Patience is Its Own Reward

What’s on my mind? A study in patience.

When they ask: “What did you do, during the plague?” I’ll say: “I learned to cut my hair!” (The results of that  will never, ever become public. Now, my sister’s attempt, I’ll show you. She didn’t respond to blackmail.)

What has Himself been up to? Himself has been using his time to enhance his gardening skills, as well as teaching himself astral photography. Despite all of that, if anyone were to ask, he’d shrug and say: “I did a jigsaw puzzle.” 

Being the modest type, he won’t say the puzzle required a magnifying glass and a ruler to examine its 1,000 tiny pieces. He won’t say his wife tried, failed, and stomped off in frustration several times, unable to find even one piece of the puzzle.

For him to say: “I did a jigsaw puzzle,” minimizes the feat. So this is how things went:

May 5: Gung-ho. 

Purchase, unpack, place and sort puzzle pieces on dining room table. Begin with edges. Hmmm ... (Muffled cuss words will occasionally escape this room. Hours will meld into days, with all becoming a blur. Himself doesn’t know this, yet). 

May 9: Cautious. 

May 11: Measured.

May 16: Persistent. 

May 18: Undaunted.

May 22: Tireless.

May 23: Again. And again. And again.

May 24: Relentless.

Early morning, May 27: Bathrobe. 

Mid-morning, May 27: At last!

Victorious!

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

The Major Problem-o with Mr. X’s Pickles

What’s on my mind? When Mr. and Mrs. X came to dinner in December, Mr. X handed me a jar of pickles as he sailed through the door.

“Made ’em, m’self,” he said.

With the appropriate thank you, I tucked them into the fridge.

We love pickles, but - with two jars already open - we soon forgot about Mr. X’s. Seemingly unaided, his jar of pickles migrated toward the back of the fridge. Once in awhile, I’d spot them, thinking: “Must use those pickles!” 

And then I’d quietly close the fridge door and forget about them again. Until yesterday, when … 

“Hi, hi, hi! Imagine running into yo-u-u-u!” It was Mr. and Mrs. X, their car next to ours at Home Depot. Himself had already dashed off to get whatever Guy Thing it was he needed.

Stuck for words at the best of times, I now stared into Mr. and Mrs. X’s happy faces, clueless about kicking off a meaningful conversation. 

Feeling downcast, my eyes went in the same direction, which meant I was staring at Mr. X’s crotch. And then it came to me! Words to say. Not Mr. X’s crotch.

Smiling broadly, I raised my eyes and said: “I lo-o-o-ve your pickles!” No need to say we’d never opened the jar. 

Mr. X looked mortified. Mrs. X looked shocked. 

(What did I say? What did I say? I must have put my foot in it! Oh, gawd … They probably thought I meant …)

“I didn’t mean that in a sexual way!” Now Mr. and Mrs. X both looked shocked. 

“You didn’t mind the slime?” asked Mr. X. 

(Oh, gawd … oh, gawd! What can I say? What can I say? That I LOVED the slime? That I didn’t NOTICE the slime? Either way, I’m in too deep - or Mr. X wants to be … And WTF - WHAT slime?)

So, wanting nothing more than for Himself to arrive in the parking lot with his Guy Thing, I innocently asked: “Slime?” 

“Slime,” nodded Mr. and Mrs X, grim-faced.

“The cukes were slimy when I bought them,”confessed Mr. X. 

Bravely holding up my end of the conversation, I asked: “Huh?” And then: “Huh?” 

“I rinsed them,” he continued, “but couldn’t get it all off. They just kept getting slimier in the jar.” 

“Slimier in the jar,” repeated Mrs. X, shaking her head in sympathy.

(BLOODY HELL! She’s sympathizing with the DOUGH HEAD who bought slimy cucumbers to make slimy pickles??? Why the EFF would he give them to us as a PRESENT???)

That’s what I thought. What I said, was: “Oh, dear.” 

The Xs were pleased - but uncertain - I was telling the truth when I said loved Mr. X’s non-sexual pickles. If at first you don’t succeed, lie, lie, again. Before we parted ways, I reassured them Mr. X’s pickles were perfect, even if my words (BLOODY HELL!) produced a marital rift between them.

When Himself returned to the car, Guy Thing in … um … hand, I told him about the pickles, neatly dodging the sex stuff.

Indeed, when we peeked in the fridge, Mr. X’s pickles were entombed in grey slime. “Ew-w-w-w!” I said, with my usual eloquence. 

Himself makes pickles, too. He knew Mr. X’s were a Major Problemo.

“You can’t lie!” he said. “I’ll send the Xs an email to clear things up.” Which he did.

“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. X!” he wrote. “It seems Nicole was mistakenly praising Mr. X’s pickles, the other day. What she really intended was to praise my pickles.” 

I bit my lip when I read that. Didn’t say a word. I’m a happily married woman. It would be mighty fine to keep it that way. 

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Bunny Bulletin!

What’s on my mind? Bunny Bulletin! 

After sitting smack in a formerly beautiful bunch of sedums (flattened by overnight chewing), a very fat rabbit starts to eat her way ’round the sedum’s edges before progressing to the flowering ground cover between the flagstones in our garden. 

I was once neighbors with an otherwise pleasant guy who shot the rabbits in his garden. This was in Arizona, so not completely unexpected, but still upsetting. 

Himself and I merely yell SHOOSH!, clap our hands, and apply stinky stuff to what we think of as our garden and rabbits think of as their exclusive buffet. 

Our tactics work reasonably well until a heavy rain. When that happens, we’re disinclined to run outside shouting and clapping, and the stinky stuff washes off. Right now, it’s raining cats, dogs, and rabbits.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Double or Nothing

What’s on my mind? Budgeting 101. 

I’ve always prided myself on my ability to manage money. Even when I had none, I was able to shave a nickel and get four cents change. “It’s a gift,” say spendthrift friends and relatives. 

Sigh! “I can’t help that I’m talented and clever.”

Even now, as the world plods through COVID-19, I’ve managed to stay above water, putting away a few nickels when no one else can.

“How ever do you do it?” asks my banker. 

(I almost never see him these days: The bank’s doors are bolted. I’d barge in wearing a mask, but someone would probably press the alarm and I’d be off to the hoosegow, which is a $2 word for the clink, which is a $1 word for jail, which returns me to the subject of my money-management skills.)  

My banker is always eager for me to share my tips with him, so he, in turn, can share them with his multi-millionaire clients slowly drowning in debt. 

“I already know how much you’ve got,” he whispers, prying for information.

Clutching my purse, I think: “Not true. Why would he look at my puny bank account?” 

“You have a puny bank account …”

(Gasp!)

“So how do you manage? What’s your secret? You can trust me-e-e,” he says.

I can’t. But I’ll tell you, blog reader, why I have money jingling in my jeans when others don’t. And yes, it is in coins. And no, there’s nowhere to spend it, or I probably would.

Gambling! That’s my secret. I am a wild, unrepentant gambler! Sometimes, I even bet double or nothing and lose everything - but always win it back. I’m a gambler of the know-when-to-hold-’em, know-when-to-fold-’em persuasion. Lemme tell you my “system.”

With COVID’s arrival, Himself and I emptied our pockets and checked under the couch pillows and looked under the bed to come up with precisely $35.70 between us.

And then gambling fever hit us - big time. 

Each afternoon, Himself and I began sitting down to a cut-throat game of cards at a nickel a point. Once in awhile, our neighbors Mr. Harris and Mrs. H heard shouting coming from the direction of our house. After hearing one of us yell: “That’s cheating!” Mrs. H ran around telling the whole neighorhood we had an “open marriage.” 

When the news got back to me, I told Mrs. H the only things open in our house were the window and the door, and she was welcome to exit either. Mrs. H seemed disappointed to hear all we do is play cards, and that (as I bragged) I usually win. 

Unfortunately, as I later heard, Mrs. H sought out each neighbor to say: “It’s a den of inequity! She usually dominates!” Also unfortunately, Mrs. H neglected to say we play cards, so what everyone heard (and spread further) was that our house is a “den of iniquity,” and I’m a sadist.

Which is quite a different thing from the “inequity” of my domination - my winning streak - at cards.

As everyone knows, gambling has winners and losers. Himself and I start with the money equally divided, but after we’ve tallied the score, the loser forfeits a nickel a point. When we eventually lose our shirts (a term known only to professional gamblers), we apply $35.70 to our line of credit, thus bolstering our credit rating. 

A couple of days later, when gambling withdrawal produces the sweats and the shakes, we borrow $35.70 from our line of credit and start over. 

So that’s my secret! Pssst … Don’t tell the bank.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

The Future is Now

This blog is about the resurgence of bread-making. To it, John Denniston - my journalistic colleague and friend of 40-plus years - cleverly replied: “The advantages of bread making as a hobby for a man include that: You don’t have make a shelf for it, don’t have to frame it, don’t have to repair it or buy a pickup truck to tow it, don’t have to get up early in the morning to do it, and most importantly, don’t have to sell it on Craigslist when you tire of it. Basically, it’s bake it; eat it; it’s gone.”

*     *     *

I’ve long had a deep interest in the marketplace and in consumer behavior. My conclusions aren’t always right - but I’m a reasonably good guesser.  

Prediction: We’re about to see a resurgence of bread-making and the renewed popularity of bread machines. This is a slam-dunk, folks.

COVID-19 has had (and will continue to have) serious economic consequences for almost all of us. As job-replacement funding runs out in Canada and the US, the spin-offs will hit even harder. 

Many of us will need to give some hard thought to belt-tightening - starting with our household spending. Himself and I have had a bread machine at the back of the kitchen cupboard for many years. I’d even considered giving it away.  

About a year ago, Himself hauled it out and started making bread. Until then, I’d been buying commercially made bread at $3-to $5 a loaf. No more! That’s just too expensive.

 One in five American households owned a bread machine in the late 1990’s. Less than 20 years later, almost no one was interested in making bread by hand or in a machine. A few stalwarts like my sister Paulette regularly make multiple  loaves at a time, mixing, kneading, and forming them by hand. Paulette has never had a bread machine, which does all that as well as baking the bread in about three hours (and pizza dough in far less).

Packed with goodness and nutrition, Himself’s bread weighs 2 lb. (nearly 1 kg) and costs … I’ll tell you about that in a moment. 

Last Fall, while nosing around Costco, we discovered the bargain of the century - a 45-lb. (20 kg) bag of coarse (i.e., stone ground) whole wheat flour. With breakfast and sandwich picnics included, we normally consume two-to-three loaves a week. 

We went through this big bag in something like six months. Himself had been steadily making whole wheat and raisin breads for all that time, and was almost out of flour. At $13.49 Cdn., this gigantic bag of flour presented a huge saving over the 5- and 10-lb. (2.26-to-4.5 kg) bags we usually bought. 

(Not every Costco store sells big bags like this. Phone around to find it. We found our first bag at a Costco far from the island where we live and the second, on that island.) These large bags of flour have dropped the cost of Himself’s bread-making to less than $1 a loaf, electricity not included. 

We store this flour in its bag in a well-sealed, high-quality container under dark, cool conditions. Anyone who lacks a storage area could easily share such a large bag with family, friends, and neighbors. (If you live in a hot climate, you’ll already know it’s a good idea to store grain products in a moisture-proof container in the deep-freeze.)

It’s only logical that as more consumers try to spend smarter, more will begin making their own bread. In turn, the demand for larger, money-saving bags of flour and gluten-free alternatives will increase. 

The company that mills the flour we bought confirms that; it’s fielded literally hundreds of consumer inquiries about bread-making over the past six weeks. 

If you can’t find what you’re seeking, my advice - as always -  is to ask, ask, ask. Happy baking!

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Siriusly?

What’s on my mind? SiriusXM Canada is raising its rates. 

Now??? When people are bruised and grieving for loved ones lost to COVID-19? Now??? When people are losing their jobs and need every penny to put food on the table and pay their rent? Now??? When people are sick and dying from the novel coronavirus?

Now??? Now??? Now???

Sirius says the increase is justified. Tell that to the pensioner who’s already stretched. Tell that to the person whose only companion is their radio. Tell that to someone just trying to survive who wants some entertainment and international news, in the time of COVID-19.

We love SiriusXM Canada, but our relationship with them is rocky. In 2014, Sirius’ annual charge was $175.89. We bought the service on a promo: 120 channels, $79.96 for the year. By 2016 and 2017, Sirius’ annual renewal fee had risen to $191.88. 

By 2019, it hit $260.77 - a massive increase. This year’s hike takes the service to $269.21.

Internet Chatter has not ignored these increases. “How can I get Sirius XM cheaper?” someone asked last month.

http://wallethacks.com recommends bargaining: “To get the best deal, you have to call and threaten to cancel. They will then offer you the best deal. If they don’t, call back. Or, you can take their current deal of 6 months of SiriusXM for $50. It is very close to the best deal I’ve ever seen and you don’t have to call to cancel.” But that’s in the US.

I’m Canadian. Canadians aren’t programmed to haggle. Sirius XM’s multiple discounts and “deals” make our heads spin. 

Several places on Sirius’ annual invoice cite both the company’s phone number and website. That invoice showed up in my Inbox April 9 at 6:02 am. By 3:03 pm, Sirius sent a second mail - this one in boldface - reading: “If you would like to contact us, please visit: https://www.siriusxmcanada/contact-us .” 

Hmmm ... The word “please” jumped out at me. Not to mention that Ian Gordon, the guy who signs the annual announcement of a rate hike is the “Senior VP, Customer Acquisition and Retention.” The word “retention” jumped out at me, too.

You know ... I think I’ll just reprogram myself to haggle. Reading between the lines of the boldfaced message on that second, rapidly sent email, I’m not the only person unhappy with these never-ending rate hikes.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Without Comment

If you’re familiar with this: 

You may want to see this:

I present this without comment. 

On a different note, an upcoming story in The Atlantic magazine (We Are Living in a Failed State: The coronavirus didn’t break America. It revealed what was already broken), is a must-read. 

Scheduled for June, 2020, this exceedingly well written piece by staff writer George Packer dissects the Trump regime’s blundering approach to COVID-19 - an approach for which Trump claims to bear “no responsibility.” Quite so. In my opinion, the President’s only responsibility appears to be his derelection of it.

An excerpt from Packer: Trump came to power as the repudiation of the Republican establishment. But the conservative political class and the new leader soon reached an understanding. Whatever their differences on issues like trade and immigration, they shared a basic goal: to strip-mine public assets for the benefit of private interests. Republican politicians and donors who wanted government to do as little as possible for the common good could live happily with a regime that barely knew how to govern at all, and they made themselves Trump’s footmen.

Like a wanton boy throwing matches in a parched field, Trump began to immolate what was left of national civic life. He never even pretended to be president of the whole country, but pitted us against one another along lines of race, sex, religion, citizenship, education, region, and—every day of his presidency—political party. His main tool of governance was to lie. A third of the country locked itself in a hall of mirrors that it believed to be reality; a third drove itself mad with the effort to hold on to the idea of knowable truth; and a third gave up even trying.

Trump acquired a federal government crippled by years of right-wing ideological assault, politicization by both parties, and steady defunding. He set about finishing off the job and destroying the professional civil service. He drove out some of the most talented and experienced career officials, left essential positions unfilled, and installed loyalists as commissars over the cowed survivors, with one purpose: to serve his own interests. His major legislative accomplishment, one of the largest tax cuts in history, sent hundreds of billions of dollars to corporations and the rich. The beneficiaries flocked to patronize his resorts and line his reelection pockets. If lying was his means for using power, corruption was his end.

Given the times in which we find ourselves, have a semi-great day.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

More Coping with COVID-19

What’s on my mind? COVID-19, of course. 

I’m doing my best to stay home and stay safe ...

... even though Himself thinks I’m over-doing it.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Lock-Down!

What’s on my mind? The COVID-19 pandemic. Like most people who follow the rules, we never stray outside the bedroom-bathroom-kitchen triangle. The French call this menage à trois. Ours lives are similar, minus the sex.

We’ve made the necessary adjustments, even ordering groceries online. I was happy with “no contact” delivery until I realized no one will believe me next winter, when I can finally tell a real-life store manager that on the day I received the $7 plastic-boxed salad mix I ordered, slimy green liquid swished at the bottom of the mix, which was past its expiry date.

In future, I’m tempted to risk death by hitting the grocery store at 7 a.m., masked and latexed. Seniors get priority shopping at that hour, before the swarm of sweaty shoppers storms the gates. 

All those wheelies and walkers are too slow for me. As a lifesaving measure, I intend to hold my breath as I shop. My plan is to smash right past those older people (some of them, younger than I am), racing through the aisles as I toss toilet paper, bleach, and other enticing treats into my cart. 

The goal: Blast through the check-out in 7 min. flat, beating the world record for most Groc Shop items crammed into a cart. Not to mention beating the world record for breath-holding for a female over 70.  

It’s lonely, being in lock-down. I’ve been thinking of making sourdough bread as a healthy way to get around social distancing. Sourdough bread needs a live-culture starter, so I could make one, train it to wave “Hi!” as I open the fridge, and engage in light banter. It would be like having “company” at our house … Someone new to talk to.

With no slight intended to Himself, I’m so desperate to see another human face that I wouldn’t care if our mask-wearing butcher looks scarily like the Lone Ranger channeling a bank robber. Times are tough and everyone’s cutting back: I just hope Silver isn’t on “special” at the meat counter. 

Himself is starting to look like Einstein, in the hair department. I’d talk about the brains department, but he’d divorce me. I keep suggesting I should cut his hair. “Which one?” he asks, because he won’t let me cut them all. 

The last time I cut his hair, Himself wore a baseball cap for two weeks. I guess he didn’t like the way the sun bounced off his scalp after I finished. I tell him he’s lucky to even have a scalp, the way he trembled as I trimmed.

Himself and I celebrated our 10th anniversary last month. I suggested we go to a fancy restaurant, but all we did was stay home in “lock-down” and eat ground beef for dinner. 

This being a religious holiday and all, I’ve fashioned a little rabbit from ground beef. We’ve even given it a name: Easter Dinner. 

©  Nicole Parton, 2020

Trilliums that Bloom in the Snow

What’s on my mind? The time before the time I met Himself, my beloved husband of the past decade. I was previously married to writer Lorne Parton, my husband of 20 years. You’ll doubt this story - but it’s true.

I was born Easter Monday, April 22, 1946. My early life was much like many other people’s. I grew up, married, had children, divorced, and got a job. 

In September, 1973, good jobs were scarce for a woman with neither a college degree nor training in any field. Having wormed my way into freelance writing, I wanted to work for a major newspaper in Vancouver, Canada. 

The managing editor disagreed, saying he wouldn’t hire me because “You should stay home with your children!” Whereupon, as the mature adult I was, I fell to my knees sobbing. 

The editor, a crusty guy with a heart soft as a feather, probably couldn’t stand to hear my wailing, and so reversed himself with a grumpy: “Oh, all right!” 

Still on my knees and crying even louder (this time, with relief), I crawled to the side of his desk and began kissing his hand. Seriously, I did. 

Extracting his fingers in horror, he summoned another editor to drag me from his office and give me a desk and my first assignment - a story I wrote with such incompetence, bewilderment, and a complete lack of interest that I was soon self-assigned.

It was then I noticed columnist Lorne Parton - the lone ranger of the newsroom whose modus operandi was to walk its perimeter for an hour or so, striking up conversations with reporters who were trying to work. 

Lorne would then return to his desk, bang-bang-banging out his column before leaving by 2 o’clock. Having observed his behavior over several months, I didn’t much like this man.

One day, I accidentally bumped into Lorne, who said he was going through a divorce. I said I was, too. Obvious that I was many years his junior, Lorne asked when I was born. An idle question. A question with no agenda. And so I told him, as I’ve told you: Easter Monday, April 22, 1946. 

Lorne stared at me in disbelief. And then pulled out his wallet. 

Easter Monday, 1946, brought snow to New Westminster, the small British Columbia town where Lorne lived as a boy. On that day, trilliums bloomed in the snow - an unusual sight, to be sure. Lorne marked the date - APRIL 22, 1946 - by placing  stones to form each letter and number around the flowers.

And then the 15-year-old Lorne took a photo of the flowers and the date embedded in the snow. Never quite knowing why, he later tucked the photo into his wallet. When the wallet wore out, he bought a new one, transferring the photo to it. By the time we bumped into one another, he’d been carrying that photo in his wallet for 27 years. 

We were married two years later. Lorne died of a brain aneurysm in 1996.

©  Nicole Parton, 2020