My husband has not driven for several years and since he can’t walk more than a few steps, finds himself confined to the house. He therefore rates the success of each day according to whether he can persuade me to take him for a drive in the car or let him take me ‘some place nice’ for supper .
Until recently I have found fulfilling the former desire much easier than the second. Harry is never particular or dictatorial about where he wants to go; he’ll settle for anywhere errands take us and then happily wait in the car for up to an hour as long as it’s not too cold. Even when I’d LIKE him to accompany me into a store to buy something for HIM, he’ll gently but firmly insist that he’d prefer to wait in the car. His favourite destination is the liquor store even though he declines to browse the aisles and gets to enjoy almost none of the purchases.
But lately, I’ve had to start reconsidering our daily outings. He mentally drives along with me and aggressively exhorts me to ‘Go ahead, you can turn left now!’ --‘Yes, and run over that old lady and her dog.’ Or ‘Why did you turn left HERE??’ --‘Because that’s the direction we’re going in and you don’t even know what our destination is!’ This is somewhat unnerving but I’m working on training myself to eschew any Pavlovian reaction that would risk injury, a collision with another car, or a traffic ticket.
Of late, he has developed an even more dangerous habit. Always critical of other drivers, Harry has now escalated to yelling critical comments to other vehicles at the car window (mercifully closed in the winter), or randomly waving other drivers to go ahead or stop and give me priority despite what MY intentions might be.
Monday, we were attempting to leave the parking lot at Dominion (I REFUSE to call it Metro!!) when a big SUV (is there any other kind?) blocked my way. Harry’s solution was to order me to ‘Honk at him!’ Forgetting my resolve, I stupidly obeyed and as I inched by him, the driver rolled down his window and expressed HIS feelings on the situation. I ignored him and congratulated myself on having extricated myself from a potentially nasty encounter. Glancing to my right, however, I was horrified to see that Harry, the usually mild-mannered gentleman scholar who never even swears, was defiantly giving the guy the finger.
I’m beginning to think my life will be much safer if I restrict our daily outings to ‘some place nice’ located as short a driving distance as possible from home.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Love is in the Air
It is spring in Toronto! Yes, this is NEWS! Canadians are always surprised and grateful to see spring arrive and this year we are more jubilant than ever as we have had no snow or bone-chilling cold since … well, since … the BEGINNING of February! The crab apple trees are celebrating by bursting forth in extra vibrant bright pink blossoms; the birds are singing more brightly and loudly than ever; even the earthworms seem more vigorous and extroverted than usual. I joined in the general euphoria by falling in love.
A couple of weeks ago, I was walking through Yorkville when I first encountered the object of my newly minted adoration. Since then I have shamelessly sought out or created reasons for sauntering down Yorkville Avenue; one day I managed to rationalize spending 55 minutes there. When I think of it, I blush at how easily I overcame all my scruples in order to facilitate a second rendez-vous.
No matter what I do or where I go lately, I find myself face-to-face with young love. Sitting at my computer (an ‘activity’ I engage in about 8 hours a day) I gaze directly into a lovingly constructed nest, delicately balance between the down pipe and the brick wall and carefully nestled under the protective eaves of my neighbour’s house. Mum and Dad Robin spell each other off several times an hour and on each occasion, they make little birdy eye contact with one another and nod responsibly to confirm that their progeny have been and will continue to be in good hands (or should I say wings?). I feel the electricity, pride and love pass between them as I observe, jealously, from my voyeuristic keyboard.
In the subway, on my way to elicit encounter number two, I was riveted by a young married couple, oblivious to the crowded subway, who stared long and hard into each other’s eyes obviously replaying blissful private moments that elevated them both above their drab, mundane reality: he, very ordinary looking developing a slight paunch beneath his pasty face and nerdy clothes; she, hanging tenaciously onto the perkiness that had obviously attracted him and that would serve her well until the birth of their first child after which she would plunge immediately and irrevocably into dowdiness. But last week, on their way to work, thigh to thigh on the plastic TTC banquette, they sat cocooned in the love emanating from each other’s eyes.
Still reeling with vicarious giddiness, I descended from my train, ran up the grimy subway stairs to the morning sunlight and slipped clandestinely into Pusateri’s where I ordered a decaf cappuccino accompanied by my latest 'péché mignon', a crusty 'pain au chocolat' filled with decadent mounds of almond paste. As I savoured every bite, I hoped that all those around me would stare in covetous awe at my secret spring affair.
A couple of weeks ago, I was walking through Yorkville when I first encountered the object of my newly minted adoration. Since then I have shamelessly sought out or created reasons for sauntering down Yorkville Avenue; one day I managed to rationalize spending 55 minutes there. When I think of it, I blush at how easily I overcame all my scruples in order to facilitate a second rendez-vous.
No matter what I do or where I go lately, I find myself face-to-face with young love. Sitting at my computer (an ‘activity’ I engage in about 8 hours a day) I gaze directly into a lovingly constructed nest, delicately balance between the down pipe and the brick wall and carefully nestled under the protective eaves of my neighbour’s house. Mum and Dad Robin spell each other off several times an hour and on each occasion, they make little birdy eye contact with one another and nod responsibly to confirm that their progeny have been and will continue to be in good hands (or should I say wings?). I feel the electricity, pride and love pass between them as I observe, jealously, from my voyeuristic keyboard.
In the subway, on my way to elicit encounter number two, I was riveted by a young married couple, oblivious to the crowded subway, who stared long and hard into each other’s eyes obviously replaying blissful private moments that elevated them both above their drab, mundane reality: he, very ordinary looking developing a slight paunch beneath his pasty face and nerdy clothes; she, hanging tenaciously onto the perkiness that had obviously attracted him and that would serve her well until the birth of their first child after which she would plunge immediately and irrevocably into dowdiness. But last week, on their way to work, thigh to thigh on the plastic TTC banquette, they sat cocooned in the love emanating from each other’s eyes.
Still reeling with vicarious giddiness, I descended from my train, ran up the grimy subway stairs to the morning sunlight and slipped clandestinely into Pusateri’s where I ordered a decaf cappuccino accompanied by my latest 'péché mignon', a crusty 'pain au chocolat' filled with decadent mounds of almond paste. As I savoured every bite, I hoped that all those around me would stare in covetous awe at my secret spring affair.
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