Seventy - true or false?

I just looked at myself in the mirror and laughed. "You're 70 fucking years old!" I said to her, that familiar face looking back, the face that could be 33 as far as I'm concerned. It's just surreal, simply not possible, it does not compute. 70 is my grandmothers who were creaking and slow and OLD. It's decrepit and on the way out. Nothing to do with MOI.

But here we are.

The campers in Nova Scotia are happy. Sam is very busy because both the Raptors and the Leafs are playing big games today. The Leafs. In August. Talk about surreal.

Today I was indeed a crabby old lady, however. After a week of listening day in day out to sawing and drilling and hammering, in mid-afternoon I marched, carrying a printout of the Toronto noise ordinance, into the yard on Spruce Street where the construction had been carrying on all day and pointed out that the rules say, NO CONSTRUCTION NOISE ON SUNDAY. It turned out not to be the horrible developers who have wreaked havoc in the 'hood but a nice guy who works during the week and can only build his deck on the weekend. But still, I begged him for myself and the 30 or so other families in the vicinity, especially for those of us without cottages whose gardens are our retreats, to please give us some peace today.

And he did.

I have the feeling that silence, or even relative silence, will soon be one of the great luxuries of life for those of us living in cities. We had silence today, here, at last. I came home and sat outside for the rest of the day, relishing what was not filling my ears. I'm trying to finish Aubrey McKee because I have to go pick up another library book soon. Alex Pugsley is a very good writer, exploding with ideas, words, amazing details, superb dialogue - but again, as often before, this crabby old lady thinks he needs and did not have a good editor. EDIT. CUT. TOO MUCH. Less is more. Etc.

I also mailed a letter to the CBC complaining about a news anchor who stumbles on foreign names, sometimes 2 or 3 times in a row, and sounds as if she barely understands what she's reading. But it's her enunciation that drives me insane; she can't pronounce even simple words, particularly the suffix 'ing.' Talkin seein doin. "Returnin to our top story." On the CBC National News.

I also tried to watch a new TV drama, starring Seth Rogan as a modern day schlub and also as his own great-grandfather who was miraculously preserved for 100 years in pickle brine. I wanted to like this Jewish folk tale, but it was just too stupid.

So yes, crabby, with an occasional finger or leg cramp, some memory gaps, a sometimes achey back, a resigned sense of what I will never get to do in this lifetime. I guess I am 70. Unbelievable as it may seem.

Here's the good news: I did watch Modern Times on TCM by and with Charlie Chaplin, stunning. And it's summer, and that means peaches and other good things. Hooray for the Saturday St. Lawrence Market. Appreciated even by the very old. And very crabby.