Sharing My World 20

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Share Your World – 2015 Week #9

How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?

If this is a trick question, my answer is that I would be exactly the age I actually am whether I know what it is or not.  But if I had to take a good look at myself and figure it out with a wild guess, I’d say fifty.  (I’m a bit pathetic at guessing anyone’s age).  Then I would look at my adult children and wonder why I gave birth to the first one when I was ten.  This is assuming I recognize them of course.  Who knows what else I may have forgotten.

If this question is asking how old I would LIKE to be, there’s no magical time in my life to which I wish to return.  Life goes on with ever new challenges and adventures.  If I could make time stand still or slow down I might opt for that.  The older I get, the faster it flies.

Are you left or right-handed?

I am right-handed, but do a lot of things with my left hand, and so I used to tell people I was ambidextrous because ambidexterity sounded like a very impressive thing to have.  I have a son who is left-handed, so I will pretend he got that from me.  If it’s genetic, I will then be forced to admit he got it from his “actually ambidextrous” paternal grandfather.

One of my more interesting useless skills is the ability to write backwards, so that you have to hold whatever I wrote up to a mirror to read it.  Or perhaps you have the interesting useless ability to READ backwards, in which case, here’s something useless for you to read.

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This has less to do with being left-handed or ambidextrous than it has to do with childhood boredom and writing secret messages in code when you’re too lazy to think up a real code.  I am an expert when it comes to finding the easiest way to do something.

If you HAD to change your name, what would you change it to?

My mother loved my name, as mothers do, but I always found it lacked sophistication.  So I would change it to Lindsey Maive MacKayla.  And although you may think that must be some random pronouncement right off the top of my head, I actually used a name generator to come up with it.  The suggestion for a pen name if I were a romance novelist is Libby Anne Funnyflower.  Seriously.  Does it get any better than that?  Well, yes it does.  I have been advised to write science fiction as Lilliana Mars Spencebot.

Where do you hide junk when people come over?

Hey!  How did you find that out about me?  Okay, if you must know, I use the dishwasher, drawers, closets, cupboards, rooms with closed doors,  and throwing things down the stairs into the basement.

Bonus question: What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?

I am grateful that W got well enough from “the worst cold he has ever had in his entire life” (this is how he describes every cold he has ever had in his entire life) to travel by plane to Ontario to visit his parents and celebrate his dads 93rd birthday.  I am looking forward to a nice quiet relaxing week on my own, doing nothing,  with no interruptions of my chosen nothingness activities.   It takes concentration to do nothing right.  And I am an expert at that too.   share-your-world2

Art du Jour 29

imageI have taken my own advice and gotten serious for a minute. This is a portrait of the famous W.  Perhaps his own children won’t recognize him, but that’s okay. I’m rather proud of this labour of love.

When I showed it to him he knew who it was and laughed.  I took that as a good sign that I hadn’t traumatized him for life.

Yesterday W came across a picture on Facebook of someone we haven’t seen for over thirty years and remarked that he looks awful.  He doesn’t really, he just looks old, because, well, he’s old.  We see our own changes gradually, and are often shocked at the changes in other people with whom we’ve lost touch.  Inside I feel like I’ve never left my thirties, but the mirror tells a different story.

So this is not the face I married, although he’s in there somewhere.  I’m going to hang on to this until we’re in our nineties and then show it to him again so we can both see how handsome he was way back in the day.  This is of course supposing we both live that long and can still see and remember where we put things.

I was looking at celebrity high school yearbook pictures on some Facebook site (yes, we both have way too much time on our hands these cold dreary January days) and the captions were statements of disbelief and what happened?  Well, time happened, you idiot caption writer.

Here’s to time and the wonderful changes it makes to our life-well-lived faces.

Being Birdie Bijou

On a blizzardy night in December, as she tossed and turned in her big feather bed, Birdie Bijou Berengaria had a rather unsettling dream. She was walking across a beautiful ballroom filled with laughing, chattering, fashionable people when she looked down at herself in alarm. She was loosing her color, slowly blending in with the woodwork; fading, dissolving, disappearing. She called out to the people milling around her, but her voice was muted and soft and could not be heard. She reached out to touch a shoulder but her hand passed through the material and the bone as if they were mist, leaving no impression whatsoever.

This is totally unacceptable, she thought to herself, as she attempted to stamp her foot in dismay, but that appendage had mysteriously turned to soft rubber and made no sound at all on the ballroom floor. She began to back away from the horror of this moment, glancing furtively around for some way to escape when she caught sight of her now nearly transparent reflection in the gilt mirror over the fireplace. She was a little grey mouse. No shine, no sparkle, no flare. Nothing. I am nobody, she moaned in despair. I am vanishing. I will be gone and never missed, and no one will remember me.

Birdie Bijou Berengaria suddenly sat up in bed with a start. What do I have to do to get noticed around here? she wailed. And suddenly she knew the answer.

From that day on, Birdie was bold. She wore shimmering sapphire and blinding scarlet, ruffles and lace and jewels. She threw away all her sensible shoes and replaced them with glossy black buckled mary janes that clicked and clacked and stomped with a lovely great racket. She held her head high and adorned it with lustrously flamboyant bows. She felt radiant and glorious. And because she positively glowed, she attracted attention as never before. She smiled and laughed and basked in the sunshine of her new reinvented self and her wonderful, interesting, and now thankfully very physically solid, friends.

She was so delighted to no longer be overlooked and ignored that she never once stopped to ponder what actually brought about this gratifying change. Let her go on believing it was the giant winged hair bow that suddenly turned her life around. We know what really happened.

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