see my path but not the road
On the Monday holiday we went to Grass Creek Park. Early. The first ones there. A big crowd on hand the day before, for Canada Day, and over the garbage bags and red parking tape the seagulls circled and swooped obligingly. Still, it wasn't bad at all, mostly just things left behind. And people began arriving soon enough, in their standard sets, moms in wraps or self-conscious cargo pants, and dads with their bellies and bad tattoos, letting it all hang out, and kids in pink racing packs, these little stick girls who somehow manage to run full tilt and scream at the same time. Oona's going through something weird with the water, so she mostly just went around destroying other people's sand castles.
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And despite the sun and wind and all sorts of snacks, including a Happy Meal on the way home, Oona decided to skip her afternoon nap. Part and parcel of some larger issues about control (or, in my mind, CONTROL). C always reminds me that this (her behaviour) is normal, and I always respond that I don't care. Anyway, she (Oona, not C, for a change) was a full-on mental case by supper, and bath time before bed became somewhat abbreviated.
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On a dingy whim, I picked up Star magazine's STARS WITHOUT MAKEUP issue the other day. C and I "read" it in the backyard, with our feet in the wading pool, while Oona poured water in containers already containing water. And what did I learn? A woman's twenties and thirties are fine, make-up or no. The forties, however, come in a bit cruelly. After that it's hit and miss. Does anyone expect Barbara Streisand to look good at 70? I'm impressed that she doesn't wander the streets, throwing cassette copies of Hello, Dolly! at people. On the other hand, it's hard to believe that Helen Hunt looks *that* bad at 49. C says it's because she has no fat in her face. Since I've got plenty, I guess I'll always look fabulous.