARE dying off. OK, look, I knew at 17 people were going to start popping their clogs with regularity once I reached a certain age, so I've been expecting to hear/read/see people in my private sphere dying off. I had a dear friend once say to me I was born an old lady because I acknowledged the ageing process early on - got my 'mid-life crisis' done and dusted on my 21st birthday, for example. The saddest bit about that anecdote is we were 19 when he said that and three years later I was laying flowers on his grave - he was killed in the line of duty and yes, it still hurts all these years later.

And dying so are public figures I don't know personally but enjoy following (within reason, of course - I'm not into autographs or 'meet and greets' or stalking, eew!). HUGE shocker about Carrie Fisher AND Debbie Reynolds - I first saw Fisher in Shampoo and did think she scene-stole from Warren Beatty every frame, and I grew up on Debbie Reynolds' movies, from Singing in the Rain to her last film, I saw every piece she performed in. She had a voice like velvet, seemed such a decent person, and the way she forgave Elizabeth Taylor for home-wrecking was SUCH a beautiful thing to have done - Debbie Reynolds was something of a role model for me and her dying the way she did just knocked me for six.

I'm pretty much the anti-celeb but Carrie Fisher was my age - she was only two months younger than me and while I never had or wanted the celeb lifestyle that included drug abuse, I did think of her as a fellow traveller on this bizarre journey, especially when she was told she'd have to lose a lot of weight to reprise her role as Princess Leia - oh boy can I relate and now she's died of a heart attack rumoured to have been brought on by the rapid weight loss and effort to keep the weight off. Right up to the moment she suffered the heart attack on her long-haul flight back from Blighty to Los Angeles, I usually went to bed each night praying I'd wake up the next day miraculously 50lbs lighter...uhm, not any more. Slow and steady, I really want to live much, much longer!

So, it's New Years Eve. Yes, I've made my resolutions. No, I'm not going to list them here (or anywhere except my head and heart:) but I have made them. Update on the ones I made last year - job done, I'm happy to report!

2017 - BRING IT! Especially, please, bring Peace on Earth and Goodwill towards us all. FFS, can't we just all get along?!

26 November 2016

The boogeyman is dead - Fidel Castro has died aged 90.

I was born in August 1956. For my generation in America, Fidel Castro was the boogeyman and now he's gone. My grandchildren, the oldest being 12 years old, have grown up with a different boogeyman (probably Putin, or Trump for the sick-making leftie luvvies) but for my generation, Castro was the man we were raised to fear would come out from under the bed or spring from the closet to terrorise us if we misbehaved.

I even remember 'the grown-ups' huddled around the telly for what seemed to me FOREVER at the time as the Cuban Missile Crisis unfolded before our very eyes. I remember hearing the 'B*stard!' and worse aimed at Castro - not that Khrushchev wasn't damned and cursed at the same time but with far less vehemence. I distinctly recall several of the adults murmuring something about Turkey and Italy (where the US had deployed armaments) as being something of a provocation to the Soviets. Those murmurings were followed up quickly with angry, shocked proclamations against Castro for falling in with the Russians and thereby putting the West into terrible danger.

We had a bomb shelter - nearly everyone with a garden did. Ours was cleverly disguised as a root cellar. My aunts, step-mother, and older sister scurried back and forth to load in blankets and clothing, check the water supply was functioning and the air vents were unclogged. All the while cursing Castro for endangering all of us.

My dad and uncles, their preparations completed once the convoy of farm trucks and other vehicles were tucked up in the barn with full petrol tanks and the log stores moved from convenient locations near the house to hidden spots to protect the seasoned wood, were on the edge of the sofa or pacing the living room as they focussed on the television and radios. 'NBC Radio is reporting...', one of the uncles or my brother would shout to the room, the women stopping their scurrying to check the latest updates. We smaller children were sent to the root cellar under the nearly hysterical supervision of my older sister (then aged 18 and about to go into convent - she was furious with Castro for killing her before she'd had a chance to take her initial vows as a nun and cursed him for it every bit as vehemently as the 'real grown-ups' were cursing him) every time things seemed to be especially dangerously close to eruption (launching of the missiles).

Castro. Our boogeyman.

Of course, we survived the Cuban Missile Crisis. But Castro remained our boogeyman - my father, like so many fathers, went to his dying day still cursing Castro. When Obama reopened relations with Cuba I was shocked - how on Earth could Obama have done such a thing?! In my eyes Obama had just flung open the cupboard door and invited the boogeyman to tea complete with us as the teacakes, ffs! If I'm honest (and I do try to be), in my opinion soon after Obama moved into the Oval Office he outed himself as, erm, perhaps the worst POTUS ever but reopening relations with Cuba, in my opinion, just took the biscuit. Castro was the boogeyman - thousands had died trying to escape Castro's Cuba, did their lives and the reasons they fled just not mean anything to Obama?!

And now Castro has died. His brother, Raul, considered to be far more 'reasonable and moderate', has been in charge for years. Raul Castro may end up in history as far worse than Fidel ever was but Raul Castro never going to be The Boogeyman to any generation.

That distinction is reserved for his brother Fidel, and now Fidel is dead.

18 November 2016

A little over eight months ago I fell - badly - in our front hallway, dislocating my right (of course I'm right handed!) shoulder and biceps, 'jamming' my collarbone,  and breaking my elbow and three of the five fingers on my right hand. And later, when I went private, the catalogue of injuries mounted beyond the NHS determination of 'No big deal, you've dislocated your right shoulder and while you were waiting for xray, it slipped back into place by itself, so take two paracetamols and...'.

My injuries turned out to be far, far more than a simple self-resolving dislocation. When I went private and the intake nurse listened to me recount my fall, things finally took a turn for the better - full scans and xrays revealed a two page list of injuries, the consultant said it looked as though I'd been in a car or train wreck. In addition to the NHS diagnosis of a simple dislocated shoulder, the private care team found the dislocated biceps (which worried them the most, I discovered much later), the broken fingers and elbow, the jammed collarbone. They also found I'd bruised my bladder in the fall, and done some damage to my left kneecap - fortunately the knee seems to have healed quickly, so at least I was mobile in those first horrific weeks! Er, when I could move without shrieking from the pain in my right arm-shoulder-clavicle, that is. I only noticed the pain in my fingers when I tried to dry my hands - one of those 'Oh yeah, I hurt those too!' moments there. The bruised bladder meant, well, let's just say eight months on I STILL can't be too far from the bathroom if I've had more than a sip of water!

I'm not going to waste a lot of time moaning about the total cock-up at the local hospital but it will be a freezing cold day in hell before I trust the NHS again. It took going private to find out the extent of my injuries, and to set a treatment plan that didn't include surgery but did include dedication on the part of the medical team to restoring as much (and more) function as possible. Given the prognosis (owing to the monumental failure by the NHS service I foolishly entrusted myself to at first) of 60-75% restoration of function, the fact that I have 85% function restored is AMAZING, and down to the fine team members (primarily the orthopaedic consultant and the AMAZING physiotherapists) who compassionately but firmly kept/keep me going. Yeah, I still hurt now and again, and will always believe if the NHS had bothered to fulfil their obligation to 'duty of care' I might not have the near constant ache in my collarbone, the pain in my elbow when I bend my arm too quickly...

The first week after the injury is a blur of remembered horrific pain and waking several times a night (and day - I went into shock and after that was addressed, I spent a considerable part of that first week sleeping). EVERYTHING hurt, it was almost as bad as post-op when I had C-sections (medically mandated, I'm not one of those convenience cows!), in fact, come to think of it the pain with my right side injuries was actually worse. At least with the C-sections I had my infants and the reasonable expectation of full recovery. With my wrecked arm-shoulder-clavicle the prognosis wasn't that good. So along with pain, there was a very fear of a very limited future just when I was entering that last stage of middle-age and beginning the downward descent into being 'a senior citizen'. For the first time EVER in this life, I understood what 'being old' meant - and it scared the bloody hell out of me.

I clocked the prognosis even through the haze of shock and pain - I knew it wasn't good and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't frightened and depressed. A large part of the fear and depression was brought on by knowing Paul completely unable to cope. I needed nursing and I'm SO kicking myself even eight months on for not taking the doctor's advice to go into hospital for the first few days! At the very least meals would have been brought, and the mechanical bed would have made the thought of getting out of bed to exercise (walking even the little bit I could meant my lungs stayed clear), or using the bathroom less, well, fraught. Seriously - getting in and out of bed with my upper right side hideously painful AND useless was nearly always more than I could contemplate.

Paul's Asperger's means he means well but is not up to the challenges inherent in caring for a wife short or long-term. He's the one needing a carer (not an easy job, really, considering he hates knowing he needs a carer and will need even more caring for as he ages). Yeah, I should have taken up the offer of hospital care. At least for that first week.

Right. It was not pleasant (oh, the understatement!). But...but every day I could see and feel improvement. Something I couldn't do one day I could the next. Exercises at physio I saw others doing and was sure I'd never have that much mobility again - well, I'm doing most of them now:) Even now, eight months later, I reach milestones: WOOT, today I brushed my teeth with my right hand! WOOT, today I pulled on a jumper without crying in pain! WOOT, today I took a lightweight parcel from the postie without dropping it! WOOT, today I rode in the car for 30 minutes without my entire right side screaming in agony! WOOT - WOOT - WOOT, today I thought I might be able to resume driving in the next month or so (the consultant isn't as sure about this as I am:).

Interestingly, had this happened to me when I was a younger person I might not have fared as well as I have - older now, and knowing my limitations, I knew better, for example, than to try showering until the online ordered shower seat arrived. I very highly recommend shower seats. The consultant and physio first ruled out tub baths completely - too risky to try getting in and out of the bath. In fact they told me I probably shouldn't ever think about a tub bath again - not a problem, I haven't had a tub bath in 45 years! Showers, d'uh - who wants to sit in bathwater, eeeew!

Once they understood I understood tub baths were a never again and I'd be showering for the rest of my natural life, they made me repeat the following mantra until they were sure it was engraved on my brain: Stand to soak - sit to soap! Harder than it sounds, surprisingly. Stand to soak, well, that's not hard, I could stand under a hot shower spray to soak all day. But it's such an instinct to reach for the soap, flannel, and brush while standing there! Their insistence I repeat the mantra paid off - I'd catch myself reaching for the soap whilst still standing, hear the mantra in my head and shift the shower seat into position. And yes, I'm still using the shower seat. I will for the rest of my life - dunno how I got along without it!

We're moving once the house sells, and the next house will have three things fitted before moving in - a fold down shower seat, a dishwasher, and a tumble dryer. I've regained enough use of my right arm to be able to do the washing up but it's still not the simple matter it once was, and the thought of climbing those narrow riser steps up to our back garden terrace to hang out laundry fills me with such dread! I do have indoor drying racks including a very clever reproduction of a Victorian hanging rack but I still can't reach my arms up to the top of these racks comfortably and as a consequence the laundry is piling up. A tumble dryer would be a huge help to keeping to the laundry done. Another 'new house must have' is a level, walk-out entry/exit, garden - no steps so when I can safely carry a laundry basket and reach high enough to peg out laundry I can just walk out the door to the clothesline (I use an 'umbrella' style line, so much more efficient!)

I honestly don't think I'll ever be able to play tennis again, and I know in my bones I'll never be able to tie an apron behind my back again.

But never say never - I'm doing things today I would have sworn yesterday I'd never do again!

05 November 2016

The iceman cometh...it's Guy Fawkes Night morning, and sleet is hitting the house and windows. SO COLD we kept the heaters on all night last night, BRRRRRR cold - GRRRRRR to the coming electric bill!

We went down to Arbroath Victoria Park late yesterday afternoon and it was simply too cold to get out of the motor to walk along the promenade. Yes, we were cosily bundled up including hand knitted hats and hand crocheted gloves (SO glad I finally learned to knit, and SO glad the mittens and gloves crocheted last year are still lovely!) but we were so cosy in the car we just couldn't force ourselves out into the blustery winds. I did get a lovely photo through the windscreen though (see below).

Also presented here is what's on the lap frame this month. I have two embroidery projects going - this one on the frame which is a table runner/dresser scarf, and a Christmas design (photos to come on another blog post) in the 10 inch hoop. And of course I'm working on a crochet project - this time a pair of gloves for Paul...that I'm avoiding as I have to rippit back to the cuff section, sigh.

Paul is busy as well - he did over the bathroom and WOW, why did we endure that horror for six years is what I'd like to know! Nothing terribly fancy, we had a plumber in to change the over-bath electric shower (the old one finally gave out - not even a trickle from it and once the new one was in - OMGsh, WOW-WOW-WOW, water pressure!! Best shower I've had outside a hotel EVER!) sanitary-ware and hand-wash basin mount then Paul went in there and decorated (painted to my American readers:).

Dark sage green 3/4s of the way up the way to pick up the tiling over the bath, a medium grey band (2 inches) to pick up the chrome on taps and other 'furniture' (what the British call door knob/handles, towel bars, etc), and a creamy 'magnolia' to pick up the slight hints of gold(ish) in the bath tiles. The same grey on the wood floors goes down on the wood floor in the spring - it's now too cold to try painting a floor in NE Scotland - personally I think we should just pick up some inexpensive (yeah, I mean cheap(ish) floor tiles and just 'get 'er done' but heigh ho, Paul's in charge...

TIP: when marrying an Aspie, it's best to be sure you're marrying a rich one so you can hire in jobs - otherwise the work drags out for MONTHS and even YEARS! The truth of why it took so long to transform the one and only bathroom in this bungalow from 'Tijuana Texaco bathroom' (if you've been there, you know exactly what I mean!) to bathroom a person can bear to use comfortably is...we couldn't agree a decorating scheme or even a plumber to change out the fixtures.

I'm very sadly serious. I walked into that horror 19 August 2010 and immediately walked out saying - 'That entire bathroom has GOT to go!' and six years on, it has:)

Quick note on the current affairs here...Nicola Sturgeon (Scottish First Minister) continues to bluster and threaten (and I continue to pray Paul and I experience a miracle and can move South of The Wall - the woman and her SNP have made Scotland both a hellhole and a global laughing stock), Theresa May (UK Prime Minister) is facing an onslaught of 'the honeymoon is definitely over' attacks on her ability to lead Britain through the Brexit process, Nigel Farage is hoped to be on the verge of returning full-time to saving Britain, and Boris Johnson is proving himself a rather uniquely abled Foreign Secretary who should be PM if there is any justice at all in this world.





19 October 2016

Oh, the things kids do!

Yes, I know, my oldest is 39 years old. So given her age one would suppose her no longer a kid and possessing of a modicum of good sense, no?

Apparently the answer as regards my 39 year old daughter is...

No.

Over the weekend she told my step-mother, The Wicked Witch Of The West (please, just trust me. The word 'toxic' was invented to describe the woman I grew up calling Alice Capone) that I'd been tragically run over by a car.

I know my daughter meant well, but...

WTF was she thinking??!!

Ftr - I, Fox's Mom, am fully alive and well(ish). No tragic death by crosswalk mishap. I yet live.

I've had frantic phone calls and emails from friends I've trusted with my contact details (as in I can trust them to never-never-never-EVER divulge those details to The Wicked Witch) but there are those who don't keep up with me except via my blog (poor dears!) so for them I am here to say it is Wednesday afternoon (Scottish time), 19 October 2016, and I am alive.

And I promise I'll be especially careful crossing roads in the foreseeable future:) You know, just in case.

12 October 2016


The horrible truth is...

I really don't like counted cross-stitch. In fact, I don't like counted stitching at all (unless it's crochet).

Which isn't a good thing since I have several books, kits, and yes, unfinished projects in my cross-stitching bag. Including my latest attempts to force myself to like counted stitching - a complete set of Hardanger tools, equipment, and kits. Er, ah, uhm, and the two perforated 3D Christmas card kits. And the booklet written by the wonderful Meg Evershed meant to cause me to stop being so intimidated by the projects. (the booklet is VERY helpful, but I still hate counted stitching.)

But.



But it's time I confessed - I really don't like counted stitching. I can do it, I just don't enjoy doing it. 

Now, I will do the Christmas projects and I will finish the ones I've started (and then lost interest in) but then I will quietly re-home the rest of the cross-stitch magazines, chart books, kits, and supplies that can't be used for my recently reignited true love.



It's a long boring story (SIDEBAR NOTE: did I mention I've embraced BORING as a lifestyle? I have. Very refreshing and my blood pressure is under better control. I highly recommend BORING as a lifestyle choice.). Suffice it to say I learned to read, follow, and perform counted cross-stitch in my late 20s and as I enter my 60s I have FINALLY realised I fecking hate counted cross-stitch.



Just. Ain't. My. Thing!



Ok, clearly I've (late in life) discovered a shocking love of all things (well, nearly all) crochet. I do have my limits - there will be no crocheted dresses on my washing-up liquid bottles. And I still really do not like ripple afghans. But learning to crochet in the round has been such a joy, such a life-changing experience that I honestly do feel, well, bereft if I don't have a hook in hand.



Ahem. Told ya I've embraced BORING.



During the Malaysian Grand Prix (2 Oct 2016. Yes. I am a petrol-head) I taught myself to crochet a patternless oval. WOW!! And, erm, in the process (using a US7/4.5mm hook and 3W cotton) I gave myself 'crochet finger'. Big time - boy howdy did that finger swell and bruise and render me unable to crochet! In short - the way I hold a crochet hook puts a lot of pressure on that finger and the hook and stiff yarn worked together to put my crocheting on hold. Still, btw.



So I pulled out the counted cross-stitch Christmas card kits to get a head start on those two projects. GORGEOUS, space-savers, the two kits (Nutmeg Company), one of a village scene and the other the most simple yet stunning Nativity scene EVER, will be treasured Christmas decorations at my house for years to come. 

And...and couldn't force myself to start the projects. Honestly I think I'd pay someone to stitch those for me but I know I'm going to have to pull up the big girl pants and get those done. Soon. It's the middle of October now, more than less, and I want to display my creche and village space savers this Christmas.



But.



Not being able to crochet was driving me completely mad, and not being able to force myself to do those counted cross-stitch cards was no help.

 So I moved back to a 'stamped embroidery' table runner I've had on my lap scroll frame for months - started it last May but put it aside when I realised I needed to get some more crocheted blankets (full blankets, afghans are useless in Scotland!), and some body warmers (vests to the American readers) and some cardi and jumpers, and gloves...and when those were completed and ready for yet another Scottish autumn and winter, I decided we needed a crochet cotton bath rug to go in our newly renovated and decorated bathroom. And the oval got me.



So down from the shelf came the lap stand with the table runner that had winsomely beckoned me all spring and summer ('come on, kiddo, ya know ya wanna!') - yes, for months that dust-catcher had been caught in the corner of my crafty eye.

 By the 4th of October I was lost in the wonder of it, and on the 6th of October a back-order (two Rico Designs stamped 'Holly and Berries' place-mats, full surface embroidery kit including threads) arrived - by the evening of the 10th both place-mats were embroidered, washed, carefully pressed and ready for our Christmas Luncheon table.



On the morning of the 11th I was back at work on the table runner - what an absolute joy working stamped embroidery is!

 This morning I realise I have to confess, publicly - I really don't enjoy counted stitching but WOW do I LOVE embroidery! So much so I went online and ordered a plain 100% cotton 40x100cm table runner ready to accept the transfer of my choice for embroidery, and the flosses (Anchor, less tangling than DMC) I'll need to work an autumn glory.



I learned surface embroidery when I was about 13. By the time I was in my early 20s I had all the tools - hoops, gold needles, super-sharp pointy scissors shaped like storks, flosses of every colour known to needleworkers, and had worked out crewel, needlepoint (tapestry), etc, weren't what floated my boat - straight forward surface embroidery was.



By the time I was in my 30s I had all the stitch encyclopaedias worth owning. DAMN the loss of those books - but I'm slowly rebuilding and have managed to track down 2nd hand copies of the best ones I lost between the divorce, the hurricane (Ivan 2004), and the two-suitcase move to Scotland in 2010.



I've got most of the toolbox rebuilt. And this morning I woke up thinking I hate counted stitching, and wondering if I can get Paul (a fabulous artist) to draw something I can transfer to that plain cotton table runner. 

I still love crochet, and btw, the learning of crochet-in-the-round led to learning to knit, and I do love that I can actually knit socks (and hats and jumpers and...). But I REALLY love embroidery and if I'm honest, what I'm looking forward to is doing some cutwork, I used to REALLY love doing cutwork embroidery!

26 September 2016

Oh I do so hate when this happens - I woke up about a half hour ago from a bad dream. Bad dream? Why a bad dream? Anytime I dream of Crusty, it's a bad dream. And the dream involved Crusty. Long story short...

As usual with bad dreams, the setting was 'weird' - set in the late nineties or early (pre-9/11) 2000s. But with current thinking - Crusty asked about my husband Paul. But then he switched back to the years just after the divorce. As I wrote, it was a weird dream.

We were walking through an airport and he was asking me to use a skill I have (from my USCG days). But typical Crusty, whilst asking me to go waaaaaay out of my way to do something for him, he also insulted the hell out of me - he asked if I was working and I answered - 'No phone, no car, no job'. His reply was 'Good!' as though I deserved to be hanging on the cliff edge for what I'd done to him.

And I woke up. Angry. Hurt. It took me a few minutes to understand something - it's not that he lied so often and so long to justify all the hell he created for himself, me, and most of all for Fox, it's that people believed him and never once thought to ask me!

I lay there staring into the dark thinking 'I can't work out what hurt the worst, that he lied to people that I was the one at fault, or that people believed his outrageous lies.'

For the record - I'M NOT THE ONE WHO HABITUALLY CHEATED (and in addition to cheating with his friends wives and the odd airline stewardess, his primary cheat was with hookers, ick!). I NEVER CHEATED - I was a good and faithful wife and NEVER betrayed him. NEVER!

Also for the record, he was the biggest spendthrift on the planet - I worked SO hard SO many times to get us out of the truly horrific debt he created - and his response every time I got us 'back in black' was to dig us deeper into the red.

He was a terrible husband and father - there isn't enough room here to list all the ways and reasons why Crusty is best described as a psycho-sociopath. The worst thing he did was to use Fox as a chain, a weapon - every time I tried (from the time Fox was an infant in arms) to leave, Crusty put a virtual (and on occasion particularly towards the end) gun to our heads.

Using a child as a chain and weapon is EVIL - CONSUMMATE EVIL. End of. He'll answer to God for that.

Saying 'He lied and lied and lied and lied and...' just doesn't begin to cover it.

He lied. To every one. For years. After the divorce I found out he'd been lying to every one for the entire time we were together.

He lied.

And people believed him.

And in the dream, he too believed, he'd lied to himself and everyone else for so long he'd come to believe his lies so completely that hearing I was having troubles gave him a great deal of satisfaction. As though I deserved to suffer for what I'd put him through.

I believe in God. I believe Crusty's day will come and he will be unable to lie to himself any longer, and he'll have eternity to face the truth.

And while I know it's wrong - this morning I'm finding a bit of comfort and satisfaction at that.

Perhaps later on this morning I'll find the strength to pray that rat bastard saves his soul before it's too late but just now, all things considered, I am finding a bit of comfort in knowing Crusty will face God and finally have to answer for what he did to me, and most especially what he did to Fox.

And I know the answer to my question (what hurt worst) - people believed Crusty's lies. I don't think I'll EVER get over the hurt that people who knew me actually believed his filthy, savagely cruel lies.

For that, there is no comfort. I hope I never see any of them again in this or any other life. Ever. They didn't stop to think, they didn't bother to ask me. That's it - we're done.

The only people I care about are my children, my grandchildren, and my Asperger's, coeliac, idiopathic hypoglycaemic husband Paul.

11 September 2016

9/11

I wasn't going to post a new piece today - I've blogged before about 9/11 and thought this year I'd remember the day (and the days-months-years following) quietly. Without comment.

But.

But last night I finally watched the movie 'United 93'. It came out in 2006 and until last night I've not been able to bring myself to watch it.

And this morning (British Summer Time) on opening my email the first thing I saw was an article on one of the Patch feeds I follow (the one from New Jersey, USA). The article was about how 9/11 is taught and commemorated in schools.

And then I saw a piece on a different feed I follow about a California university history department head who ripped down commemoration posters students had placed around campus (Saddleback) saying the areas the posters had been placed aren't 'free speech zones'.

And I realised that despite this being the 15th anniversary of the most horrific attack EVER on American soil, an attack in which not only Americans but citizens of nearly every country on Earth lost their lives to a coordinated attack on freedom and democracy, has been deliberately muted, shuffled off to 'history' as something best brushed under the carpet and better left unmentioned to avoid (OMFG!) accusations of racism.

As if islam is a race (in case you didn't know, islam is a 'religion' of dubious origin and practices, and is most certainly NOT A RACE).

I'm female. I'm white (GASP - dare I say it?!). I'm Christian (insert another gasp here). I have Jewish ancestry (paternal granddad). I believe in 'gay rights'.

Oh yeah, baby, I'm everything the muslims hate.

Last night I found myself shouting at the screen - 'FILTH' every time one of the actors portraying the hijackers was on-screen.

This morning I found myself sputtering outraged at the Patch piece recounting how some teachers are using the horror of 9/11 to shove collective (and utterly unjustified) 'white guilt' down American schoolchildren's throats. Or mindless food oriented patriotic fervor. Or perhaps worst - that ultimately the evil Russians caused this when they invaded Afghanistan way back when (in the 1980s and 90s) so we should hate the evil Russians. Really - that's what one teacher focusses on for his students, that this is all Russia's fault. Sweet Jesus, we are sooooooooooooooooooo screwed!

Didn't help to read our resident commie Jeremy Corbyn (UK Labour Party leader) distinguished himself yet again with ambiguous, faintly damning expressions of sympathy for 'those suffering the terror and its aftermath' - ya know, 'cause we brought it on ourselves and so deserved to wake up that morning just in time to see the South Tower collapse knowing we'd just watched colleagues, friends, family DIE ON LIVE TV, ffs!

Meanwhile, muslimas flounce around in niqabs (yeah, it's true - West Midlands Police are seriously considering permitting the full-face veil and body bag (er, I mean the niqab and burka) as WPC official uniforms. For those who request it. How nice (she said in a voice drenched with sarcasm) the WPCs currently only able to wear their hijabs will henceforth be able to request to wear the identity-hiding niqab. More and more muslim males are prancing around our streets in their jimmie-jams. Nothing in the korny-ran helly book they follow demands the silly outfits but ffs don't say anything about their clothes and insane religious practices or you'll be a racist and lose your job-home-children. Seriously. I live in Scotland - and what I've written today on this blog could well have the Thought Polis to my door - there have already been arrests and prosecutions resulting in custodial sentences for the crime of calling a spade a spade.

Freedom of speech? Yer havvin a laff.

You know, because shariah law is the future, you infidel kaffir, so get with the programme of islamic overrunning of your countries.

Meh.

Meanwhile, so-called 'feminists' and large swaths of the same-sex oriented continue to proclaim themselves 'pro-islam' - I fecking despair.

Meanwhile...I could go on and on and on and on. I've lost 'friends' who think I'm horrible because I can see what is happening and I don't like it. Succinctly, if I wanted to be around muslims and shariah and flinging gays off towers and stoning rape victims, I'd go live in some muslim dominated country. I don't want to live that way so I live in the West...But

But across the US, the UK (where I now live and where countless generations of my gene pool have lived), and Europe, commemorations of 9/11 have been cancelled if planned at all in the first place.

This year, the 'rule' is - 'Don't Mention Islamic Terrorism!'

We're doomed.

29 August 2016

Me. At Sixty. I wasn't altogether certain I'd last this long - the Moody Blues song 'Never Thought I'd Live To Be 100' has been on mental continuous loop all weekend. Today is a bank holiday so tomorrow I'll take my 'proof of age and residency' down to the Access office and get my bus pass, the 60+ bus pass that means I can ride buses all over Scotland FOR FREE!! Total(ish) freedom - with that bus pass I can FINALLY go shopping down to Dundee alone! Actually, that bus pass means I can do a shopping trip or explore anywhere in Scotland and even to Carlisle. I may bus up to Caithness to visit the old home place, even.

I came over to the UK in August 2010 (meaning I've been here now six years) and while I do have a 'provisional' license I can't afford a driving course that would get me past my 40+years of driving in the US on the right side of the road in a left-hand motor and very rarely encountering roundabouts. I NEED a driving course because Paul's Asperger's makes him a horrible passenger and worse driving coach. Sigh. Still, I do have the provisional and in an emergency I know I could manage to drive us to a safe place.

Having the 60+ bus pass means real independence - WOOT WOOT WOOT!!

Oh dear. It's been nearly a year since my last post. Whoops. It's not even as though 'Life gets in the way' - if I'm honest, my life is, well, boring even by my definition. Perhaps more on that definition later...

Life does trundle on - in 2014 Paul was found to be an Aspie - and that REALLY took some adjustment on both our parts! He's 'typical' which means living with his condition takes a lot of work. I've changed - planning to do anything means days or weeks of pre-planning to avoid a meltdown. And losing my temper with his Aspie ways is a waste of time - that exasperation only results in him having the sulks for weeks.

He gets 'stuck' on activities, foods, and drinks, and as Paul's 'mystery illness' has finally been diagnosed as coeliac, him getting stuck on a particular food and/or drink has made things, ahem, difficult. He can't tolerate beer or spirits (mostly owing to the hops and malt). A year on and he's at a point where he concedes he 'doesn't miss' a pint and the Christmas-New Year bottle of single malt. Fizzy drinks (colas, etc) are heavily gluten-laden, we discovered, so he has to stick to fresh squeezed fruit juices, milk, coffee, tea, and water - he can't even enjoy squash (for the American reader, 'squash' is a sort of sweetened drink) without consequences. And at the same time we found out he's got Asperger's and is coeliac, we were told he's also hypoglycaemic. (Idiopathic, apparently this is common with Aspies).

Soooooo, I'm learning how to make tasty foods that 'keep' so he can hit the pantry/fridge when he senses his blood sugar dropping, and won't make him so unwell he can't function. We're also learning gluten lurks EVERYWHERE even in so-called gluten-free (GF) foods and meals taken on the road, so I've become quite the accomplished GF picnic maker. I even make GF bread Paul likes. He cheats, of course, but those occasions are becoming fewer as he is coming to terms with the reality - eat gluten-laden foods and suffer for days after or stick to the diet and feel 20 years younger. No brainer, really. I make GF breaded fish and chips (the malt vinegar is hell on his coeliac so I use plain white and it actually tastes the same as with the malt version); I've found a source for genuine (!Hecho in Mexico - ole!) corn tortillas and I can whip up a batch of home-fried tortilla crisps in a half-heartbeat now. I'm learning to make GF nans (curries are amazingly easy to make GF at home) and flour tortillas - I got him hooked on burritos (hey, anything to get salad in him!) but store-bought flour tortillas are hell on his coeliac.

GF is reasonably easy if the chief cook and bottle washer cooks from scratch - I do so the only real struggle has been learning to make GF picnics that travel well for our continuing exploration of Scotland. I found a completely fab company that will deliver great tasting GF pastas and exceptionally good tasting-easy baking flours (Doves Farm - if you're in the UK and need GF flours and pastas, Doves Farms are your Go-To) - he can now enjoy an egg-salad sandwich, have a 'full English' breakfast with a side of scones, and nibble on American style chocolate chip cookies. Last Christmas my entire Christmas bake was GF and even the neighbours thought the biscuits were incredible.

Slowly but surely we're getting the house done up - we're having the bathroom done over (YIPPEE - ciao to the 53 year old commode!) and the new living room windows (double-glazed) and floor covering go in the first of October, God willing. We've harvested the first carrots (too early as it turns out) from our garden. The cat has finally settled (gosh, and after only five years!), and I appear to have a knack for churning out charming crochet blankets that will fit in the clothes washing machine - we no longer use duvets as the damn things will not fit in the washer and I refuse to pay £15 each to have the damn things cleaned as often (once a month at least!) I think hygienic. So I priced blankets in summer and winter weights (WOWSA, that was a shocker - blankets, when available, are really-really-really expensive in the UK!) a couple of years ago and then I got busy with the crochet hooks. I have to say those blankets I make are pretty, fit in the washer, and we prefer them to 'store-bought'. Turns out my crocheted blankets cost (ahem) as much or more as store-bought but I really enjoy making them. We're building a collection of sheets and blankets and Paul admits he can't see himself ever comfortable in a duvet again now I've got him used to sleeping in clean sheets and non-dusty/musty blankets.

In between and during blanket crocheting I've made several cardigans and jumpers - ones that can actually be worn in public. And, I'm learning to knit - so far scarves and hats but I still dream of socks and jumpers.

Speaking of exploring Scotland...we still haven't made it over to the West together but that's on the card for next spring, again, God willing. I've started saying that, I think it's in response to nearing and now being SIXTY. Sixty is actually, in my opinion, pretty damn cool - beats the alternative, really. My 'grey's are actually silver and not even enough to be called 'salt and pepper'. I rather like them and have no plans to colour over. I've gained a bit more weight than I'd like but that's owing to the horrific fall I took in our front hall the 2nd of March 2016 - I broke and dislocated just about everything in my right arm, shoulder, and clavicle (of bloody course my dominant arm, dammit) and have been severely activity restricted for the past six months.

I'll be straightforward here - I never felt 'old' until I was so terribly injured. Suddenly I was afraid to leave the house - people here don't understand personal space and have NO hesitation jostling/bumping/greeting with a shoulder thump - one bump and I was on my knees screaming in pain. The fear didn't stop being in the house - I found myself reluctant to reach for anything for fear of losing my balance and falling again. Housekeeping - something I do owing to Paul's Asperger's making him completely unfit to be trusted to clean hygienically - was an agony only made somewhat easier by the purchase of a small bagged cylinder vacuum with a turbo head brush - I can sweep the kitchen and bathroom floors as well as vacuum the carpeting with that little lightweight vac. Cooking and washing up became monumentally tasks - we ate properly but Paul HATED having to do the chopping so he'd whack these huge chunks of meat and veg then expect me not to need him to go back and make those chunks bite-sized. So one of the best days, like, EVER, was the day I worked out how to do my own chopping and dicing without pain. He is so rubbish at the washing up I learned how to wash the dishes with one hand (no mean feat, you try it sometime).

Early on I learned how to brush my teeth with my left hand. I've had to shower using a shower seat and even then my heart is in my throat getting in and out of the bathtub - part of the bathroom do-over is removing the 53 year old tub with the shower over and replacing it with a walk-in shower stall complete with fold-down teak seat and grab bars. The GP had my driving license marked and I can't drive even if I could afford driving lessons - he says maybe by the New Year for driving. Steps and stairs, well, suffice it say I'm very glad we have a single level home for the most part. But I haven't been able to get out to the gardens as ours are on different levels and the concrete stairs are too many and too narrow. Paul has to take the washing out to the upper level terrace where our washing line is and it is driving me completely mad to see the way he pegs out washing!

This injury has made me feel old - frail - feeble. I bloody hated feeling that way but it was instructive re what really being old is going to mean. Hence the bathroom renovation, and we'll likely be moving from this house with its many level gardens I can't safely access. Next spring we'll be looking for a one level cottage with 'walk-out' driveway and gardens so I can get out-of-doors safely as I grow older. Paul won't actually admit it but I can tell he's ready for the same. Saturday we went for a drive and he missed turns several times - time for SpecSavers for us both, me for the now annual new prescription and he for his first pair of 'real specs' to replace the reading glasses he wore accidentally whilst driving and found he saw better with the glasses on.

Sixty isn't old, not in my book, but it's the beginning of the end of 'middle-age' and as 50 is ten years in the rearview mirror with 70 a mere ten years ahead, we're ageing, we know it, and we're planning ahead thanks in part to what we've learned during my recovery.

I'm slowly, slowly, slowly regaining use of my right arm - I can lift it to shoulder height now! But I'll never be able to play tennis again, free-style and breaststroke swimming is never going to be in my exercise routine again, and as for buttoning or tying back fastening clothing, forget about it now as it's never going to happen again. Oddly enough, I've been able to crochet from about three weeks after the fall but the knitting has been on hold until the past week or so. Writing and typing function has returned but I can't spend more than an hour or so on the keyboard and less with a pen or pencil. AND I AM SOOOOOOOOOOO SICK OF DAYTIME TELLY I COULD SCREAM!
Me. At Sixty. I wasn't altogether certain I'd last this long - the Moody Blues song 'Never Thought I'd Live To Be 100' has been on mental continuous loop all weekend. Today is a bank holiday so tomorrow I'll take my 'proof of age and residency' down to the Access office and get my bus pass, the 60+ bus pass that means I can ride buses all over Scotland FOR FREE!! Total(ish) freedom - with that bus pass I can FINALLY go shopping down to Dundee alone! Actually, that bus pass means I can do a shopping trip or explore anywhere in Scotland and even to Carlisle. I may bus up to Caithness to visit the old home place, even.

I came over to the UK in August 2010 (meaning I've been here now six years) and while I do have a 'provisional' license I can't afford a driving course that would get me past my 40+years of driving in the US on the right side of the road in a left-hand motor and very rarely encountering roundabouts. I NEED a driving course because Paul's Asperger's makes him a horrible passenger and worse driving coach. Sigh. Still, I do have the provisional and in an emergency I know I could manage to drive us to a safe place.

Having the 60+ bus pass means real independence - WOOT WOOT WOOT!!

Oh dear. It's been nearly a year since my last post. Whoops. It's not even as though 'Life gets in the way' - if I'm honest, my life is, well, boring even by my definition. Perhaps more on that definition later...

Life does trundle on - in 2014 Paul was found to be an Aspie - and that REALLY took some adjustment on both our parts! He's 'typical' which means living with his condition takes a lot of work. I've changed - planning to do anything means days or weeks of pre-planning to avoid a meltdown. And losing my temper with his Aspie ways is a waste of time - that exasperation only results in him having the sulks for weeks.

He gets 'stuck' on activities, foods, and drinks, and as Paul's 'mystery illness' has finally been diagnosed as coeliac, him getting stuck on a particular food and/or drink has made things, ahem, difficult. He can't tolerate beer or spirits (mostly owing to the hops and malt). A year on and he's at a point where he concedes he 'doesn't miss' a pint and the Christmas-New Year bottle of single malt. Fizzy drinks (colas, etc) are heavily gluten-laden, we discovered, so he has to stick to fresh squeezed fruit juices, milk, coffee, tea, and water - he can't even enjoy squash (for the American reader, 'squash' is a sort of sweetened drink) without consequences. And at the same time we found out he's got Asperger's and is coeliac, we were told he's also hypoglycaemic. (Idiopathic, apparently this is common with Aspies).

Soooooo, I'm learning how to make tasty foods that 'keep' so he can hit the pantry/fridge when he senses his blood sugar dropping, and won't make him so unwell he can't function. We're also learning gluten lurks EVERYWHERE even in so-called gluten-free (GF) foods and meals taken on the road, so I've become quite the accomplished GF picnic maker. I even make GF bread Paul likes. He cheats, of course, but those occasions are becoming fewer as he is coming to terms with the reality - eat gluten-laden foods and suffer for days after or stick to the diet and feel 20 years younger. No brainer, really. I make GF breaded fish and chips (the malt vinegar is hell on his coeliac so I use plain white and it actually tastes the same as with the malt version); I've found a source for genuine (!Hecho in Mexico - ole!) corn tortillas and I can whip up a batch of home-fried tortilla crisps in a half-heartbeat now. I'm learning to make GF nans (curries are amazingly easy to make GF at home) and flour tortillas - I got him hooked on burritos (hey, anything to get salad in him!) but store-bought flour tortillas are hell on his coeliac.

GF is reasonably easy if the chief cook and bottle washer cooks from scratch - I do so the only real struggle has been learning to make GF picnics that travel well for our continuing exploration of Scotland. I found a completely fab company that will deliver great tasting GF pastas and exceptionally good tasting-easy baking flours (Doves Farm - if you're in the UK and need GF flours and pastas, Doves Farms are your Go-To) - he can now enjoy an egg-salad sandwich, have a 'full English' breakfast with a side of scones, and nibble on American style chocolate chip cookies. Last Christmas my entire Christmas bake was GF and even the neighbours thought the biscuits were incredible.

Slowly but surely we're getting the house done up - we're having the bathroom done over (YIPPEE - ciao to the 53 year old commode!) and the new living room windows (double-glazed) and floor covering go in the first of October, God willing. We've harvested the first carrots (too early as it turns out) from our garden. The cat has finally settled (gosh, and after only five years!), and I appear to have a knack for churning out charming crochet blankets that will fit in the clothes washing machine - we no longer use duvets as the damn things will not fit in the washer and I refuse to pay £15 each to have the damn things cleaned as often (once a month at least!) I think hygienic. So I priced blankets in summer and winter weights (WOWSA, that was a shocker - blankets, when available, are really-really-really expensive in the UK!) a couple of years ago and then I got busy with the crochet hooks. I have to say those blankets I make are pretty, fit in the washer, and we prefer them to 'store-bought'. Turns out my crocheted blankets cost (ahem) as much or more as store-bought but I really enjoy making them. We're building a collection of sheets and blankets and Paul admits he can't see himself ever comfortable in a duvet again now I've got him used to sleeping in clean sheets and non-dusty/musty blankets.

In between and during blanket crocheting I've made several cardigans and jumpers - ones that can actually be worn in public. And, I'm learning to knit - so far scarves and hats but I still dream of socks and jumpers.

Speaking of exploring Scotland...we still haven't made it over to the West together but that's on the card for next spring, again, God willing. I've started saying that, I think it's in response to nearing and now being SIXTY. Sixty is actually, in my opinion, pretty damn cool - beats the alternative, really. My 'grey's are actually silver and not even enough to be called 'salt and pepper'. I rather like them and have no plans to colour over. I've gained a bit more weight than I'd like but that's owing to the horrific fall I took in our front hall the 2nd of March 2016 - I broke and dislocated just about everything in my right arm, shoulder, and clavicle (of bloody course my dominant arm, dammit) and have been severely activity restricted for the past six months.

I'll be straightforward here - I never felt 'old' until I was so terribly injured. Suddenly I was afraid to leave the house - people here don't understand personal space and have NO hesitation jostling/bumping/greeting with a shoulder thump - one bump and I was on my knees screaming in pain. The fear didn't stop being in the house - I found myself reluctant to reach for anything for fear of losing my balance and falling again. Housekeeping - something I do owing to Paul's Asperger's making him completely unfit to be trusted to clean hygienically - was an agony only made somewhat easier by the purchase of a small bagged cylinder vacuum with a turbo head brush - I can sweep the kitchen and bathroom floors as well as vacuum the carpeting with that little lightweight vac. Cooking and washing up became monumentally tasks - we ate properly but Paul HATED having to do the chopping so he'd whack these huge chunks of meat and veg then expect me not to need him to go back and make those chunks bite-sized. So one of the best days, like, EVER, was the day I worked out how to do my own chopping and dicing without pain. He is so rubbish at the washing up I learned how to wash the dishes with one hand (no mean feat, you try it sometime).

Early on I learned how to brush my teeth with my left hand. I've had to shower using a shower seat and even then my heart is in my throat getting in and out of the bathtub - part of the bathroom do-over is removing the 53 year old tub with the shower over and replacing it with a walk-in shower stall complete with fold-down teak seat and grab bars. The GP had my driving license marked and I can't drive even if I could afford driving lessons - he says maybe by the New Year for driving. Steps and stairs, well, suffice it say I'm very glad we have a single level home for the most part. But I haven't been able to get out to the gardens as ours are on different levels and the concrete stairs are too many and too narrow. Paul has to take the washing out to the upper level terrace where our washing line is and it is driving me completely mad to see the way he pegs out washing!

This injury has made me feel old - frail - feeble. I bloody hated feeling that way but it was instructive re what really being old is going to mean. Hence the bathroom renovation, and we'll likely be moving from this house with its many level gardens I can't safely access. Next spring we'll be looking for a one level cottage with 'walk-out' driveway and gardens so I can get out-of-doors safely as I grow older. Paul won't actually admit it but I can tell he's ready for the same. Saturday we went for a drive and he missed turns several times - time for SpecSavers for us both, me for the now annual new prescription and he for his first pair of 'real specs' to replace the reading glasses he wore accidentally whilst driving and found he saw better with the glasses on.

Sixty isn't old, not in my book, but it's the beginning of the end of 'middle-age' and as 50 is ten years in the rearview mirror with 70 a mere ten years ahead, we're ageing, we know it, and we're planning ahead thanks in part to what we've learned during my recovery.

I'm slowly, slowly, slowly regaining use of my right arm - I can lift it to shoulder height now! But I'll never be able to play tennis again, free-style and breaststroke swimming is never going to be in my exercise routine again, and as for buttoning or tying back fastening clothing, forget about it now as it's never going to happen again. Oddly enough, I've been able to crochet from about three weeks after the fall but the knitting has been on hold until the past week or so. Writing and typing function has returned but I can't spend more than an hour or so on the keyboard and less with a pen or pencil. AND I AM SOOOOOOOOOOO SICK OF DAYTIME TELLY I COULD SCREAM!