Author and Inspired Writer

The Mister and I are having plumbling work done – I mean major plumbing work, like backhoes, jack hammers and more burly-looking plumbers than you can shake a pipe wrench at.   We’d been putting off this job for a while.  The sewer pipe in the front yard has collapsed in one area because the tree roots got into it, and periodically it would plug up, leaving us with a most unpleasant, and increasingly expensive, clean up job after the plumber unclogged the pipe.

“Can’t go on like this, Pa,” I said after the last time.  “That piece of pipe’s got to be replaced.”

“Yep, I know.  But it’ll cost.”

“Shore ’nuff, but this is costin’ us too.  Let’s get this taken care of so we don’t have to worry about it any more.”

“OK there, Missus, will do.”  And we started looking around for quotes.  We settled on a company who had done some work for us before.  They all arrived this morning at 8 on the dot, and no sooner had they started digging and hammering than all manner of friend, neighbour, and passerby had to stop to inspect the goings-on.

“Hey Tony!  They diggin’ a hole to China?”

“Naw, just looking for worms.”

“They dig up any bodies yet?”

“Give me some credit.  I buried ’em deeper ‘n that!”

One neighbour commented to the backhoe driver on what a really impressive trench he was creating.  He moved his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

“It’s an important pipe,” he said, then added philosophically.  “After all, everybody needs a toilet.”

The Mister took that in for a moment then replied, “Especially when you’re as full of it as we are.”

Why, oh why can’t he speak for himself?

More on our plumbing adventure later.

Yesterday, The Mister got back from ten days away on the west coast.  The youngest munchkin just tied the knot in a gorgeous Sikh ceremony filled with beautiful colours, blessings and joy.  I had to preach that Sunday, so couldn’t make the trip, but apparently hundreds of pictures were taken which will be put on a CD and sent to yours-ever-faithfully sometime in the near future.  So looking forward to it and hoping somewhere in the midst of all those photos someone got a shot of The Mister in his quasi-turban, a red kerchief that all the men attending the ceremony were required to wear.  That’s bound to go viral. 

So, that gave me ten days on my own and at least a hundred times each day I was reminded of all the stuff my dear Mister does around here, how many jobs I detest, like shopping of any kind (but grocery shopping is the worst by far!),  cooking (just remembering to leave something out to thaw proved too great a task for me some days), and dishes (although with just one person, there weren’t that many).  In addition to the regular maintenance chores, I decided to take advantage of his absence to finish some tasks he doesn’t care for, like painting the front door, washing the shed, sweeping the walkway.  I found myself rising early in the morning (around 6 am.) to do my workout, then breakfast, (I ate a prodigous amount of oatmeal!) followed by any housekeeping jobs I had scheduled for that day.  Then a shower while the cheap rates were still on, shopping if necessary (Grrr!), lunch, and the rest of the afternoon dedicated to my writing.  I finished three poems in five days, a remarkable output for me!  Then supper, which was usually just something warmed up since I was by then too hungry to actually chop something up and cook it.    An hour of news, dishes, and then I starting getting ready for bed at around 7:15 pm.  I read for about an hour and was sound asleep by 9 pm.

For some reason, that scheduled worked wonders for me.  I slept well, had good energy all day, and my hot flashes were low or sometimes nonexistant.  I didn’t answer the phone or the door, stayed off FaceBook most of the time, and didn’t watch TV beyond the evening news.  I read a great deal, and found that the rhythms of my ten day hiatus spared me missing my Mister too much.  We talked every day on the phone for ten or fifteen minutes and I will admit the first three conversations ended in tears since the separation was still fresh.  But I found strength in simple domestic work, and peace, and surprisingly, a real sense of accomplishment.  There was a gift in this time of solitude for which I am deeply grateful.

We’re getting back to our usual routine, but I’ve learned I need to set aside uninterupted time to write every day and that I’ve committed to do.  My way of honouring the gift.

The dread question has been asked.  In fact, two dread questions.

After service on Sunday, my minister stopped by my table during coffee hour and asked if I would be interested in preaching after she retires in September while we hunt for a new minister.  I didn’t hesitate.  “No,” I said, “I’m honoured you would ask, but no.”  “OK,” she said, “but if you change your mind, take it up with the interim moderator.”  That went a LOT easier than I expected.  Such a relief to get it all cleared up.

Then she also mentioned that in August, she will be welcoming new members, and would I be interested in officially joining the church?  This was a little trickier.  I thanked her for letting me know.  “But no?” she said.  “But no,” I replied.  “All right,” she said, “I just wanted to give you the opportunity to vote on the new minister.”

Why, oh why, after 18 years (give or take) of faithful attendance and involvement in the church I love, do I continue to resist full membership?  Short answer?  I like it on the fringe, (the lunatic fringe some would say!)  The Presbyterian Church considers me “an adherent” as opposed to “a member.”  Sounds a little like a burr on a sock, doesn’t it?  I cannot vote on the acceptance of a new minister, or on the election of elders.  (I can only ratify or not ratify the decision of the congregation.)  Neither can I run for eldership or a seat on the Board of Managers.  I’m not supposed to vote on motions at the annual General Meeting (but I always do, and once even acted as secretary!)  And strange as it may sound, I don’t find these restrictions in the least limiting.  I have no desire to join the Session or the Board, and I’m more than content to let the congregation decide major issues.  And in spite of my “unofficial” status, I play a full role in the liturgy, singing in the choir and even preaching during the summers.  (There’s a saying that they will let anyone preach in the Presbyterian Church.  I’m the proof of that!)

I enjoy being a little on the outside.  I was an official Catholic for 33 years, until the Church failed to recognize my marriage, or my equality to men.  After much soul-searching, I had to admit that there was no future for me there, and I left.  That whole experience has made me skittish of titles or labels, at least in the religious arena, and so I’ve pitched my tent on the borderline between lapsed Catholic and adhering Presbyterian.  I’m comfortable here; it’s freeing and fun, and where I find my blessedness.  Never say never of course, but I can’t see changing that any time soon.

Good news, gentle readers!  I have lost all the weight I needed to, and now think I’ll lose a few more pounds to put me at the low end of my ideal weight range.  The Mister too has done beautifully on the Fast Diet and receives flattering comments and admiring glances wherever he goes.  In fact, he’s coming close to the point where he may have to limit himself to one fast day a week if he loses too much more.  (I haven’t reached that point yet.)

The Mister and I enjoy playing a game of cribbage after lunch every day and yesterday he noticed I was fussing with my clothes.

“What’s the problem there, Missus?”

“My panties must be getting stretched out or something.  I don’t remember them riding this high around my waist.  It’s really uncomfortable.”

The Mister moved his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

“It’s cuz of all the weight you’ve lost,” he said.

“Say what now?”

“Well, your belly getting flatter, so your, uh, unmentionables are slipping up higher since there’s no fat to keep ’em on the down-low, so to speak.”

“You really think so?”

“You bet.  Keep losing weight like this and pretty soon you’ll be able to haul your panties over your boobs and wear ’em as a one-piece.”

Uh huh.

‘Til next time, gentle readers.