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The joy of stress. Not.

Yesterday, my blog vanished. Chris called from Gabriola Island to tell me the page was blank, and so it was. Nothing. I contacted the site developer and the hosting site, and eventually,  it reappeared, but without the entire right side, with sixteen years of archives and the blogs I follow. Both experts are looking into it. Stay tuned. (A few hours later, it was fixed. Thank you, gods and goddesses of tech.)

This has been an extremely stressful two weeks for various reasons I won’t go into, but the plus side is, I lost three pounds. I rode over to the famous bra store Sophia’s on the Danforth, to buy a lightweight summer bra, and instead, to celebrate my new (actually, only slightly altered) figure, bought an extravagant bathing suit. I’m only three pounds lighter, and of course, I will instantly gain it back, so that was foolish. But what the hell. Sophia, who is 78 and has seen a million breasts, said that according to her accounts, the last time I was in the store was 2004 and I was a 34B. I told her I’ve been improvising bra-wise for 20 years. I’m now a 40A. Just want something that holds me up but doesn’t make me feel my ribcage is in prison. Sophia has to special order that rare size.


Tuesday, to lunch at the home of dear friend Rosemary Shipton, editor extraordinaire. I want to start a club of all the people who still care about grammatical and punctuational correctness, an increasingly rare breed of whom Rosemary and Ruth are the queens and I a willing acolyte. And then I rushed to the Eaton Centre where Holly, Ben, and Eli were waiting; it’s now a tradition that for their birthdays, Holly and I take the boys shopping and for lunch. For sporty, fast-moving, now eight-year-old Ben: a toy, a hockey stick, a baseball bat, a basketball. To finish, an ice-cream cone. What Glammas and auntie Hollys are for.

Yesterday afternoon, friends for 50 years Annie, John Sugden aka Sugdoon, and Terry came over for a cold drink in the garden; Sugdoon lives in England so sightings are rare and precious. But there was construction across the street and on the next street over, and nearby, they’re building a new deck. Then in the condos next door, a duct company arrived and turned on its vacuum machines full blast, and then a helicopter hovered overhead. It was so noisy, we had to laugh. One big problem with Canada – when summer finally arrives and you can finally sit outside is also the time when renovation, construction, and city repairs are in full force. Deafening. Still, wonderful to see old and dear friends. And today, when no one was sitting in the garden but me – silence.

Today I’m getting ready for my writing workshop on Sunday – the garden needs clearing, lots of grocery shopping and much cooking and cleaning. Creativity ignited, I hope, by good food and wine but mostly by good company and greenery. And on Sundays, thank God, construction is forbidden.



2 Responses to “The joy of stress. Not.”

  1. Theresa says:

    Ah life and its abundance, even when it includes stress. Sending good wishes. Quiet gardens are pretty much the norm here but that doesn’t always equate with peace. (Alas.) (My phone corrected alas to salad. That too.)

  2. Beth Kaplan says:

    Wishing you a Sunday filled with peace and salad, Theresa.

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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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