Letter to Barb about Bimbos

Hi again,

Your description of Micheline is priceless. Change the names and put it in your blog. If you're afraid people will recognize them, publish for friends only. I laughed and laughed. Oh do I know the scenario well. So many intelligent male friends have gone down the bimbo road. It's inexplicable isn't it? It's some tawdry wish fulfillment like driving a BMW sports car, and taking up sky diving. Somehow, this enactment of the youthful cliche makes men feel they have still got "it". Go figure.

I had a three year affair with a man who had married a beautician. I was the other woman he escaped to when he wanted some class and a mind with his body. So bizarre. More recently, my first boyfriend hunted me up while his wife was dying of cancer. He apparently needed the fantasy of me (his first love) to keep him strong during that long protracted and fearful illness. I listened, provided strength, accepted the ups and downs of his mood swings and understood his fear of losing her. Our emails were daily.

He came to visit after his wife died, and was received by the 69 year old Claire. The real, today me was his age and far removed from his memory of the 15 year old he drew strength from and once loved. It is now a year later, and I rarely hear from him as he is moving on with his life. He lives an hour and a half away, but when, for a whole month, he couldn't make it to my exhibition, I knew that he was not really interested in knowing me. It's sad, because we were such good friends as kids and some potential existed to be good friends again. He is probably out there searching for his Micheline as we speak.

I've noticed something else lately. Men are not very interested in what I might have to say. When I was a young and foxy woman, I attracted men like flies. At cocktail parties they would gather around me but talk to each other. If I mistakenly injected my ideas or observations into the conversation their eyes would glaze over. It took a long time for me to realize that my role was to stand there and admire their ideas, not have my own. In middle age, as a career woman, I was listened to but generally viewed as a threat and ball-breaker when I had ideas before my male colleagues. Now finally, I'm no longer eye candy nor am I a threat. I'm an old woman who doesn't even know enough to be sweet. So generally, the men's eyes glaze over again when I speak. Only the young men find me interesting or knowledgeable.

No wonder I don't generally like men in my peer group. All my life, they never let me be me. Besides, they are truly unattractive. I think cougars are women's revenge for all the bimbo Michelines we've had to endure.

I hope that we both continue to accept the things we cannot change.

Thanks for the laugh.

Your friend.

A bit crazy, maybe?

Early June brings a complete colour change in my garden. The palette has moved from pastel to primary colour. It starts with the poppies. They raise the crimson flag. In about a week's time all the early Bee-balm is blooming with intense red and interspersed with the yellows - Potentilla, day lillies and yarrow are getting ready to burst forth in a sunny blaze. I finally got it right and have the succession of blooming times happening.

Gardening is like painting but a whole lot slower. When you get it wrong you have to wait a year to see if you fixed it. That is the challenge. Gardeners are life's greatest optimists. We keep trying and believing that things will work out next time. That means we believe time is on our side, the weather will cooperate, the insect and animal world will be in check and the balance between our efforts and nature's forces will be in harmony etc. It rarely happens that way but when it fails we step back, survey the mess and say "I'll move this, transplant that, and add something new, so that next year it will be perfect. There is no "perfect" but we choose not to recognize that.

Gardeners are indeed optimists or just maybe a bit crazy!?

Oriental Royalty - Their Perfect Moment

I took photos yesterday before it rained. Poppies are perfect for such a short time, I was afraid the rain would batter them. So here are some of my beauties. Few flowers are as dazzling as Oriental Poppies. In a certain light they glow like stained glass. They come up early each summer, demand little and offer me about a week of breathtaking beauty. Then they drop their soft red petals and all that is left is a dark brown seed pod sticking out of a mass of hairy leaves. Later the leaves brown and become quite unattractive taking up space. I never move them (they hate to be moved) but attempt to disguise the unsightly bunches of leaves with a foreground of annuals. I must respect these exotic queens of my garden because they honour me with their brief show of perfection.

The garden and other summer favourites like bird watching and art puttering take up so much of my time. Forgive my entry deficit. More will come later.