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bitch bitch bitch

Home in the wind and snow. The house still standing, the crabby cat still alive and briefly affectionate. Could she actually be glad to see the hand that feeds her? Impossible.

Those of you who’ve travelled with me in the past know what a great victory it is, that I went away for a week with a small carry-on bag. I am a very different packer now. But on the way back, my carry-on was pulled over by the security people. They started rooting and … aha! found the guilty materials – two tiny bottles of champagne and half a pot of Smuckers natural peanut butter. I’d eaten half the jar in a few days and liked the stuff so much, I decided to bring it home. But no, it was confiscated, because obviously a middle-class Caucasian woman flying from Tampa to Toronto is up to no good with champagne and peanut butter in her carry-on. Sigh.
Immigration at Pearson was beyond belief – there must have been five jumbo jets from around the world just before mine. Still, the endless queue moved briskly; I read a dystopian “New Yorker” story by the brilliant George Saunders in line, until the perky young couple in front of me confided that they’d just got engaged. Heartwarming stuff as we shuffled along.
There was indeed a massive pile of laundry waiting for me at home; the people staying here used every towel in the place. That’s fine. What’s not fine is that they readjusted my thermostat to read 72 degrees night and day, and left it set at that when they departed on Sunday, which means an empty house was roaring hot for 2 full days and nights. That kind of energy waste is shocking to me, the woman who barely uses her clothes dryer and doesn’t own a car. In winter, I keep the house at 65 degrees at night and 67-68 during the day. 72 feels like a sauna.
Being a landlady is great when the cheques come in, not so great when there’s an aftermath to be dealt with, as there almost always is. But sometimes, too, I overreact. As now.
You’re hearing the mood dip that happens on arriving home. Yesterday, even on a cloudy day, I was picking up shells on the beach and sitting under palm trees, musing on life. Today, a list of fifteen urgent things to do running through my head while walking home from No Frills trying not to slip on the ice.
I’m very happy to be here. Just need to kvetch a bit. Hope you don’t mind.



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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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