I come home for lunch almost every day. It's a nice break from the office, but the driving time both ways leaves me only about 20 minutes to prepare and eat my food. That's why I was so happy to find a tasty brand of canned chili that takes only two minutes to microwave in it's own plastic can/bowl. It's good enough and fast enough that I have it at least a couple of times a week.
The first thing I do when I get in the house is let the dogs out. Then I put the chili in the microwave, turn on my computer, fix myself a Diet Coke on ice, let the dogs back in, give them a treat, and voila! Lunch is ready. I eat it at the computer while I read as many of your blog entries as I can during the time I have left.
Sometimes, while the chili cooks, I hear popping noises coming from the microwave. It's the beans, popping and exploding inside their covered microwavable bowl. Frankly, I'm glad they do that. They get that gas out of their bean-sized systems so there's no popping and exploding later, when the beans are in my system. The firecracker noises were especially loud today, but I was busy with the two-minutes' worth of chores I mentioned and didn't check the chili even once.
Wow! I should have checked it. The bowl of chili actually turned itself over inside the microwave. Nobody could have convinced me there was enough propulsive power in that bowl to tip over 15 ounces of chili, but there the bowl was, still covered, resting on its side in a big puddle of its own "blood." It must have put on quite a show.
So, two minutes of cooking time plus ten minutes of microwave cleanup left me with ten minutes to eat half a bowl of meat and beans. There wasn't enough juice left for dipping crackers. That's okay. I didn't have time to dip crackers anyway.
.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
Cops and robbers
Eight years ago today, burglars broke into my house.
I came home from work for lunch and found my front door standing wide open. Someone had hit or kicked the door with enough force that the deadbolt lock had been ripped away from the door and was hanging from the doorframe.
My house wasn't the only one. Sheriff's office detectives who investigated determined that at least two, probably more, burglars had parked in the driveway between my daughter's house (right in front of mine) and our neighbor's house on the other side of the driveway. First they'd broken the doors on all three houses. At my daughter's house and the neighbor's, they'd helped themselves to TVs, VCRs, microwaves, computers, and everything else they could carry in the bedspreads and blankets they stole right off the beds. They'd pulled mattresses off the beds and dumped the contents of dresser drawers, apparently looking for cash and smaller valuables. They'd even stolen all the meat from the freezers. (I guess all that bashing in doors and running with loot works up a hearty appetite.)
The biggest scare of the day came when we realized our telephone lines had been cut. That made us think the burglars had considered--and weren't deterred by--the possibility that someone was inside one of the homes and might try to call for help. That fact sent chills up my spine. Later, the detectives reassured us that the burglars were most likely trying to cut security system wires rather than the phone lines.
We found a paycheck stub in the grass, and the sheriff's office traced it back to a guy who'd reported his pickup truck stolen that same morning. Other than that, there were no good clues, and nobody was ever arrested and charged with these crimes.
Insurance paid for the items that were stolen and the damage to the doors, less the deductible, of course. The unreimbursable costs were much higher. It took time to file insurance claims, shop to replace the stolen items, take off work while security systems and brand-new doors were installed. There was no compensation for the sleep we lost as we lay awake and listened for unfamiliar noises outside. We didn't get a dime for the sense of security that took months to rebuild.
The one bright spot of the day was that nothing--nada, zip, zilch--was stolen from my house. When I walked through it with the detective, he asked me twice if I was sure nothing had been taken, but everything was exactly like I'd left it that morning. For that bit of good fortune, I take full credit.
You see, I'm not a great housekeeper under normal circumstances, and that week I'd started a new job (the one I have now). My home was in chaos. Laundry was piled up all over the living room, waiting to be folded. Tabletops were covered with haphazard stacks of newspapers, magazines and mail. My bed was unmade, the bedding in a tangled heap I'd created after hitting the snooze alarm one last time.
I'm firmly convinced that any burglar who might have intended to ransack my house took one quick look around and decided that one of the others had beaten him to it.
Rest assured, that powerful anti-theft strategy is still in place. I highly recommend it.
I came home from work for lunch and found my front door standing wide open. Someone had hit or kicked the door with enough force that the deadbolt lock had been ripped away from the door and was hanging from the doorframe.
My house wasn't the only one. Sheriff's office detectives who investigated determined that at least two, probably more, burglars had parked in the driveway between my daughter's house (right in front of mine) and our neighbor's house on the other side of the driveway. First they'd broken the doors on all three houses. At my daughter's house and the neighbor's, they'd helped themselves to TVs, VCRs, microwaves, computers, and everything else they could carry in the bedspreads and blankets they stole right off the beds. They'd pulled mattresses off the beds and dumped the contents of dresser drawers, apparently looking for cash and smaller valuables. They'd even stolen all the meat from the freezers. (I guess all that bashing in doors and running with loot works up a hearty appetite.)
The biggest scare of the day came when we realized our telephone lines had been cut. That made us think the burglars had considered--and weren't deterred by--the possibility that someone was inside one of the homes and might try to call for help. That fact sent chills up my spine. Later, the detectives reassured us that the burglars were most likely trying to cut security system wires rather than the phone lines.
We found a paycheck stub in the grass, and the sheriff's office traced it back to a guy who'd reported his pickup truck stolen that same morning. Other than that, there were no good clues, and nobody was ever arrested and charged with these crimes.
Insurance paid for the items that were stolen and the damage to the doors, less the deductible, of course. The unreimbursable costs were much higher. It took time to file insurance claims, shop to replace the stolen items, take off work while security systems and brand-new doors were installed. There was no compensation for the sleep we lost as we lay awake and listened for unfamiliar noises outside. We didn't get a dime for the sense of security that took months to rebuild.
The one bright spot of the day was that nothing--nada, zip, zilch--was stolen from my house. When I walked through it with the detective, he asked me twice if I was sure nothing had been taken, but everything was exactly like I'd left it that morning. For that bit of good fortune, I take full credit.
You see, I'm not a great housekeeper under normal circumstances, and that week I'd started a new job (the one I have now). My home was in chaos. Laundry was piled up all over the living room, waiting to be folded. Tabletops were covered with haphazard stacks of newspapers, magazines and mail. My bed was unmade, the bedding in a tangled heap I'd created after hitting the snooze alarm one last time.
I'm firmly convinced that any burglar who might have intended to ransack my house took one quick look around and decided that one of the others had beaten him to it.
Rest assured, that powerful anti-theft strategy is still in place. I highly recommend it.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Under one roof
Tomorrow is an anniversary of an odd sort, and tomorrow's when I plan to tell you about it. Tonight, as a little backstory for tomorrow's post, I'll tell you about my house. There's something unusual about where I live, something that isn't obvious to the casual observer and almost always surprises first-time visitors.
This photo shows the carport right outside my door. To the right of the car you'll see one outside wall; to the left is another. Notice that those walls are not connected in any way, except by the roof. That's because the roof covers two entirely separate houses.
A local contractor built these two homes in the mid-70s, one right behind the other on the same lot. One house was for himself and his wife, and the other was for their newly married daughter and her husband.
My younger daughter found out about this property near the beginning of 1997. She was a re-single mother of two, and I'd been living alone in an apartment for a number of years. Neither of us was planning a move, but when we learned about this two-in-one house, we were intrigued enough to check it out. Next thing you know, we'd bought it.
Each house has approximately 1700 square feet of living space, but the floor plans are entirely different. It was easy to choose which of us would live in which house. The front house has three bedrooms and two baths, sized just right for my daughter's little family. The back house has two bedrooms and one bath. A large den added to the back house accounts for the similar square footage. That den makes a perfect office/library/crafts area for me.
Three years after we bought this place, my daughter remarried. When she and her husband built and moved into a larger house to accommodate their blended family, we began renting out the front house. We've been very lucky, and that arrangement has worked well.
My neighbors across the carport are really nice people. They take good care of the house. In fact, it's because of the lady of the house that there are beautiful flowers in the front yard to welcome me home each day. Her thumb is much greener than mine.
I don't use the front yard, and the neighbors don't use the backyard. We reconfigured the fencing to create a usable "backyard" area at the side of the two houses where their son can play. We share the driveway and carport. We're friendly, but we give each other plenty of space and privacy.
I've lived here for nine and a half years now, longer than I've ever lived in one place since childhood, and this house has become my sanctuary. I'm settled. I'm home.
Tomorrow I'll tell you about a homecoming experience that was extremely unsettling.
This photo shows the carport right outside my door. To the right of the car you'll see one outside wall; to the left is another. Notice that those walls are not connected in any way, except by the roof. That's because the roof covers two entirely separate houses.
A local contractor built these two homes in the mid-70s, one right behind the other on the same lot. One house was for himself and his wife, and the other was for their newly married daughter and her husband.
My younger daughter found out about this property near the beginning of 1997. She was a re-single mother of two, and I'd been living alone in an apartment for a number of years. Neither of us was planning a move, but when we learned about this two-in-one house, we were intrigued enough to check it out. Next thing you know, we'd bought it.
Each house has approximately 1700 square feet of living space, but the floor plans are entirely different. It was easy to choose which of us would live in which house. The front house has three bedrooms and two baths, sized just right for my daughter's little family. The back house has two bedrooms and one bath. A large den added to the back house accounts for the similar square footage. That den makes a perfect office/library/crafts area for me.
Three years after we bought this place, my daughter remarried. When she and her husband built and moved into a larger house to accommodate their blended family, we began renting out the front house. We've been very lucky, and that arrangement has worked well.
My neighbors across the carport are really nice people. They take good care of the house. In fact, it's because of the lady of the house that there are beautiful flowers in the front yard to welcome me home each day. Her thumb is much greener than mine.
I don't use the front yard, and the neighbors don't use the backyard. We reconfigured the fencing to create a usable "backyard" area at the side of the two houses where their son can play. We share the driveway and carport. We're friendly, but we give each other plenty of space and privacy.
I've lived here for nine and a half years now, longer than I've ever lived in one place since childhood, and this house has become my sanctuary. I'm settled. I'm home.
Tomorrow I'll tell you about a homecoming experience that was extremely unsettling.
Friday, October 20, 2006
OOOooh, it feels so GOOOoood!
Butch's favorite things, in random order, are sleep, rawhide chews, belly rubs and back scratches. I feel all warm and fuzzy when I watch him enjoying the first three items on that list, but the back scratching? That just makes me laugh.
I promise I don't intend to flood you with home movies, but this scene is repeated around here at least a couple of times a day, and I can't wait to share it with you. Turn up your speakers, ladies and gents, and let me introduce you to Iiiiiiitchy Butchieeeeeeee!
I promise I don't intend to flood you with home movies, but this scene is repeated around here at least a couple of times a day, and I can't wait to share it with you. Turn up your speakers, ladies and gents, and let me introduce you to Iiiiiiitchy Butchieeeeeeee!
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Hey, Mom, watch this!
Last night I learned something new, and the really cool thing is I get to demonstrate it here for you, dear readers. First, a little backstory:
With all the news about Google's purchase of YouTube, I found myself exploring the fast-growing video site a little more closely and thinking maybe, just maybe, I could figure out how to upload a video. I mulled it over for a few days and decided last night to give it a try. The uploading process was a real exercise in patience, but here's my first (obviously not edited at all) video:
Remember when this peacock was hanging around my neighborhood during the early part of the summer? That was the first time I tried the "movie" setting on my digital camera. I wasn't even positive it was working, but, sure enough, it recorded my close-up contact with the peacock, including the goofy audio.
My older daughter congratulated me for taking the leap to YouTube and also for having the guts to "put your silly-voice out into the world." Ahem. That was NOT my silly-voice. That was my I'm-gonna-get-as-close-as-I-can-to-this-bird-and-I'm-gonna-talk-softly-and-try-not-to-spook-him voice. While it isn't at all unusual for me to talk to animals, I didn't have a clear concept of what this particular bird would enjoy discussing, so I was making it up as I went along. It all kind of fell apart when I got right up next to him and realized he had those "sharp things" on his...on his what? I deliberated briefly (thus the awkward pauses) and chose "ankles" to move the dialogue along. But do birds really have ankles? I don't think so.
There's clearly a lot more I need to learn about taking good quality videos, and then there's the whole video-editing process to work through. I hope to learn to do both, a little bit at a time. In the meantime, Steven Spielberg can rest easy... but the rest of you might want to give YouTube a try.
Like Blogger, YouTube is free. Can you believe we get to have so much fun for nothing? Life is good.
With all the news about Google's purchase of YouTube, I found myself exploring the fast-growing video site a little more closely and thinking maybe, just maybe, I could figure out how to upload a video. I mulled it over for a few days and decided last night to give it a try. The uploading process was a real exercise in patience, but here's my first (obviously not edited at all) video:
Remember when this peacock was hanging around my neighborhood during the early part of the summer? That was the first time I tried the "movie" setting on my digital camera. I wasn't even positive it was working, but, sure enough, it recorded my close-up contact with the peacock, including the goofy audio.
My older daughter congratulated me for taking the leap to YouTube and also for having the guts to "put your silly-voice out into the world." Ahem. That was NOT my silly-voice. That was my I'm-gonna-get-as-close-as-I-can-to-this-bird-and-I'm-gonna-talk-softly-and-try-not-to-spook-him voice. While it isn't at all unusual for me to talk to animals, I didn't have a clear concept of what this particular bird would enjoy discussing, so I was making it up as I went along. It all kind of fell apart when I got right up next to him and realized he had those "sharp things" on his...on his what? I deliberated briefly (thus the awkward pauses) and chose "ankles" to move the dialogue along. But do birds really have ankles? I don't think so.
There's clearly a lot more I need to learn about taking good quality videos, and then there's the whole video-editing process to work through. I hope to learn to do both, a little bit at a time. In the meantime, Steven Spielberg can rest easy... but the rest of you might want to give YouTube a try.
Like Blogger, YouTube is free. Can you believe we get to have so much fun for nothing? Life is good.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Lessons of the Trees
When strong winds blow your heart around,
you’ve had all you can take,
then face the wind like the willow
that bends but doesn’t break.
When what you’ve done’s the best you can,
you know you gave your all,
then face the wind like the redwood
and stand up straight and tall.
When others make demands on you
to be someone you’re not,
then face the wind like the oak tree
with all the strength you’ve got.
Remember on those windy days,
“to thine ownself be true,”
for every walk through the woodlands
kicks up a nut or two.
you’ve had all you can take,
then face the wind like the willow
that bends but doesn’t break.
When what you’ve done’s the best you can,
you know you gave your all,
then face the wind like the redwood
and stand up straight and tall.
When others make demands on you
to be someone you’re not,
then face the wind like the oak tree
with all the strength you’ve got.
Remember on those windy days,
“to thine ownself be true,”
for every walk through the woodlands
kicks up a nut or two.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Whine country
Sunday night would be a good time to write something thoughtful and inspirational, but right now I don't have anything like that in me. I waited until the last Diet Coke was gone and the last dogfood was in the dish, then I waited another two hours for the rain to stop, and then I couldn't wait any longer. I had no choice but to go to Wal-Mart.
I'd been in the store about ten minutes when I turned down one of the main aisles and heard a tiny voice calling, "Daddy!" A few steps farther on I spotted the source. A small boy, no more than two years old, was sitting in the child seat of an otherwise empty grocery cart parked between two display tables. He wasn't crying yet, but he was sounding more distressed each time he called for his daddy.
I looked around and didn't see anyone near him, so I stayed beside him for a minute. Finally, a man two aisles down stuck his head out and looked our way, then turned away and disappeared again. I kept my eye on the child as I moved down far enough to see into the aisle where the man had been. That's when I saw him laughing with an older boy, a teenager, as they looked at what appeared to be ammunition. When they saw me watching them, the man sent the boy to check on the baby.
Has this man never seen the news? Or was it just too much trouble to push the cart 12-15 feet farther to keep the baby with him? There were a lot of people in Wal-Mart tonight, but not so many in that particular area of the store. If someone had been inclined to snatch that baby, it wouldn't have been too difficult to do. What an idiot!
Now that I think about it, that whole end of the store was practically empty. I'd just been to the pet food aisle, and nobody was there either, except two teenaged employees. I heard one boy say to the other, "You'll like it back here; it's hard to get in trouble when you work back here." Isn't that at the top of everyone's job criteria list? A place where it's "hard to get in trouble"? Fool!
Later, in a crowded checkout line, a lady whirled around and screamed right into my ear, "GET BACK HERE!" Her daughter, who appeared to be a middle-schooler, wasn't more than three feet away and immediately returned to stand next to her mother. It didn't matter. The mother had plenty more to berate her about, and the rest of us in line got to listen to every word. Shrew!
When I got outside, it was raining again. As I stood in the rain and loaded groceries into my trunk, a huge pickup truck pulled up and waited behind me. I can't blame the driver for wanting my good parking spot (thank you, Mama-Too), but it irritated the heck out of me that he felt it necessary to rev his engine over and over. It was kinda scary, too, as if I were stuck somewhere in the pages of Stephen King's Christine. Jackass!
I drove home and pulled under the carport, then realized I wouldn't be able to put Butch and Kadi outside while I brought the groceries in. They don't do rain unless it's their idea. That meant I had to leave the indoor gate locked, the gate between my living room and kitchen. Which meant I'd first have to bring all the bags of groceries into the living room, so I could shut the front door, and then I could open the gate and pick up all the bags again (including two huge bags of dogfood) to move them to the kitchen. Butch and Kadi barked the entire time. Ungrateful little jerks!
I missed "The Amazing Race," and I'm so tired I've lost my appetite. I'll probably wake up hungry in the middle of the night, which means I'll be tired all day tomorrow. On Monday, the worst workday of the week.
Aren't you glad I spewed out all this venom? I wanted to post something tonight, and by golly, I did it. Now I need to stop writing and go spend some time making peace with the woman in the mirror. She's being a real bitch!
I'd been in the store about ten minutes when I turned down one of the main aisles and heard a tiny voice calling, "Daddy!" A few steps farther on I spotted the source. A small boy, no more than two years old, was sitting in the child seat of an otherwise empty grocery cart parked between two display tables. He wasn't crying yet, but he was sounding more distressed each time he called for his daddy.
I looked around and didn't see anyone near him, so I stayed beside him for a minute. Finally, a man two aisles down stuck his head out and looked our way, then turned away and disappeared again. I kept my eye on the child as I moved down far enough to see into the aisle where the man had been. That's when I saw him laughing with an older boy, a teenager, as they looked at what appeared to be ammunition. When they saw me watching them, the man sent the boy to check on the baby.
Has this man never seen the news? Or was it just too much trouble to push the cart 12-15 feet farther to keep the baby with him? There were a lot of people in Wal-Mart tonight, but not so many in that particular area of the store. If someone had been inclined to snatch that baby, it wouldn't have been too difficult to do. What an idiot!
Now that I think about it, that whole end of the store was practically empty. I'd just been to the pet food aisle, and nobody was there either, except two teenaged employees. I heard one boy say to the other, "You'll like it back here; it's hard to get in trouble when you work back here." Isn't that at the top of everyone's job criteria list? A place where it's "hard to get in trouble"? Fool!
Later, in a crowded checkout line, a lady whirled around and screamed right into my ear, "GET BACK HERE!" Her daughter, who appeared to be a middle-schooler, wasn't more than three feet away and immediately returned to stand next to her mother. It didn't matter. The mother had plenty more to berate her about, and the rest of us in line got to listen to every word. Shrew!
When I got outside, it was raining again. As I stood in the rain and loaded groceries into my trunk, a huge pickup truck pulled up and waited behind me. I can't blame the driver for wanting my good parking spot (thank you, Mama-Too), but it irritated the heck out of me that he felt it necessary to rev his engine over and over. It was kinda scary, too, as if I were stuck somewhere in the pages of Stephen King's Christine. Jackass!
I drove home and pulled under the carport, then realized I wouldn't be able to put Butch and Kadi outside while I brought the groceries in. They don't do rain unless it's their idea. That meant I had to leave the indoor gate locked, the gate between my living room and kitchen. Which meant I'd first have to bring all the bags of groceries into the living room, so I could shut the front door, and then I could open the gate and pick up all the bags again (including two huge bags of dogfood) to move them to the kitchen. Butch and Kadi barked the entire time. Ungrateful little jerks!
I missed "The Amazing Race," and I'm so tired I've lost my appetite. I'll probably wake up hungry in the middle of the night, which means I'll be tired all day tomorrow. On Monday, the worst workday of the week.
Aren't you glad I spewed out all this venom? I wanted to post something tonight, and by golly, I did it. Now I need to stop writing and go spend some time making peace with the woman in the mirror. She's being a real bitch!
Friday, October 13, 2006
No bad luck today (knock on wood)
The day's not quite over, but I'm in couch-potato mode, so the possibilities of what could go wrong in the next few hours are limited. I microwaved my dinner without incident. I have enough Diet Coke to last until noon tomorrow. The batteries in my toothbrush could die, but there are replacements in the broom closet. It's unlikely that my computer or TV will explode. Blogger could get bogged down, of course, but that happens so often it doesn't seem to fit the category of bad luck.
The only thing I really have to do is let the dogs out one more time and then I can go to bed. All in all, I don't think I'm tempting fate by saying this Friday the 13th has been an okay day.
I'm not very superstitious. If a black cat crosses my path or I break a mirror, I make a mental note ot it, but I don't dwell on it for more than a minute. If someone sends me a chain letter, by snail mail or e-mail, I won't forward it, no matter what dire threats it contains. So far, to the best of my knowledge, this hasn't resulted in misfortune raining down on anyone in my family. Knock on wood.
That's about my only superstition these days, that knocking-on-wood thing. I have an irrational fear of jinxing good fortune by calling attention to it. I also have a tendency to say what I'm thinking most of the time, so I need to knock on wood fairly frequently. Once, in a metal-and-plastic, industrial environment, I stealthily knocked on a No. 2 pencil. But that was a long time ago. I can control the wood-knocking impulses now...if I have to.
Even in childhood I was skeptical of most of the superstitions I learned about, but there was one I took very seriously. The consequences of ignoring the warning would be too high, and they wouldn't be my consequences to pay. I couldn't, with a clear conscience, take any chances. For eight years, from first grade through eighth, I walked to and from school every day. And every step of the way, one thought quietly persisted in the back of my mind: "Step on a crack and you'll break your mother's back."
I was always careful, and my mother stayed safe.
So there, I've told you mine. What are your superstitions?
The only thing I really have to do is let the dogs out one more time and then I can go to bed. All in all, I don't think I'm tempting fate by saying this Friday the 13th has been an okay day.
I'm not very superstitious. If a black cat crosses my path or I break a mirror, I make a mental note ot it, but I don't dwell on it for more than a minute. If someone sends me a chain letter, by snail mail or e-mail, I won't forward it, no matter what dire threats it contains. So far, to the best of my knowledge, this hasn't resulted in misfortune raining down on anyone in my family. Knock on wood.
That's about my only superstition these days, that knocking-on-wood thing. I have an irrational fear of jinxing good fortune by calling attention to it. I also have a tendency to say what I'm thinking most of the time, so I need to knock on wood fairly frequently. Once, in a metal-and-plastic, industrial environment, I stealthily knocked on a No. 2 pencil. But that was a long time ago. I can control the wood-knocking impulses now...if I have to.
Even in childhood I was skeptical of most of the superstitions I learned about, but there was one I took very seriously. The consequences of ignoring the warning would be too high, and they wouldn't be my consequences to pay. I couldn't, with a clear conscience, take any chances. For eight years, from first grade through eighth, I walked to and from school every day. And every step of the way, one thought quietly persisted in the back of my mind: "Step on a crack and you'll break your mother's back."
I was always careful, and my mother stayed safe.
So there, I've told you mine. What are your superstitions?
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Dancing with the Stars Shanna
Well, I am officially bummed out. Willa and Max were voted off of “Dancing with the Stars” tonight. Willa Ford, the “star” half of the duo, danced beautifully last night, and Max, her professional-dancer partner? Let’s just say Max put stars in my eyes.
Max is Maksim Chermerkovskiy. Even if I didn’t like to watch ballroom dancing, which I definitely do, I‘d have watched this show for Maksim-um exposure. So what if Social Security is lurking right around the corner? I’ve never met a woman of any age who didn't enjoy looking at a handsome man.
Max’s brooding good looks and hungry-lion dance moves make me want to pull out my old favorite romance novels –- the Kathleen E. Woodiwiss series, for example –- and reread them all, this time with a mental image of Max as the hero. Now that I look closely at those book jackets, every one of the guys in the cover art looks very much like Maksim.
My romance-novel phase ended about 20 years ago, so I don’t actually know if I’d like them as much now as I used to. In fact, last time I read one, I found myself skimming over all the pages that once would have caused me to linger. (Tip for readers of romance novels: The word “turgid” is a literary code word which, when it appears in a novel, signifies that the reader may safely skip the next two pages without missing any pivotal plot points.)
Still, it might be fun to fantasize. In real life, I’ve always thought my perfect mate would be the professor type, the quiet but confident, intelligent man in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. (Who knows? I might meet someone like that at the Social Security office.) But is there a little part of me that can appreciate a long-haired fancy man who wears patent-leather dancing shoes? As this photo (Miami Beach, 1971) clearly shows, you bet there is!
Disclaimer #1: Lest you think I'd gone totally wild, somewhere in the world is a matching photo of my then-husband on stage with the female half of the flamenco dance duo. We were picked from the audience to particpate in their floor show.
Disclaimer #2: I'd had absolutely nothing to drink but Coca-Cola.
Disclaimer #3: I NEVER -- not once -- let my dark roots grow that long without a touchup. It must have been a shadow.
Max is Maksim Chermerkovskiy. Even if I didn’t like to watch ballroom dancing, which I definitely do, I‘d have watched this show for Maksim-um exposure. So what if Social Security is lurking right around the corner? I’ve never met a woman of any age who didn't enjoy looking at a handsome man.
Max’s brooding good looks and hungry-lion dance moves make me want to pull out my old favorite romance novels –- the Kathleen E. Woodiwiss series, for example –- and reread them all, this time with a mental image of Max as the hero. Now that I look closely at those book jackets, every one of the guys in the cover art looks very much like Maksim.
My romance-novel phase ended about 20 years ago, so I don’t actually know if I’d like them as much now as I used to. In fact, last time I read one, I found myself skimming over all the pages that once would have caused me to linger. (Tip for readers of romance novels: The word “turgid” is a literary code word which, when it appears in a novel, signifies that the reader may safely skip the next two pages without missing any pivotal plot points.)
Still, it might be fun to fantasize. In real life, I’ve always thought my perfect mate would be the professor type, the quiet but confident, intelligent man in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. (Who knows? I might meet someone like that at the Social Security office.) But is there a little part of me that can appreciate a long-haired fancy man who wears patent-leather dancing shoes? As this photo (Miami Beach, 1971) clearly shows, you bet there is!
Disclaimer #1: Lest you think I'd gone totally wild, somewhere in the world is a matching photo of my then-husband on stage with the female half of the flamenco dance duo. We were picked from the audience to particpate in their floor show.
Disclaimer #2: I'd had absolutely nothing to drink but Coca-Cola.
Disclaimer #3: I NEVER -- not once -- let my dark roots grow that long without a touchup. It must have been a shadow.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
A song for dog lovers--and jailbreakers
There are some country songs I love and a whole bunch of others I don't like at all, but every afternoon, driving home from work, I switch back and forth between two country music stations and listen for something new. If neither station is playing anything interesting, I switch to an oldies-but-goodies station. If that doesn't work, I switch to a CD. The rock/talk station I listen to in the morning is too jarring for afternoon traffic.
Yesterday, on one of the country stations, I heard a song I'd forgotten about. I like the lyrics so much I decided to post them here for those of you who may not have heard this song. Even if you don't like country music, I think you'll enjoy the story this one tells.
Yesterday, on one of the country stations, I heard a song I'd forgotten about. I like the lyrics so much I decided to post them here for those of you who may not have heard this song. Even if you don't like country music, I think you'll enjoy the story this one tells.
Ol' Red
As sung by Blake Shelton.
Written by James Bohon, Don Goodman and Mark Sherrill.
Well, I caught my wife with another man,
And it cost me ninety-nine,
On a prison farm in Georgia,
Close to the Florida line.
Well, I'd been here for two long years,
I finally made the warden my friend.
And so he sentenced me to a life of ease,
Taking care of Ol' Red.
Now, Ol' Red, he's the damnedest dog,
That I've ever seen.
Got a nose that can smell a two-day trail;
He's a four-legged tracking machine.
You can consider yourself mighty lucky,
To get past the gators and the quicksand beds.
But all these years that I've been here,
Ain't nobody got past Red.
And the warden sang:
"Come on somebody, why don't you run?
"Ol' Red's itchin' to have a little fun.
"Get my lantern, get my gun,
"Red'll have you tree'd before the mornin' come."
Well, I paid off the guard and I slipped out a letter
To my cousin up in Tennessee.
Oh, an' he brought down a blue tick hound,
She was pretty as she could be.
Well, they penned her up in the swampland,
'Bout a mile just south of the gate.
And I'd take Ol' Red for his evening run,
I'd just drop him off and wait.
And the warden sang:
"Come on somebody, why don't you run?
"Ol' Red's itchin' to have a little fun.
"Get my lantern, get my gun,
"Red'll have you tree'd before the mornin' come."
Now Ol' Red got real used to seeing
His lady every night.
And so I kept him away for three or four days,
And waited till the time got right.
Well, I made my run with the evenin' sun,
And I smiled when I heard 'em turn Red out.
'Cause I was headed north to Tennessee,
And Ol' Red was headed south.
And the warden sang:
"Come on somebody, why don't you run?
"Ol' Red's itchin' to have a little fun.
"Get my lantern, get my gun,
"Red'll have you tree'd before the mornin' come."
Now there's red-haired blue ticks all in the South.
Love got me in here and love got me out.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
My inner Abe Lincoln
We're on our second straight day of crisp, cool air, air that, when I breathe it, infuses me with a sense of all things autumn and mentally transports me to my favorite place I've never been.
Years ago, when I took the self-hypnosis class, the instructor taught us a relaxation technique that I still use today. She encouraged us to create in our minds an image of a place where we'd feel perfectly safe and comfortable, to explore that place until we knew it in intimate detail, and to go there as often as we wanted or needed for a few moments of absolute peace.
My place is a log cabin that sits in a clearing in the middle of the woods. The clearing is the perfect size: if the tallest tree were to fall into the clearing, it would narrowly miss the cabin. The cabin is the perfect size, too. It's basically one all-purpose room, a small kitchen nook to the left of the front door, and the sleeping/living area to the right. (It's occurred to me more than once that there's no bathroom in my magic cabin. The magic of it is that I never need one when I'm there.)
I know that the interior walls of the cabin are made of logs, but the logs aren't visible except upon close inspection. Every wall is lined with bookshelves, floor to ceiling, and every shelf is covered with books. All my old favorites are there, along with a few new ones I can't wait to read.
Immediately to the right of the front door is a desk made of old, dark wood, its surface scarred from years of use. There's a computer on the desk. When I sit in the comfortable, worn leather chair and write on the computer, the words flow easily and naturally, and I never have to backspace.
My bed is next to the desk. It's a twin-sized bed placed lengthwise against the wall. The mattress is extra thick, topped with a a layer of soft goose down. There are two blankets on the bed to keep me warm on chilly nights (autumn is the only season in my special place), and the bedspread is a brightly colored quilt of no particular design.
During the day, I pile lots of pillows on the bed and use it for a sofa. There's a large window over the bed and bright sunlight washes in. I love to sit cross-legged beneath that window and read, while my dogs sleep peacefully in the square patch of sunlight that brightens a braided rag rug.
There are sounds -- but no noise -- in my special place. I hear rustling leaves, singing birds, and chattering squirrels. I can hear a clock ticking, not in an urgent way, but steadily, ticking off seconds to send the message that time, like life, goes on no matter what. If I want manmade music, I can play CDs on my computer. Sometimes, I sit outside on the top step and listen to Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman singing "Time to Say Goodbye," and my heart swells with wonder that human voices can make such beautiful sounds.
When I see myself step out the door of my cabin in the woods, I notice that I'm wearing a flannel shirt and that thick wool socks are bunched up around my ankles. This is interesting to me because I've never owned a flannel shirt, nor have I ever owned socks like that. The part of me who inhabits the cabin wears that type of clothing comfortably and naturally.
The woods around my cabin provide a sense of wilderness and solitude that nourish my spirit, but, in the interest of honesty, there's one more thing I must tell you: When I draw back far enough to get an aerial view of the cabin and its surrounding area, I see that the isolation stops at the outermost boundaries of my patch of woods. There are plenty of other people -- and convenient shopping -- less than half a mile away. I also know, though I've never seen it, that there's a reliable vehicle, with a full tank of gas, parked near my cabin. Those facts (imaginary facts?) are comforting, too. I can be alone as much as I need to, but the aloneness need never become loneliness.
You're welcome to use my cabin whenever you like and stay as long as you want -- but only when I'm not there, okay?
Years ago, when I took the self-hypnosis class, the instructor taught us a relaxation technique that I still use today. She encouraged us to create in our minds an image of a place where we'd feel perfectly safe and comfortable, to explore that place until we knew it in intimate detail, and to go there as often as we wanted or needed for a few moments of absolute peace.
My place is a log cabin that sits in a clearing in the middle of the woods. The clearing is the perfect size: if the tallest tree were to fall into the clearing, it would narrowly miss the cabin. The cabin is the perfect size, too. It's basically one all-purpose room, a small kitchen nook to the left of the front door, and the sleeping/living area to the right. (It's occurred to me more than once that there's no bathroom in my magic cabin. The magic of it is that I never need one when I'm there.)
I know that the interior walls of the cabin are made of logs, but the logs aren't visible except upon close inspection. Every wall is lined with bookshelves, floor to ceiling, and every shelf is covered with books. All my old favorites are there, along with a few new ones I can't wait to read.
Immediately to the right of the front door is a desk made of old, dark wood, its surface scarred from years of use. There's a computer on the desk. When I sit in the comfortable, worn leather chair and write on the computer, the words flow easily and naturally, and I never have to backspace.
My bed is next to the desk. It's a twin-sized bed placed lengthwise against the wall. The mattress is extra thick, topped with a a layer of soft goose down. There are two blankets on the bed to keep me warm on chilly nights (autumn is the only season in my special place), and the bedspread is a brightly colored quilt of no particular design.
During the day, I pile lots of pillows on the bed and use it for a sofa. There's a large window over the bed and bright sunlight washes in. I love to sit cross-legged beneath that window and read, while my dogs sleep peacefully in the square patch of sunlight that brightens a braided rag rug.
There are sounds -- but no noise -- in my special place. I hear rustling leaves, singing birds, and chattering squirrels. I can hear a clock ticking, not in an urgent way, but steadily, ticking off seconds to send the message that time, like life, goes on no matter what. If I want manmade music, I can play CDs on my computer. Sometimes, I sit outside on the top step and listen to Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman singing "Time to Say Goodbye," and my heart swells with wonder that human voices can make such beautiful sounds.
When I see myself step out the door of my cabin in the woods, I notice that I'm wearing a flannel shirt and that thick wool socks are bunched up around my ankles. This is interesting to me because I've never owned a flannel shirt, nor have I ever owned socks like that. The part of me who inhabits the cabin wears that type of clothing comfortably and naturally.
The woods around my cabin provide a sense of wilderness and solitude that nourish my spirit, but, in the interest of honesty, there's one more thing I must tell you: When I draw back far enough to get an aerial view of the cabin and its surrounding area, I see that the isolation stops at the outermost boundaries of my patch of woods. There are plenty of other people -- and convenient shopping -- less than half a mile away. I also know, though I've never seen it, that there's a reliable vehicle, with a full tank of gas, parked near my cabin. Those facts (imaginary facts?) are comforting, too. I can be alone as much as I need to, but the aloneness need never become loneliness.
You're welcome to use my cabin whenever you like and stay as long as you want -- but only when I'm not there, okay?
Friday, October 06, 2006
Baby boy
My niece, who didn't meet Butch until a year ago, told me then that she'd like to see a picture of him from the time before he lost his eyes. I hope she agrees with the old saying about "better late than never."
My fat, bright-eyed boy, shown here playing with big "sister" Kadi, was no more than eight weeks old when we snapped this shot. Couldn't you just take a bite out of that plump thigh?
In this one, still bright-eyed, he was about nine months old. This was after he discovered the pleasure of sleeping in my dining room "fortress" but before he chewed up the rungs on every single one of these chairs.
This is a shot from just a couple of months ago. Butch is eight years old now. His muzzle isn't as black as it used to be and, of course, he has no eyes, but I still think he's a handsome dog.
In fact, to my way of thinking, his face these days looks pretty much like a grown-up version of the sweet pup shown here sleeping under my computer desk. This is the baby boy who stole my heart. He still has it.
My fat, bright-eyed boy, shown here playing with big "sister" Kadi, was no more than eight weeks old when we snapped this shot. Couldn't you just take a bite out of that plump thigh?
In this one, still bright-eyed, he was about nine months old. This was after he discovered the pleasure of sleeping in my dining room "fortress" but before he chewed up the rungs on every single one of these chairs.
This is a shot from just a couple of months ago. Butch is eight years old now. His muzzle isn't as black as it used to be and, of course, he has no eyes, but I still think he's a handsome dog.
In fact, to my way of thinking, his face these days looks pretty much like a grown-up version of the sweet pup shown here sleeping under my computer desk. This is the baby boy who stole my heart. He still has it.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
The day the mime had the last word
I haven't been to New Orleans since Hurricane Katrina, but today I was remembering past visits there. I always looked forward to the street entertainers in the French Quarter: artists, musicians, dancers, magicians and always at least one mime. I wonder if they're still there.
About this time of year in 1983, when the weather should have been cool but wasn't, I went to New Orleans with a relatively new boyfriend. At 6'6" tall, my friend walked with his head above the crowd. He was hard to miss.
We ambled along Bourbon Street in the thick of a Saturday afternoon crowd, and I noticed a mime across the street and down the block a little way. He was a slender young man, wearing full-face white makeup and dressed in a black-and-white-striped shirt, black pants held up by red suspenders, and a shiny black top hat. He was at the center of a small group of people, pantomiming with exaggerated motions while remaining totally silent, as mimes are supposed to do.
The mime was amusing, and we kept watching him as we continued to walk. Suddenly, he looked in our direction. He raised his painted-on eyebrows, formed his lips into a big round "O", and did an exaggerated doubletake. He placed his palms flat together, praying-hands style, at waist level, then quickly stretched his arms forward and parted his hands, gesturing to the crowd to part and let him through. With dancelike movements, his body leaning forward like a man on a mission, he zizzagged through the tourist-filled street and continued moving toward us.
We realized the mime was coming our way and stopped walking to watch him. So did other people near us. Trying to figure out what had attracted the mime's attention, we glanced quickly at the people around us, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The closer the mime came, the more it appeared that he was directly approaching my friend and me. In fact, that turned out to be exactly what he was doing.
The mime stopped about two feet away from me. He stared intently into my eyes, pointedly ignoring my unusually tall friend. He walked around me in a tight little circle, not touching, but close enough to cause my friend to step back. Then he stopped abruptly and faced me again. Leaning in close, his eyes still locked on mine as my friend towered overhead behind me, he spoke the only words I've ever heard from a mime: "Are you alone?"
About this time of year in 1983, when the weather should have been cool but wasn't, I went to New Orleans with a relatively new boyfriend. At 6'6" tall, my friend walked with his head above the crowd. He was hard to miss.
We ambled along Bourbon Street in the thick of a Saturday afternoon crowd, and I noticed a mime across the street and down the block a little way. He was a slender young man, wearing full-face white makeup and dressed in a black-and-white-striped shirt, black pants held up by red suspenders, and a shiny black top hat. He was at the center of a small group of people, pantomiming with exaggerated motions while remaining totally silent, as mimes are supposed to do.
The mime was amusing, and we kept watching him as we continued to walk. Suddenly, he looked in our direction. He raised his painted-on eyebrows, formed his lips into a big round "O", and did an exaggerated doubletake. He placed his palms flat together, praying-hands style, at waist level, then quickly stretched his arms forward and parted his hands, gesturing to the crowd to part and let him through. With dancelike movements, his body leaning forward like a man on a mission, he zizzagged through the tourist-filled street and continued moving toward us.
We realized the mime was coming our way and stopped walking to watch him. So did other people near us. Trying to figure out what had attracted the mime's attention, we glanced quickly at the people around us, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The closer the mime came, the more it appeared that he was directly approaching my friend and me. In fact, that turned out to be exactly what he was doing.
The mime stopped about two feet away from me. He stared intently into my eyes, pointedly ignoring my unusually tall friend. He walked around me in a tight little circle, not touching, but close enough to cause my friend to step back. Then he stopped abruptly and faced me again. Leaning in close, his eyes still locked on mine as my friend towered overhead behind me, he spoke the only words I've ever heard from a mime: "Are you alone?"
Monday, October 02, 2006
Winken, Blinken and Nod...and Poose and T-Rich
In a conversation today about local politicians, somebody mentioned a parish councilman who's best known by his nickname: Needlenose. I am not making this up. When he's up for re-election, that name goes on his campaign signs and bumper stickers. My best guess is that few people in the community could tell you his real first name, although that's on his signs, too, but almost everyone has heard of Needlenose.
I remarked to my friends that this is the only place I've ever lived where so many adults are better known by their nicknames than their actual given names, and I wondered aloud whether there are other parts of the country where this practice is common. That's when I got the idea of mentioning this to you, oh-frequent-readers-and-fonts-of-unusual-and-unlimited-knowledge.
I've lived other places in the south with an abundance of Billy Bobs and Bubbas, but what we have here is beyond that. To give you an example, I made a quick scan of the local telephone book, all the way through the B's (okay, so research isn't my strong suit), and made note of the names I found listed in parentheses. I eliminated derivative nicknames (such as Tony for Anthony and Freddy for Alfred), and here's what was left:
Under the surname BABIN (rhymes with cabin): Dink, Tut, Kye, Sneaky, Brother, Rookie and Poose.
Under BERCEGEAY (rhymes with purse-uh-jay): Nub, Winky, Pamp and Ponk.
Listed under the name BOURGEOIS (rhymes with...uh...nothing I can think of): Poochie, Bean and T-Rich.
Moving on down to BOURQUE (rhymes with work): J-Boy, Brush and Cotto.
Under the surname BRAUD (rhymes with toe): Boxcar, Noonun, Tippie, Whitey, Pookey, Putsy and T-Boy.
And then there's BREAUX (also rhymes with toe -- go figure): Dukie, Black and Punkin.
I also found, in onesies and twosies, the following: Potchie, Happy, Twink, Tokey, Nuby, Buzy B'Z, Tanks, Buck, Woody, Shot, Bulldog, Butsy, Burger, Red, Bo, Dub, Bean, Brick, Bud, Coon and Dude.
I'd love to know the stories behind these nicknames. In the book I'm currently reading, Saving Fish from Drowning, author Amy Tan writes: "He was called Black Spot by his friends and family, a nickname given for the birthmark on his hand. As in China, such nicknames were meant to be unflattering, a ruse to discourage the gods from snatching babies away. But in Burma one could get stuck with a new nickname to reflect a change in circumstances or reputation." Maybe the same concept applies here; as far as I know, none of these local guys was ever snatched away.
Based on what Amy Tan wrote, I'll have to give China and Burma (now known as Myanmar) credit for having the most nicknames in Asia. So let's leave Asia out of it. When it comes to the rest of the world, I think I might be sitting right smack in the middle of the nickname capital.
Whaddaya think? How common are nicknames where you live?
I remarked to my friends that this is the only place I've ever lived where so many adults are better known by their nicknames than their actual given names, and I wondered aloud whether there are other parts of the country where this practice is common. That's when I got the idea of mentioning this to you, oh-frequent-readers-and-fonts-of-unusual-and-unlimited-knowledge.
I've lived other places in the south with an abundance of Billy Bobs and Bubbas, but what we have here is beyond that. To give you an example, I made a quick scan of the local telephone book, all the way through the B's (okay, so research isn't my strong suit), and made note of the names I found listed in parentheses. I eliminated derivative nicknames (such as Tony for Anthony and Freddy for Alfred), and here's what was left:
Under the surname BABIN (rhymes with cabin): Dink, Tut, Kye, Sneaky, Brother, Rookie and Poose.
Under BERCEGEAY (rhymes with purse-uh-jay): Nub, Winky, Pamp and Ponk.
Listed under the name BOURGEOIS (rhymes with...uh...nothing I can think of): Poochie, Bean and T-Rich.
Moving on down to BOURQUE (rhymes with work): J-Boy, Brush and Cotto.
Under the surname BRAUD (rhymes with toe): Boxcar, Noonun, Tippie, Whitey, Pookey, Putsy and T-Boy.
And then there's BREAUX (also rhymes with toe -- go figure): Dukie, Black and Punkin.
I also found, in onesies and twosies, the following: Potchie, Happy, Twink, Tokey, Nuby, Buzy B'Z, Tanks, Buck, Woody, Shot, Bulldog, Butsy, Burger, Red, Bo, Dub, Bean, Brick, Bud, Coon and Dude.
I'd love to know the stories behind these nicknames. In the book I'm currently reading, Saving Fish from Drowning, author Amy Tan writes: "He was called Black Spot by his friends and family, a nickname given for the birthmark on his hand. As in China, such nicknames were meant to be unflattering, a ruse to discourage the gods from snatching babies away. But in Burma one could get stuck with a new nickname to reflect a change in circumstances or reputation." Maybe the same concept applies here; as far as I know, none of these local guys was ever snatched away.
Based on what Amy Tan wrote, I'll have to give China and Burma (now known as Myanmar) credit for having the most nicknames in Asia. So let's leave Asia out of it. When it comes to the rest of the world, I think I might be sitting right smack in the middle of the nickname capital.
Whaddaya think? How common are nicknames where you live?
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Somewhere along this dusty road, the clotheshorse died.
On the Monday after I graduated from high school I started working for an East Texas law firm. On Friday of that week I got my first-ever paycheck: $47 after taxes. I paid Mother $10, the amount we'd agreed would be reasonable room and board for someone of my new "adult-working-girl" status. Because I'd never learned to drive, a neighbor who worked across the street from my office took me to and from work each day; in exchange, I gave her gas money. I went to lunch every day with another secretary, mostly to places where we could get a good, hot, plate lunch for $1. Those were my only expenses. I spent the rest of my money on clothes.
My lunch buddy, Jo, had established relationships with the owners and managers of all the best clothing stores in town. They'd call her a day or two ahead of each big sale they planned, and we'd schedule our daily lunch hours around that insider information. We'd choose a restaurant near our target store, eat as quickly as possible (I still eat too fast as a result of that training), and shop until it was time to go back to work.
During that year, I bought beautiful clothes, dresses I could sketch in detail today if I were talented in that way. I loved them all and wore them well. The sizes were consistent from label to label, so I could pick my size off the rack and it would fit as if it had been designed for me. At 50 percent off, and with the help of layaway, I bought pretty much what I wanted.
Some days we shopped only for shoes, and I had shoes in every color. The most popular shoes in the early '60s were pointed-toe pumps with stiletto heels, much like the ones I see for sale today. I remember specifically a pair of wedgwood blue pumps that were so beautiful -- and so inexpensive at their sale price -- that I bought them even though I didn't own one thing to wear with them. Over the next couple of weeks I managed to find a shirtwaist dress and a purse in that exact shade of blue. The dress and purse were not on sale, unfortunately, so those "cheap" shoes ended up costing me a sizable amount.
Are you wondering why I'm spending so many words to describe my clothing excesses of more than 40 years ago? The reason, I guess, is to help you understand how much I've changed in all those years. Today, I would rather spend an hour strapped naked to a tree in a mosquito-infested rain forest than spend that same hour shopping for clothes. Sizes are inconsistent, age-appropriate styles are limited, plus-sized fashions are generally unfashionable, and prices, in my opinion, are ridiculous.
Still, I bit the bullet earlier in the week and spent a couple of hours to supplement my deteriorating work wardrobe. You want to know what I bought? Three pairs of black pants (each cut differently to accommodate varying levels of water retention) and four sweaters, all identical except for the color. The part of me that used to be aghast at repeating a look within a two-week period has grown to embrace the idea of a "uniform."
There are advantages to growing older, not the least of which are (1) I've become more or less invisible, and (2) I couldn't care less.
My lunch buddy, Jo, had established relationships with the owners and managers of all the best clothing stores in town. They'd call her a day or two ahead of each big sale they planned, and we'd schedule our daily lunch hours around that insider information. We'd choose a restaurant near our target store, eat as quickly as possible (I still eat too fast as a result of that training), and shop until it was time to go back to work.
During that year, I bought beautiful clothes, dresses I could sketch in detail today if I were talented in that way. I loved them all and wore them well. The sizes were consistent from label to label, so I could pick my size off the rack and it would fit as if it had been designed for me. At 50 percent off, and with the help of layaway, I bought pretty much what I wanted.
Some days we shopped only for shoes, and I had shoes in every color. The most popular shoes in the early '60s were pointed-toe pumps with stiletto heels, much like the ones I see for sale today. I remember specifically a pair of wedgwood blue pumps that were so beautiful -- and so inexpensive at their sale price -- that I bought them even though I didn't own one thing to wear with them. Over the next couple of weeks I managed to find a shirtwaist dress and a purse in that exact shade of blue. The dress and purse were not on sale, unfortunately, so those "cheap" shoes ended up costing me a sizable amount.
Are you wondering why I'm spending so many words to describe my clothing excesses of more than 40 years ago? The reason, I guess, is to help you understand how much I've changed in all those years. Today, I would rather spend an hour strapped naked to a tree in a mosquito-infested rain forest than spend that same hour shopping for clothes. Sizes are inconsistent, age-appropriate styles are limited, plus-sized fashions are generally unfashionable, and prices, in my opinion, are ridiculous.
Still, I bit the bullet earlier in the week and spent a couple of hours to supplement my deteriorating work wardrobe. You want to know what I bought? Three pairs of black pants (each cut differently to accommodate varying levels of water retention) and four sweaters, all identical except for the color. The part of me that used to be aghast at repeating a look within a two-week period has grown to embrace the idea of a "uniform."
There are advantages to growing older, not the least of which are (1) I've become more or less invisible, and (2) I couldn't care less.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
And the clock starts...now!
Earlier this week I made a financial investment for my future. Now all I have to do is sit back and reap the rewards. I'm crossing my fingers that this was a good decision.
The advertising hype is that over the course of the next seven years I'm supposed to save more than five times as much money as I spent on my initial investment. That's a pretty good return, don't you think? I'm already having visions of a more comfortable retirement than I could have imagined even last week.
So, you want to know my money-making secret? It's light bulbs! Yes!! I'm gradually replacing the light bulbs in my home with compact fluorescent bulbs. They're pricey, but I figure if I buy enough of them, and if they live up to their reputation, I'll reduce my electric bill to the point that the power company will have to send me a monthly check.
The best part isn't even the money; it's the safety factor. There are some hard-to-reach light fixtures in this house. Changing them involves standing on my tiptoes, stretching out as tall as possible, and leaning forward precariously so my fingertips can manipulate impossibly tiny screws that hold delicate glass globes in place. Naturally, maintaining this position involves leg and shoulder cramps. And gritted teeth. But now? Now I won't have to do it more than once every seven years.
I installed the first of my new light bulbs tonight in the sconce to the right of my fireplace. It should last until I'm 70. Check back with me every couple of years and I'll let you know how we're doing.
The advertising hype is that over the course of the next seven years I'm supposed to save more than five times as much money as I spent on my initial investment. That's a pretty good return, don't you think? I'm already having visions of a more comfortable retirement than I could have imagined even last week.
So, you want to know my money-making secret? It's light bulbs! Yes!! I'm gradually replacing the light bulbs in my home with compact fluorescent bulbs. They're pricey, but I figure if I buy enough of them, and if they live up to their reputation, I'll reduce my electric bill to the point that the power company will have to send me a monthly check.
The best part isn't even the money; it's the safety factor. There are some hard-to-reach light fixtures in this house. Changing them involves standing on my tiptoes, stretching out as tall as possible, and leaning forward precariously so my fingertips can manipulate impossibly tiny screws that hold delicate glass globes in place. Naturally, maintaining this position involves leg and shoulder cramps. And gritted teeth. But now? Now I won't have to do it more than once every seven years.
I installed the first of my new light bulbs tonight in the sconce to the right of my fireplace. It should last until I'm 70. Check back with me every couple of years and I'll let you know how we're doing.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Not a moment too soon
There was the merest touch of a chill in the air this morning, not cold by anyone's standards, but cool enough to make South Louisiana a nicer place to be. I'm immensely grateful for a day of relief from months of sweltering heat.
Fall has always been my favorite time of the year. The autumn colors of my childhood turned out to be what I'd miss most about Missouri, especially the brilliant red of one particular front-yard maple tree. We don't get colors like that down here. In another month or so, though, subtle, muted shades of red and gold will begin to creep into the green that currently lines our highways. Our Cajun-country leaves will give it their best shot.
For now, I'm content to measure the changing of the seasons by my changing temperament, casting off summer's irritability and embracing the opportunity to breathe cool, fresh air. I love being able to open the windows and let some of that freshness inside. It's also pretty nice to walk the ten steps from the door of my house to my parked car without breaking a sweat.
Even the dogs seem to notice the difference. When I was home for lunch today, Kadi was friskier than I've seen her in months. Tail wagging, she dropped onto her doggy-equivalent of elbows, hind end high in the air, and engaged the tag team of Lucy and Winston in a vigorous wrestling match. Kadi hasn't played with the pups so enthusiastically since last March, when this photo was taken, before the hot weather set in. But today was glorious -- a wrestling kind of a day.
Fall has always been my favorite time of the year. The autumn colors of my childhood turned out to be what I'd miss most about Missouri, especially the brilliant red of one particular front-yard maple tree. We don't get colors like that down here. In another month or so, though, subtle, muted shades of red and gold will begin to creep into the green that currently lines our highways. Our Cajun-country leaves will give it their best shot.
For now, I'm content to measure the changing of the seasons by my changing temperament, casting off summer's irritability and embracing the opportunity to breathe cool, fresh air. I love being able to open the windows and let some of that freshness inside. It's also pretty nice to walk the ten steps from the door of my house to my parked car without breaking a sweat.
Even the dogs seem to notice the difference. When I was home for lunch today, Kadi was friskier than I've seen her in months. Tail wagging, she dropped onto her doggy-equivalent of elbows, hind end high in the air, and engaged the tag team of Lucy and Winston in a vigorous wrestling match. Kadi hasn't played with the pups so enthusiastically since last March, when this photo was taken, before the hot weather set in. But today was glorious -- a wrestling kind of a day.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
When a bad dream is a good dream
This morning I slept until 9:15, unusually late only because Kadi and Butch normally wake me up well before then. As often happens when I sleep late, I had a recurrent dream, one I've had so many times previously I couldn't begin to count them. Some of you have probably had this one, too.
It's an extremely frustrating dream in which I have to go to the bathroom and can't find one to use. I'll walk into the bathroom in someone's home and find a little sign on the toilet saying, "Out of order, please don't use." I'll stop to use the restroom in a public place, but there won't be a door on the stall, and other people will be in there. I'll find a toilet that's private enough to suit me, only to discover that the last person to use it peed all over the seat.
Obstacles like those I mentioned in the last paragraph occur almost every time I have this dream, but other versions of the dream have featured some really bizarre obstacles. One time, I stood in line to use the only toilet available at an elegant catering hall. The man who appeared to be in charge of things (judging by his tuxedo and my internal dream translator) said the banquet wasn't due to start for another half hour, so it was okay to use the facilities until guests arrived. All the people in line ahead of me went through the door and used the bathroom with no apparent problem. When it was my turn, however, I was shocked to discover that the toilet was set up in plain sight, right in the center of dozens of white-clothed, centerpiece-topped tables. Still, I needed to go so badly that I stepped up and began to lift my skirt in preparation to do the deed. Wouldn't you know it? Waiters bearing trays of water glasses began pouring into the room. I straightened my skirt and made a hasty exit, feeling more desperate than ever.
In this morning's version, it was my husband who repeatedly required my assistance with one damned thing or another just as I was about to get to a usable bathroom. My husband in this dream was capably played by a young Tom Selleck. I suppose my subconscious mind must have plucked him from a recent news item about his affiliation with the National Rifle Association. Whatever. I'm still annoyed with him as I write this.
I figured out a long time ago what this dream-theme means, and Edgar Cayce's website confirms it: "...very often...we have dreams that correspond to physiological sensations. For example, very often people dream that they have to use a restroom, only to awaken and discover that they literally have to use the restroom. Because we have been taught that it is only appropriate to go to the bathroom in certain places, the dream imagery shows the dreamer inappropriate places because it would certainly be inappropriate to go while asleep."
This is not my favorite recurring dream, by any means, but I -- and my clean, dry sheets -- have learned to appreciate it.
It's an extremely frustrating dream in which I have to go to the bathroom and can't find one to use. I'll walk into the bathroom in someone's home and find a little sign on the toilet saying, "Out of order, please don't use." I'll stop to use the restroom in a public place, but there won't be a door on the stall, and other people will be in there. I'll find a toilet that's private enough to suit me, only to discover that the last person to use it peed all over the seat.
Obstacles like those I mentioned in the last paragraph occur almost every time I have this dream, but other versions of the dream have featured some really bizarre obstacles. One time, I stood in line to use the only toilet available at an elegant catering hall. The man who appeared to be in charge of things (judging by his tuxedo and my internal dream translator) said the banquet wasn't due to start for another half hour, so it was okay to use the facilities until guests arrived. All the people in line ahead of me went through the door and used the bathroom with no apparent problem. When it was my turn, however, I was shocked to discover that the toilet was set up in plain sight, right in the center of dozens of white-clothed, centerpiece-topped tables. Still, I needed to go so badly that I stepped up and began to lift my skirt in preparation to do the deed. Wouldn't you know it? Waiters bearing trays of water glasses began pouring into the room. I straightened my skirt and made a hasty exit, feeling more desperate than ever.
In this morning's version, it was my husband who repeatedly required my assistance with one damned thing or another just as I was about to get to a usable bathroom. My husband in this dream was capably played by a young Tom Selleck. I suppose my subconscious mind must have plucked him from a recent news item about his affiliation with the National Rifle Association. Whatever. I'm still annoyed with him as I write this.
I figured out a long time ago what this dream-theme means, and Edgar Cayce's website confirms it: "...very often...we have dreams that correspond to physiological sensations. For example, very often people dream that they have to use a restroom, only to awaken and discover that they literally have to use the restroom. Because we have been taught that it is only appropriate to go to the bathroom in certain places, the dream imagery shows the dreamer inappropriate places because it would certainly be inappropriate to go while asleep."
This is not my favorite recurring dream, by any means, but I -- and my clean, dry sheets -- have learned to appreciate it.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
It's an ill wind that blows nobody good
This time last year, my sister and her extended family were here from East Texas while Hurricane Rita huffed and puffed and tried to blow down their houses. The decision for them to come here was kind of a last-minute one; South Louisiana isn't first on anyone's list of safe places to ride out a hurricane. Their choices were limited, though, because three weeks earlier we'd filled up all the Texas shelters with Hurricane Katrina evacuees, most of whom were still there.
It was an interesting time, having them all here under such circumstances. There was a certain amount of stress as we watched the news for every tiny scrap of information available (few and far between) about conditions in their town, but it kind of felt like being on vacation, too. We had a really good time. I enjoyed their company so much it was hard for me to remember that their reason for being here wasn't a pleasant one.
Their homes did suffer some damage. My niece's home took the worst hit when a tree fell through the roof. Fortunately, the damaged portion of the roof was over the garage, and the rest of their house was habitable once the power and water were restored. All of my Texas relatives were sorely inconvenienced for a while, but I'm pretty sure they consider themselves lucky.
We've all been lucky so far this hurricane season, and I hope it stays that way for years to come. But, Sis? You probably know this, but I'll say it again anyway: If there's anything else y'all need to run from -- anything from severe weather to boredom and monotony -- I'd love for you to run this way again. I wouldn't have missed it for the world!
It was an interesting time, having them all here under such circumstances. There was a certain amount of stress as we watched the news for every tiny scrap of information available (few and far between) about conditions in their town, but it kind of felt like being on vacation, too. We had a really good time. I enjoyed their company so much it was hard for me to remember that their reason for being here wasn't a pleasant one.
Their homes did suffer some damage. My niece's home took the worst hit when a tree fell through the roof. Fortunately, the damaged portion of the roof was over the garage, and the rest of their house was habitable once the power and water were restored. All of my Texas relatives were sorely inconvenienced for a while, but I'm pretty sure they consider themselves lucky.
We've all been lucky so far this hurricane season, and I hope it stays that way for years to come. But, Sis? You probably know this, but I'll say it again anyway: If there's anything else y'all need to run from -- anything from severe weather to boredom and monotony -- I'd love for you to run this way again. I wouldn't have missed it for the world!
Thursday, September 21, 2006
That's a Croc -- er -- crock!
A teaser on the noontime news today said, "Coming up, those Crocs may be fashionable and comfortable, but they can be dangerous, too. Stay tuned." Well, that's just my luck. The Crocs have relieved my foot pain so much that it just stands to reason they're gonna maim me in some other way.
When the actual news report came on after the commercial break, it was a story about children (one or two maybe?) who have sustained serious foot injuries after their Crocs were swallowed at the bottom of an escalator. And this would be the shoe's fault how? Give me a break.
When we lived in New York, way back in the early '70s, my daughters and I witnessed a child, a rather big boy, actually, getting his foot caught in a department-store escalator. His shrieks made a lasting impression on all of us, and I have no doubt that it was painful and frightening. But the boy we saw was wearing sneakers, not Crocs. Crocs hadn't even been invented yet.
The newscaster stated that recent incidents occurred on older escalators, ones that had worn down and no longer had a tight mechanical fit at the bottom. So shouldn't the news-fingers be pointed at escalators instead of shoes? I guarantee you, if the thick sole of a Croc could get sucked into the moving parts of an escalator, so could most other children's shoes.
So here's my suggestion: If your child doesn't wear steel-toed shoes, and if your child can't be taught to step off the escalator when it reaches the bottom -- you know the kind of kid I mean, the one who'll just stand in one spot and let the escalator do the work of pushing him off at the end -- then there's only one thing to do: You ride behind him, one step back, and be vigilant. Hold your purse and all your packages in one arm and place your other hand on the railing. When that bottom step starts to flatten out in front of your child, let go of the railing, reach out fast with your free arm, and either pick that kid up or shove him hard! He may skin his knees, but his feet won't get caught in the shoe-eating escalator.
When the actual news report came on after the commercial break, it was a story about children (one or two maybe?) who have sustained serious foot injuries after their Crocs were swallowed at the bottom of an escalator. And this would be the shoe's fault how? Give me a break.
When we lived in New York, way back in the early '70s, my daughters and I witnessed a child, a rather big boy, actually, getting his foot caught in a department-store escalator. His shrieks made a lasting impression on all of us, and I have no doubt that it was painful and frightening. But the boy we saw was wearing sneakers, not Crocs. Crocs hadn't even been invented yet.
The newscaster stated that recent incidents occurred on older escalators, ones that had worn down and no longer had a tight mechanical fit at the bottom. So shouldn't the news-fingers be pointed at escalators instead of shoes? I guarantee you, if the thick sole of a Croc could get sucked into the moving parts of an escalator, so could most other children's shoes.
So here's my suggestion: If your child doesn't wear steel-toed shoes, and if your child can't be taught to step off the escalator when it reaches the bottom -- you know the kind of kid I mean, the one who'll just stand in one spot and let the escalator do the work of pushing him off at the end -- then there's only one thing to do: You ride behind him, one step back, and be vigilant. Hold your purse and all your packages in one arm and place your other hand on the railing. When that bottom step starts to flatten out in front of your child, let go of the railing, reach out fast with your free arm, and either pick that kid up or shove him hard! He may skin his knees, but his feet won't get caught in the shoe-eating escalator.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Stumbling blocks
All of us encounter stumbling blocks in the course of our lives. There's an endlessly wide variety of obstacles available for us humans to bump up against, and they don't seem to have been distributed even-handedly; some folks have to struggle harder than others. The ability to navigate successfully through life in spite of those obstacles is a mark of character strength I find admirable and inspirational.
I just finished reading today's entry on Janet's "Ordinary Life" blog. It's an honest, thought-provoking post about one particular facet of her life that doesn't slow her down, but can occasionally trip her up.
Janet's post made me think about things I take for granted and how the inability to use any one of my "tools" for living could throw a monkey wrench into my life in ways I'd never imagined. All that thinking made me remember somebody I knew a long time ago.
For one year in the early '80s I volunteered as an adult literacy tutor through the "Operation Upgrade" program in Baton Rouge. (There was a reason why I decided to do this, but I'll save that story for another day.)
The student assigned to work with me was Leland (not his real name). He was a handsome young man, 28 years old, who earned his living working on road crews. He'd made it through the 10th grade without learning to read. "Coach took care of his athletes," he said.
Leland wanted a better job. He had a baby daughter from a relationship that had ended, and he wanted to be able to read to her. He wanted a stable relationship with a good woman who could be proud of him. He wanted a lot of things, and he knew that the first step toward meeting his goals was to learn to read.
I could write a lot about our twice-a-week lessons, but I'll focus this post on one specific class, a couple of months into our time together. Leland showed up that night looking more depressed than I'd ever seen him.
The night before, he told me, he'd ridden with friends to a small town half an hour north of Baton Rouge. They'd stopped for gas and a soft drink, and he'd noticed a really pretty girl who was gassing up her car at the next pump. She'd noticed him, too, and had given him a big smile.
Leland walked up to the girl and struck up a conversation, but he'd said only a few words when she raised her hand and signaled him to stop speaking. Puzzled, he watched her take a pen and paper from her purse. Gently shaking her head, she touched two fingers to her ear and then to her lips, indicating she couldn't hear or speak. Still smiling, she extended the paper and pen to Leland so he could write out his message to her. But Leland couldn't write.
He said he was caught off guard and didn't know what to do. He couldn't think of any way to explain his predicament to her. So, he told me, he just smiled, shook his head "no," and tapped his forefinger against the face of his watch, pretending he didn't have time to write a note. He said she looked confused, her big smile gone, as he gave her a friendly wave and hurried to join his friends inside the building.
It had gnawed at him all night and all day. The thing that got to him the most, the thing that almost brought tears to his eyes as he told me about it, was concern for the girl's feelings. He said she must have known he was interested in the beginning, and she probably thought it was her handicap (when actually it was his own) that made him change his mind about getting acquainted with her. He said his inability to read hadn't hurt anyone but himself up until that point, but now it had caused him to hurt someone else. He said he'd never felt so low in his whole life.
To me, the story of Leland's encounter with the pretty girl at the gas station was the most ironic tale I'd heard since my childhood encounter with O. Henry's "Gift of the Magi". In fact, I think Leland's story might have been even more ironic than O. Henry's. There's no question it had a sadder ending.
I just finished reading today's entry on Janet's "Ordinary Life" blog. It's an honest, thought-provoking post about one particular facet of her life that doesn't slow her down, but can occasionally trip her up.
Janet's post made me think about things I take for granted and how the inability to use any one of my "tools" for living could throw a monkey wrench into my life in ways I'd never imagined. All that thinking made me remember somebody I knew a long time ago.
For one year in the early '80s I volunteered as an adult literacy tutor through the "Operation Upgrade" program in Baton Rouge. (There was a reason why I decided to do this, but I'll save that story for another day.)
The student assigned to work with me was Leland (not his real name). He was a handsome young man, 28 years old, who earned his living working on road crews. He'd made it through the 10th grade without learning to read. "Coach took care of his athletes," he said.
Leland wanted a better job. He had a baby daughter from a relationship that had ended, and he wanted to be able to read to her. He wanted a stable relationship with a good woman who could be proud of him. He wanted a lot of things, and he knew that the first step toward meeting his goals was to learn to read.
I could write a lot about our twice-a-week lessons, but I'll focus this post on one specific class, a couple of months into our time together. Leland showed up that night looking more depressed than I'd ever seen him.
The night before, he told me, he'd ridden with friends to a small town half an hour north of Baton Rouge. They'd stopped for gas and a soft drink, and he'd noticed a really pretty girl who was gassing up her car at the next pump. She'd noticed him, too, and had given him a big smile.
Leland walked up to the girl and struck up a conversation, but he'd said only a few words when she raised her hand and signaled him to stop speaking. Puzzled, he watched her take a pen and paper from her purse. Gently shaking her head, she touched two fingers to her ear and then to her lips, indicating she couldn't hear or speak. Still smiling, she extended the paper and pen to Leland so he could write out his message to her. But Leland couldn't write.
He said he was caught off guard and didn't know what to do. He couldn't think of any way to explain his predicament to her. So, he told me, he just smiled, shook his head "no," and tapped his forefinger against the face of his watch, pretending he didn't have time to write a note. He said she looked confused, her big smile gone, as he gave her a friendly wave and hurried to join his friends inside the building.
It had gnawed at him all night and all day. The thing that got to him the most, the thing that almost brought tears to his eyes as he told me about it, was concern for the girl's feelings. He said she must have known he was interested in the beginning, and she probably thought it was her handicap (when actually it was his own) that made him change his mind about getting acquainted with her. He said his inability to read hadn't hurt anyone but himself up until that point, but now it had caused him to hurt someone else. He said he'd never felt so low in his whole life.
To me, the story of Leland's encounter with the pretty girl at the gas station was the most ironic tale I'd heard since my childhood encounter with O. Henry's "Gift of the Magi". In fact, I think Leland's story might have been even more ironic than O. Henry's. There's no question it had a sadder ending.
Monday, September 18, 2006
"I didn't do it"
My niece has four children, one of whom is a just-turned-three-year-old boy. (Let's call my niece "Mom" for purposes of this post, and we'll call her little one "3YO.") My sister told me yesterday about the following conversation between the two of them.
Mom: "Oh, look, my pretty plant is dying. Look how the leaves are falling off."
3YO: "I didn't do it."
Mom: "Oh, no, I'm not saying you did it, I'm just saying it's dying."
3YO: "I didn't do it."
Mom: (Beginning to worry that he thinks she's accusing him) "Don't worry about it, okay? It's all right. I know you didn't do it. Sometimes things just die all by themselves."
3YO: "I didn't do it." (Brief pause) "My soup did it."
Mom: "Oh, look, my pretty plant is dying. Look how the leaves are falling off."
3YO: "I didn't do it."
Mom: "Oh, no, I'm not saying you did it, I'm just saying it's dying."
3YO: "I didn't do it."
Mom: (Beginning to worry that he thinks she's accusing him) "Don't worry about it, okay? It's all right. I know you didn't do it. Sometimes things just die all by themselves."
3YO: "I didn't do it." (Brief pause) "My soup did it."
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Weather or not
The sun showed up this morning,
the clouds came after noon,
the rain is pouring as I write,
I'll post the next change soon.
Update 9/18/06, 5:30 p.m.
The rain stuck around for more than 24 hours, except for brief respites every now and then. It was raining when I went to work this morning and still raining when I left the office at 5:00 p.m. today. Twenty minutes later, though, I arrived home to this:
These vivid shades of blue were worth the wait.
the clouds came after noon,
the rain is pouring as I write,
I'll post the next change soon.
Update 9/18/06, 5:30 p.m.
The rain stuck around for more than 24 hours, except for brief respites every now and then. It was raining when I went to work this morning and still raining when I left the office at 5:00 p.m. today. Twenty minutes later, though, I arrived home to this:
These vivid shades of blue were worth the wait.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Who knew there were so many of us?
I've mentioned before that I'm not a morning person. My brain's a little foggy this early in the day, my mind wandering like a free-range chicken, pecking at a piece of this and a bit of that and not willing to be confined to a coop of anything requiring concentration.
The dogs woke me up. I let them out, then turned on the computer and the TV to keep me company until they were ready to come back inside. As I clicked on various links to see if my favorite bloggers had posted anything new, the TV reporter talked about a group of retirees who came together because, I heard her say, "Their passion is Play-Doh."
Whaaaaaat? You mean I'm not the only one? Just this past Sunday, on my grandson's birthday, he and I were reminiscing about the things we used to do together when he was little. He mentioned the little "people" I used to make out of Play-Doh. I hadn't thought about that in years, but I used to love it when the kids played with Play-Doh. We'd spread a big plastic tablecloth on the floor, put all the supplies in the middle of it, and have some serious fun.
While the kids played with the Fun Factory and molded hamburgers and cheese wedges, I handcrafted tiny vegetables and fruits. I made inch-long bananas with minute brown spots and tiny oranges with skins pitted by rolling them around on the tablecloth. My best pieces, though, were tiny human heads.
Most of the heads were of old people. I tried once or twice to make a younger person, but by the time I'd pinched out a nose and pushed up some cheekbones, they all came out looking older. For every head I created, I made a separate set of shoulders, dressed with collar or necktie to match the head. The shoulders served as a base, and I connected the head to the base with a sturdy length of toothpick. Once everything dried for a day or two, the heads tended to wobble, but the kids didn't care. Neither did I.
When my grandson mentioned the Play-Doh people, I found myself missing the good smell of the stuff and the pleasing texture of it in my hands. I wondered if it might be fun to try it again, or maybe to move up to a more age-appropriate medium, such as polymer clay. Those thoughts were fleeting, though, and hadn't crossed my mind again from last Sunday until this morning, when the TV lady said, quite clearly, "Their passion is Play-Doh."
I'll admit that phrase excited me. Maybe I'm not just a silly old woman, I thought. There are others my age who still have fun playing with this, and they've all gotten together to support each other's efforts. Good for them!
I turned away from the computer to pay attention to the Play-Doh segment. On the TV screen, a group of older people were going into what appeared to be a university building, apparently heading toward a classroom. As I listened more intently, I began to hear words that didn't make sense in the context of what I thought I was watching. Words like "philosophy."
My initial burst of enthusiasm began to wane. It seems I was mistaken. Those distinguished-looking retirees weren't interested in molding tiny objects from brightly colored modeling dough. Oh, no. Their interests were way more sophisticated than my own.
What the TV announcer had actually said was, "Their passion is Plato."
The dogs woke me up. I let them out, then turned on the computer and the TV to keep me company until they were ready to come back inside. As I clicked on various links to see if my favorite bloggers had posted anything new, the TV reporter talked about a group of retirees who came together because, I heard her say, "Their passion is Play-Doh."
Whaaaaaat? You mean I'm not the only one? Just this past Sunday, on my grandson's birthday, he and I were reminiscing about the things we used to do together when he was little. He mentioned the little "people" I used to make out of Play-Doh. I hadn't thought about that in years, but I used to love it when the kids played with Play-Doh. We'd spread a big plastic tablecloth on the floor, put all the supplies in the middle of it, and have some serious fun.
While the kids played with the Fun Factory and molded hamburgers and cheese wedges, I handcrafted tiny vegetables and fruits. I made inch-long bananas with minute brown spots and tiny oranges with skins pitted by rolling them around on the tablecloth. My best pieces, though, were tiny human heads.
Most of the heads were of old people. I tried once or twice to make a younger person, but by the time I'd pinched out a nose and pushed up some cheekbones, they all came out looking older. For every head I created, I made a separate set of shoulders, dressed with collar or necktie to match the head. The shoulders served as a base, and I connected the head to the base with a sturdy length of toothpick. Once everything dried for a day or two, the heads tended to wobble, but the kids didn't care. Neither did I.
When my grandson mentioned the Play-Doh people, I found myself missing the good smell of the stuff and the pleasing texture of it in my hands. I wondered if it might be fun to try it again, or maybe to move up to a more age-appropriate medium, such as polymer clay. Those thoughts were fleeting, though, and hadn't crossed my mind again from last Sunday until this morning, when the TV lady said, quite clearly, "Their passion is Play-Doh."
I'll admit that phrase excited me. Maybe I'm not just a silly old woman, I thought. There are others my age who still have fun playing with this, and they've all gotten together to support each other's efforts. Good for them!
I turned away from the computer to pay attention to the Play-Doh segment. On the TV screen, a group of older people were going into what appeared to be a university building, apparently heading toward a classroom. As I listened more intently, I began to hear words that didn't make sense in the context of what I thought I was watching. Words like "philosophy."
My initial burst of enthusiasm began to wane. It seems I was mistaken. Those distinguished-looking retirees weren't interested in molding tiny objects from brightly colored modeling dough. Oh, no. Their interests were way more sophisticated than my own.
What the TV announcer had actually said was, "Their passion is Plato."
Thursday, September 14, 2006
They had the best of times...at the worst of times
I'm exhausted tonight, too tired to write, really, but still feeling inclined to "feed the blog." Afraid of falling asleep while trying to think of something to write, I jump-started the process by clicking on "My Pictures" to see if anything there moved me to tell a story. The first thing that caught my eye was this off-center photo of the generation that preceded my own.
The girl second from the right is my mother. Her baby brother is at the center of the photo and her older brother is on the right. The boy and girl at left are their first cousins. It's the girls I want to talk about tonight. They were 14 and 15 when this photo was taken in 1937.
Mother grew up in Springfield, Missouri, and Nadine, the daughter of my grandmother's sister, grew up in the Kansas City area. The two girls didn't see each other often because of all the geography between them, but their personalities were a match and they were the best of friends. All the way up until their grandchildren were almost grown, they laughed themselves silly whenever they got together.
In 1933, four years before this photo was taken, their grandfather died, and they traveled with their families from their respective homes to Galena, Kansas, for his funeral. On the one hand, they'd loved their grandfather, although they didn't really know him all that well. On the other hand, they were glad to see each other, and they had a lot of catching up to do.
Mother and Nadine sat together on the front pew during the funeral service, possibly the first one either had attended, and they recognized that it was a solemn occasion. Something about it, though, maybe just nerves, made one of them giggle. That made the other one giggle, too. Before they could get a grip on it, the laughter bubbled up in their throats until they couldn't contain it any longer and it burst out -- loudly.
Mother said they caught their breath long enough to give each other a sidewise glance, both of them recognizing instantly that they were going to be in serious trouble with their parents. Nadine, who always had a flair for the dramatic, put her face down into her hands and pretended she was crying. Mother followed suit. For the rest of the funeral service, the two of them muffled their laughter with fake sobs, their shoulders shaking in pseudo grief.
My mother was in her 70s when she told me the story of my Great-Grandpa Joe's funeral, and when I think about the day she told me, I can see her clearly in my mind, first giggling, then chuckling, then laughing so hard it was difficult for her to get the whole story out. That funeral was obviously one of her favorite memories.
It was kind of fitting, I think, that Mother told this story as an example of why she'd always loved Nadine so much. Nadine had died just a few weeks earlier. "We always had so much fun," Mother sighed, "I'm really gonna miss her." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she spoke, but there was a smile on her face.
The girl second from the right is my mother. Her baby brother is at the center of the photo and her older brother is on the right. The boy and girl at left are their first cousins. It's the girls I want to talk about tonight. They were 14 and 15 when this photo was taken in 1937.
Mother grew up in Springfield, Missouri, and Nadine, the daughter of my grandmother's sister, grew up in the Kansas City area. The two girls didn't see each other often because of all the geography between them, but their personalities were a match and they were the best of friends. All the way up until their grandchildren were almost grown, they laughed themselves silly whenever they got together.
In 1933, four years before this photo was taken, their grandfather died, and they traveled with their families from their respective homes to Galena, Kansas, for his funeral. On the one hand, they'd loved their grandfather, although they didn't really know him all that well. On the other hand, they were glad to see each other, and they had a lot of catching up to do.
Mother and Nadine sat together on the front pew during the funeral service, possibly the first one either had attended, and they recognized that it was a solemn occasion. Something about it, though, maybe just nerves, made one of them giggle. That made the other one giggle, too. Before they could get a grip on it, the laughter bubbled up in their throats until they couldn't contain it any longer and it burst out -- loudly.
Mother said they caught their breath long enough to give each other a sidewise glance, both of them recognizing instantly that they were going to be in serious trouble with their parents. Nadine, who always had a flair for the dramatic, put her face down into her hands and pretended she was crying. Mother followed suit. For the rest of the funeral service, the two of them muffled their laughter with fake sobs, their shoulders shaking in pseudo grief.
My mother was in her 70s when she told me the story of my Great-Grandpa Joe's funeral, and when I think about the day she told me, I can see her clearly in my mind, first giggling, then chuckling, then laughing so hard it was difficult for her to get the whole story out. That funeral was obviously one of her favorite memories.
It was kind of fitting, I think, that Mother told this story as an example of why she'd always loved Nadine so much. Nadine had died just a few weeks earlier. "We always had so much fun," Mother sighed, "I'm really gonna miss her." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she spoke, but there was a smile on her face.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
So...um...has this ever happened to you?
A couple of months ago, Dooce wrote about discovering she had skin cancer. What caught my interest about that particular blog entry is that she described the cancerous bump as looking like a scar. Hmm, I thought when I read that, then pulled up my pant leg to look at the little bump I'd noticed recently on my left knee. I hadn't worried about it, just wondered what it was. It wasn't even as big as a match head, but it didn't look like a mole or a wart or a pimple. What it looked like most was a little upraised lump of pearly-pink scar tissue.
Dooce had apparently had hers for quite some time, so I resolved just to keep an eye on the thing for now. Still, when I went to the doctor for my checkup a few weeks ago, I asked her to recommend a good dermatologist. One of these days, I thought, I'll go check out that little bump and the itchy red rash I know will appear on my right ankle when the weather starts getting cold again. I don't have health insurance; barring emergencies, I go to the doctor when I've accumulated enough complaints to get my money's worth.
So, anyway, I was sitting in the recliner two nights ago, wearing a pair of shorts. Winston, my daughter's Yorkie, was snuggled into my lap. His head was resting near my left knee, but he was wide awake, watching the other dogs and licking me every now and then. As I watched TV and stroked him absent-mindedly, I suddenly felt an intense stinging pain in my knee, and Winston began licking furiously right on the spot that hurt.
I immediately moved Winston and took a closer look. Where the suspicious little lump had been, there was only a tiny round wound, bleeding ever so slightly. I looked at the wound, then at Winston, then I looked at the wound again, then back at Winston. He was sitting right next to me, quietly but conspicuously licking his lips.
What the hell? Did he just all of a sudden take a notion that something edible was stuck to my leg and help himself to a little snack?
I'm still watching that spot on my knee. There seems to be a slightly raised rim around the little scab, so he apparently didn't get all of whatever it was. If it comes back, I'll go to the dermatologist as planned, but I certainly don't want to go now and describe to the doctor how it "used to look."
I'm also keeping a closer eye on Winston. Do you blame me?
Dooce had apparently had hers for quite some time, so I resolved just to keep an eye on the thing for now. Still, when I went to the doctor for my checkup a few weeks ago, I asked her to recommend a good dermatologist. One of these days, I thought, I'll go check out that little bump and the itchy red rash I know will appear on my right ankle when the weather starts getting cold again. I don't have health insurance; barring emergencies, I go to the doctor when I've accumulated enough complaints to get my money's worth.
So, anyway, I was sitting in the recliner two nights ago, wearing a pair of shorts. Winston, my daughter's Yorkie, was snuggled into my lap. His head was resting near my left knee, but he was wide awake, watching the other dogs and licking me every now and then. As I watched TV and stroked him absent-mindedly, I suddenly felt an intense stinging pain in my knee, and Winston began licking furiously right on the spot that hurt.
I immediately moved Winston and took a closer look. Where the suspicious little lump had been, there was only a tiny round wound, bleeding ever so slightly. I looked at the wound, then at Winston, then I looked at the wound again, then back at Winston. He was sitting right next to me, quietly but conspicuously licking his lips.
What the hell? Did he just all of a sudden take a notion that something edible was stuck to my leg and help himself to a little snack?
I'm still watching that spot on my knee. There seems to be a slightly raised rim around the little scab, so he apparently didn't get all of whatever it was. If it comes back, I'll go to the dermatologist as planned, but I certainly don't want to go now and describe to the doctor how it "used to look."
I'm also keeping a closer eye on Winston. Do you blame me?
Monday, September 11, 2006
9/11 & Sunflower
I've been watching TV tonight, remembering the events of 9/11, and hadn't intended to post anything. In fact, I was headed to bed when I decided to do a quick check for e-mail messages and blog comments. I also checked my cousin's new blog and found a comment there from Sunflower Optimism, whose name you may recognize from her visits here.
In her comment, Sunflower was thanking my cousin, Postlady, for giving her the courage to post her first blog today. Naturally, I jumped over and checked it out.
Sunflower, it seems, has a natural aptitude for writing. I'm grateful she's decided to share it with us and understand completely why today was the day.
I, for one, look forward to reading more.
In her comment, Sunflower was thanking my cousin, Postlady, for giving her the courage to post her first blog today. Naturally, I jumped over and checked it out.
Sunflower, it seems, has a natural aptitude for writing. I'm grateful she's decided to share it with us and understand completely why today was the day.
I, for one, look forward to reading more.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Standin' on the edge of everything, seventeen
My grandson turns 17 today, and I can't begin to adequately describe the pleasure it's been to watch him grow up. This is one of my favorite pictures of his "bad" two-year-old self, the devil in his eyes making it clear what he thought of having his picture taken at that moment. On his second birthday, a couple of months earlier, he sat in his highchair at the end of a picnic table, surrounded by family members, and opened birthday gifts. His expression didn't change as he ripped paper and ribbon away from present after present. No "thank you" left his lips despite prompting; he didn't say a word. It was impossible to tell whether he liked something or not until he opened a package containing a colorful, plastic tool kit. His face didn't change even then, but he immediately began to climb out of his highchair. His mother helped him down, people parted to get out of his way, and he carried the tool kit under his arm until he reached the family car parked nearby in the driveway. There, he sat on the ground, leaned forward, and began to work on a wheel with his new tools.
On his fourth birthday, he romped outside with his friends and cousins of all ages, running and jumping and all the things little kids do, until a pickup truck drove up to drop off some folding tables for the party. The rest of the kids continued to play, but the birthday boy ran to the truck and offered to help unload the tables. He considered himself one of the men, and there was work to be done.
A couple of months after his 10th birthday, my mother died, and my grandson went with us to Texas for her funeral. He asked his mother if people would think he was too young to be a pallbearer, because he'd really like to do that for Mama-Too. He was big for ten years old, but not that big; the other pallbearers readily agreed to pick up his slack and he helped lay his great-grandmother to rest. There's no greater gift he could ever have given her.
He's a good student and a good athlete. He may have a head full of fun and mischief, but his heart is full of kindness and compassion. My own heart fills with joy when I'm around him. I think about the fact that he and others like him will be running things a few decades from now, and I feel hope for the future. So here's my message to this fine young man: Whether devil's food cake or angelfood cake is appropriate to honor you on any given birthday, I don't care. I love the entirety of you, and I wish you a wonderful year.
Legs hangin' off the bayou bridgeFeedin' fish potato chips
And talkin' 'bout the mysteries of the universe
Yeah the world was somewhere else
We had the summer all to ourselves
And the stars went off like fireworks
Seventeen
Only comes once in a lifetime
Don't it just fly by wild and free
Goin' any way the wind blew baby
Seventeen
Livin' on crazy dreams
Rock and roll and faded blue jeans
And standin' on the edge of everything
Seventeen
(Partial lyrics of Seventeen by Tim McGraw)
Saturday, September 09, 2006
A woman's prerogative
My younger daughter has been in a whirlwind of redecorating activity for the past couple of weeks. I've always thought her home was beautiful as it was, but she grew tired of its neutral color palette, deciding to use bolder colors on certain walls and accessories to "warm it up." She loves the new look, and I can't wait to see it.
Listening to her excitement as she talked about the changes she's making reminded me of her enthusiasm when she was 10 and we redecorated her bedroom in New York. Back then she fell in love with French provincial furniture, white, with gold trim. The wallpaper she chose had stripes of delicate flowers in pastel blue, green, and lavendar on a white background. Her dad built a white wooden canopy over her bed, with scalloped edges and strands of beads hanging from each side in colors that matched her wallpaper. It was a room fit for a princess.
Fast forward five years. We'd moved from New York to Georgia and then on to Louisiana, and the white bedroom furniture had moved with us. She was 15 by then and had definite ideas about how her hip teenager's room should look. Her plans included new furniture, and she wasn't happy to learn that our budget didn't.
"This looks like a little girl's stuff," she complained. "It's too young for me now."
"We can make it work," we told her. "We tried to talk you into something different when we bought this furniture, but this is what you had to have. You wouldn't even consider anything else."
"Well, maybe so," she said without missing a beat, "but how would you like to live with a decision made by a ten-year-old?"
There was no way we could argue with that kind of logic, so we didn't even try. Her point was valid. Still, it all came down to money, and she didn't get new furniture. I can't tell you how happy I am for her now that she's in a position to change her mind once in a while.
You go, girl!
Listening to her excitement as she talked about the changes she's making reminded me of her enthusiasm when she was 10 and we redecorated her bedroom in New York. Back then she fell in love with French provincial furniture, white, with gold trim. The wallpaper she chose had stripes of delicate flowers in pastel blue, green, and lavendar on a white background. Her dad built a white wooden canopy over her bed, with scalloped edges and strands of beads hanging from each side in colors that matched her wallpaper. It was a room fit for a princess.
Fast forward five years. We'd moved from New York to Georgia and then on to Louisiana, and the white bedroom furniture had moved with us. She was 15 by then and had definite ideas about how her hip teenager's room should look. Her plans included new furniture, and she wasn't happy to learn that our budget didn't.
"This looks like a little girl's stuff," she complained. "It's too young for me now."
"We can make it work," we told her. "We tried to talk you into something different when we bought this furniture, but this is what you had to have. You wouldn't even consider anything else."
"Well, maybe so," she said without missing a beat, "but how would you like to live with a decision made by a ten-year-old?"
There was no way we could argue with that kind of logic, so we didn't even try. Her point was valid. Still, it all came down to money, and she didn't get new furniture. I can't tell you how happy I am for her now that she's in a position to change her mind once in a while.
You go, girl!
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Sleepover company
I have a couple of houseguests for the next nine days, youngsters whose mom has never left them overnight before. I must say they're doing better than I'd expected. These kids spend a lot of time here under normal circumstances, so they're familiar with the household rules, but they're still young enough to hope I won't notice if they break them now and then.
While I worked yesterday, I left them with a couple of senior citizens who don't hesitate to alert me if something displeases them. Everybody seemed very happy when I got home, and nothing was out of place except the little ones' toys. Same thing again today. So far, so good.
Bedtime last night was a little challenging. The young'uns couldn't decide whether to sleep in the guest room, where they've stayed before with their mom, or in my bed. To be honest, I didn't care one way or the other; I just wanted them to make a decision, stop jumping in and out of my bed, and settle down. Fortunately, that happened soon after I closed my book and turned off the light.
In case you haven't figured it out yet, my houseguests are my granddogs, Lucy and Winston, whose mom jetted out of town early yesterday. Have a wonderful time with your friends, Kim, and don't worry about your babies. Kadi, Butch, and I have it all under control.
While I worked yesterday, I left them with a couple of senior citizens who don't hesitate to alert me if something displeases them. Everybody seemed very happy when I got home, and nothing was out of place except the little ones' toys. Same thing again today. So far, so good.
Bedtime last night was a little challenging. The young'uns couldn't decide whether to sleep in the guest room, where they've stayed before with their mom, or in my bed. To be honest, I didn't care one way or the other; I just wanted them to make a decision, stop jumping in and out of my bed, and settle down. Fortunately, that happened soon after I closed my book and turned off the light.
In case you haven't figured it out yet, my houseguests are my granddogs, Lucy and Winston, whose mom jetted out of town early yesterday. Have a wonderful time with your friends, Kim, and don't worry about your babies. Kadi, Butch, and I have it all under control.
Special delivery...
...from my cousin, Postlady, who has dropped her first certified letter into the mailbox at the corner of 1st and Blogger, return receipt requested. She's been reading blogs for a couple of months now, so you may be among the "wanted posters" in her comments section. Stop by, if you get a chance, and express yourself.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Baby backs and bragging rights
On Labor Day I joined my family and a lot of their friends for a barbecued rib cook-off, which was a follow-up to the bake-off I told you about at the end of July. From what I’d heard about the bake-off, I was expecting a dozen or so people at the barbecue. Boy, was I surprised.
There must have been at least 50 people there, many of whom took their barbecuing seriously and all of whom appeared to be having a great time. My granddaughter and her fiancé, hosts of the event, said they’d e-mailed invites to several people but hadn’t had any idea that so many would show up. Ha! They ended up with 14 entrants, which translated into 14 individuals or teams who’d dragged their families, their barbecue pits, and all of their ingredients and supplies to a backyard barbecue competition. Half a dozen of them had even set up tents.
I was impressed with the judging system. Each contestant or team was provided with a numbered styrofoam box to hold their final “product.” A table was set up in the carport to hold all the entries, and everyone had to put their closed box of ribs on that table at 5:00 p.m. sharp. Meanwhile, at the dining table inside the house, three judges waited with numbered score sheets as the entries were delivered to them a couple at a time. No one else was allowed near the judges’ table until all the goods had been sampled and the scoring was done.
The judges awarded points in each of three categories: presentation, texture, and taste. I can’t comment on presentation (the cooks were secretive as they arranged their offerings), but samples were passed around all afternoon and I can attest to a wonderful variety of tastes and textures.
All these cooks were working toward one prize, a simple but important one in this part of the country: braggin' rights. And the surprised and happy winners? My daughter and grandson, ably assisted by my son-in-law who manned the fire all afternoon. The ribs they cooked may have been the best I’ve ever tasted, but I need to try them a few more times real soon to be sure.
As a mildly interesting side note, the guy who came in second did his cooking on a $5,000 barbecue pit. He cooks competitively fairly often, usually for more serious prizes, and said this was the first time he’d lost. Our winners, on the other hand, cooked on a “rescue” barbecue pit they’d acquired when someone else was throwing it away. Go figure.
There were a couple of minor disappointments. My grandson had to leave early for football practice (yes, even on Labor Day, this is the South) and didn't learn that his team won until later that evening. Also, someone requested that next time it might be better to choose judges who have less integrity.
One more thing: My granddaughter and her fiancé may have fallen a little short in the rib-cooking department, but they certainly proved that their recipe for a good time is hard to beat. Lots of people were discussing what the challenge should be next time. Last I heard, it'll be gumbo.
There must have been at least 50 people there, many of whom took their barbecuing seriously and all of whom appeared to be having a great time. My granddaughter and her fiancé, hosts of the event, said they’d e-mailed invites to several people but hadn’t had any idea that so many would show up. Ha! They ended up with 14 entrants, which translated into 14 individuals or teams who’d dragged their families, their barbecue pits, and all of their ingredients and supplies to a backyard barbecue competition. Half a dozen of them had even set up tents.
I was impressed with the judging system. Each contestant or team was provided with a numbered styrofoam box to hold their final “product.” A table was set up in the carport to hold all the entries, and everyone had to put their closed box of ribs on that table at 5:00 p.m. sharp. Meanwhile, at the dining table inside the house, three judges waited with numbered score sheets as the entries were delivered to them a couple at a time. No one else was allowed near the judges’ table until all the goods had been sampled and the scoring was done.
The judges awarded points in each of three categories: presentation, texture, and taste. I can’t comment on presentation (the cooks were secretive as they arranged their offerings), but samples were passed around all afternoon and I can attest to a wonderful variety of tastes and textures.
All these cooks were working toward one prize, a simple but important one in this part of the country: braggin' rights. And the surprised and happy winners? My daughter and grandson, ably assisted by my son-in-law who manned the fire all afternoon. The ribs they cooked may have been the best I’ve ever tasted, but I need to try them a few more times real soon to be sure.
As a mildly interesting side note, the guy who came in second did his cooking on a $5,000 barbecue pit. He cooks competitively fairly often, usually for more serious prizes, and said this was the first time he’d lost. Our winners, on the other hand, cooked on a “rescue” barbecue pit they’d acquired when someone else was throwing it away. Go figure.
There were a couple of minor disappointments. My grandson had to leave early for football practice (yes, even on Labor Day, this is the South) and didn't learn that his team won until later that evening. Also, someone requested that next time it might be better to choose judges who have less integrity.
One more thing: My granddaughter and her fiancé may have fallen a little short in the rib-cooking department, but they certainly proved that their recipe for a good time is hard to beat. Lots of people were discussing what the challenge should be next time. Last I heard, it'll be gumbo.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Happy feet
Today was an excellent day, even though I didn’t expect it to be. When I woke up this morning, I knew this was the day I’d have to grit my teeth and go to Wal-Mart. It’s been several weeks since I last made a major grocery shopping trip, and there was no way I could postpone it any longer. The “dogs” at the end of my legs would just have to suffer so my fur-covered dogs and I would have food.
Fortunately, my older daughter gave me a gift yesterday afternoon of my first pair of Crocs. These may be the ugliest shoes I’ve ever owned, but, omigod, they’re comfortable! Usually, after buying a month’s worth of groceries and putting them away, my feet are screaming and the rest of my day is wasted. Today, my feet and legs were a little bit tired. That’s all. And they recovered after a brief rest.
I realize some of you have a higher standard of fashion than plastic/rubber shoes (not to mention any names, Rebekah). Rest assured, I plan to order some dressier shoes from a couple of the sites y'all recommended. There are times when I need to look like a girly-woman and/or a professional. But I’m gonna order more Crocs, too. I could get used to having something on my mind other than aching feet.
So, the first part of my day was excellent because I got the grocery shopping done, right down to the excessive purchase of you-know-what, and I still had enough spring in my step to attend a barbecued-rib cook-off this afternoon.
The cook-off was the most excellent part of the day. I'll tell you more about it in my next post. For now, facing the cold, hard fact that I have to go back to work tomorrow, I’ll take my full belly -- and my relatively okay feet -- to bed. I will sleep well tonight.
Fortunately, my older daughter gave me a gift yesterday afternoon of my first pair of Crocs. These may be the ugliest shoes I’ve ever owned, but, omigod, they’re comfortable! Usually, after buying a month’s worth of groceries and putting them away, my feet are screaming and the rest of my day is wasted. Today, my feet and legs were a little bit tired. That’s all. And they recovered after a brief rest.
I realize some of you have a higher standard of fashion than plastic/rubber shoes (not to mention any names, Rebekah). Rest assured, I plan to order some dressier shoes from a couple of the sites y'all recommended. There are times when I need to look like a girly-woman and/or a professional. But I’m gonna order more Crocs, too. I could get used to having something on my mind other than aching feet.
So, the first part of my day was excellent because I got the grocery shopping done, right down to the excessive purchase of you-know-what, and I still had enough spring in my step to attend a barbecued-rib cook-off this afternoon.
The cook-off was the most excellent part of the day. I'll tell you more about it in my next post. For now, facing the cold, hard fact that I have to go back to work tomorrow, I’ll take my full belly -- and my relatively okay feet -- to bed. I will sleep well tonight.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
How Now Brown Cow
I can’t remember where I saw it, but their there was something on TV or the Internet the other day about people who are trying to change the official spelling of certain words to make the English language less complicated. I’ve always bin been fascinated buy by words, in and of themselves, so this subject peeked peaked piqued my interest.
I’ve amused myself on numerous occasions by thinking about the inconsistencies in theweigh way words look similar on paper butt but are pronounced differently. I’ve also wondered whether laziness or just lack of imagination was responsible for sew so many words that have entirely different meanings but sound exactly alike. Maybe there simply aren’t enough separate and distinct sounds to make a fresh word for each thing we need to right write or speak about. (Yes, I know I ended a sentence with a preposition; but that's for another blog entry.)
I’ve imagined ancient conversations that went something like this:
1st man: “Sir, what do you call the top of that mountain?”
2nd man: “That? Oh, that’s a...um...that’s called a ‘peak.’”
1st man: “Naw, that can’t be right. A peek is what I take when milady's bathing in the stream.”
2nd man: “It is a peak. I’m the word expert; if I say it’s a peak, then it’s a peak.”
Curiosity and a quick Google searchlead led me to the Simplified Spelling Society. Wow! These guys have it all laid out for us, complete with examples of unpredictable spellings and a history of how the English language ended up in this condition.
The SSS people make a good case for changing words we’ve learned the hard way, and the suggested spellings would no doubt be easier to learn. But what would happen to the fun? For example, without the inconsistencies, I couldn’t have written this:
Hough Nough Broughn Cough
The English language isn’t easy,
learning it is tough.
The spelling’s so confusing I
can’t understand some stough.
Variety’s the spice of life
I’ve often thought, although
I like my words consistent as
the tides that ebb and flough.
I read about an apple tree
“with gently swaying boughs,”
so shouldn’t those four-legged things
with udders be spelled “coughs”?
No, those are cows, so Webster says,
a hacking sound’s a cough.
Should not the light switch on my wall
be labeled “on” and “ough”?
There is no pattern I can find;
I’ve searched it through and through.
It simply isn’t logical.
Does this make sense to yough?
I’ve amused myself on numerous occasions by thinking about the inconsistencies in the
I’ve imagined ancient conversations that went something like this:
1st man: “Sir, what do you call the top of that mountain?”
2nd man: “That? Oh, that’s a...um...that’s called a ‘peak.’”
1st man: “Naw, that can’t be right. A peek is what I take when milady's bathing in the stream.”
2nd man: “It is a peak. I’m the word expert; if I say it’s a peak, then it’s a peak.”
Curiosity and a quick Google search
The SSS people make a good case for changing words we’ve learned the hard way, and the suggested spellings would no doubt be easier to learn. But what would happen to the fun? For example, without the inconsistencies, I couldn’t have written this:
Hough Nough Broughn Cough
The English language isn’t easy,
learning it is tough.
The spelling’s so confusing I
can’t understand some stough.
Variety’s the spice of life
I’ve often thought, although
I like my words consistent as
the tides that ebb and flough.
I read about an apple tree
“with gently swaying boughs,”
so shouldn’t those four-legged things
with udders be spelled “coughs”?
No, those are cows, so Webster says,
a hacking sound’s a cough.
Should not the light switch on my wall
be labeled “on” and “ough”?
There is no pattern I can find;
I’ve searched it through and through.
It simply isn’t logical.
Does this make sense to yough?
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Halftime homicide
School starts early in the South, and when school starts, so does football. Fans pour out for the high school games on Friday nights, then on Saturdays a major chunk of the local population dons purple and gold and heads to LSU's "Deaf Valley" stadium. It's a regular pigskin lovefest...except for a handful of people like me.
My grandson plays football, and I'd love to love it for his sake. To be honest, though, I can never follow the ball, and it doesn't take too many minutes of being lost and confused before I'm bored out of my skull.
That being said, I'd like to share my one-and-only special football-game memory:
The first football game I ever saw was in Springfield, Missouri, when I was 10 years old. My uncle Joe, seven years older than I, played for Springfield High School, and on one chilly fall night the whole family went to watch him play. I have no memory whatsoever of the game, but I clearly remember the halftime show.
Springfield High had a marching drum-and-bugle corps, all female, known as "The Kiltie Girls." I loved their cute plaid kilts, their knee-high stockings, and the Scots-Irish music they played. I'd seen them march in the previous year's Christmas parade, and that night at the football game, I recognized them by their uniform and by the name of their group. My six-year-old sister, apparently, did not.
As the girls came onto the field, their rhythmic rat-a-tat-tat arriving ahead of them, the deep voice on the loudspeaker announced, "The Kiltie Girls are marching out onto the field."
My sister gasped loudly, her jaw dropping nearly to her chest. "Oh my gosh!" she said, pressing her hands to her cheeks, Home Alone style.
"What?" I didn't understand her strong reaction.
She looked at me as if I were an idiot, her face a mixture of horror and indignation. "Didn't you hear what the man said? They killed a girl, just for marching out on the field."
Heh-heh. Good one, Sis!
My grandson plays football, and I'd love to love it for his sake. To be honest, though, I can never follow the ball, and it doesn't take too many minutes of being lost and confused before I'm bored out of my skull.
That being said, I'd like to share my one-and-only special football-game memory:
The first football game I ever saw was in Springfield, Missouri, when I was 10 years old. My uncle Joe, seven years older than I, played for Springfield High School, and on one chilly fall night the whole family went to watch him play. I have no memory whatsoever of the game, but I clearly remember the halftime show.
Springfield High had a marching drum-and-bugle corps, all female, known as "The Kiltie Girls." I loved their cute plaid kilts, their knee-high stockings, and the Scots-Irish music they played. I'd seen them march in the previous year's Christmas parade, and that night at the football game, I recognized them by their uniform and by the name of their group. My six-year-old sister, apparently, did not.
As the girls came onto the field, their rhythmic rat-a-tat-tat arriving ahead of them, the deep voice on the loudspeaker announced, "The Kiltie Girls are marching out onto the field."
My sister gasped loudly, her jaw dropping nearly to her chest. "Oh my gosh!" she said, pressing her hands to her cheeks, Home Alone style.
"What?" I didn't understand her strong reaction.
She looked at me as if I were an idiot, her face a mixture of horror and indignation. "Didn't you hear what the man said? They killed a girl, just for marching out on the field."
Heh-heh. Good one, Sis!
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Remembering Katrina
Last year at this time I was preparing to go to bed, as I will tonight in a matter of minutes. My older daughter had spent the night at my house the night before the storm and would stay one more night before going home. My younger daughter was home with her family. Hurricane Katrina had come and gone, but her trail of destruction would scar hearts across the country.
Compared to people a few miles closer to the Gulf, we'd had smooth saililng. Both of my daughters' homes had lost electrical power and I lost cable TV. Period. Not complaining for a moment about that. Even that had been restored before bedtime.
Throughout the day we'd been able to pull in the shaky, grainy picture of one local channel, and we'd watched it all day long, mesmerized by what was happening so close to us. Little did we know that that was only the first day of the tragedy unfolding, that things would get much worse as the week went on.
Both my daughters went to work at the Red Cross shelter over the next few days, and both of them told me stories about the people they met there, people who suddenly found themselves living in an episode of the Twilight Zone. They brought lists of names to me and asked me to do computer searches for those names on databases that were springing up to help people locate their loved ones. Surreal doesn't even begin to describe that week.
It's been a long year if you measure by the damage that's still visible and the people who still don't have permanent homes. On the other hand, if you live anywhere near Katrina's path and there's a tropical storm in the Gulf (which there is), you can measure the brevity of the year by the gooseflesh on your arms.
May God bless all those people whose Katrina memories are so much worse than mine.
*******
For some of the best photos and essays about Hurricane Katrina, check out Operation Eden by Clayton Cubitt.
Compared to people a few miles closer to the Gulf, we'd had smooth saililng. Both of my daughters' homes had lost electrical power and I lost cable TV. Period. Not complaining for a moment about that. Even that had been restored before bedtime.
Throughout the day we'd been able to pull in the shaky, grainy picture of one local channel, and we'd watched it all day long, mesmerized by what was happening so close to us. Little did we know that that was only the first day of the tragedy unfolding, that things would get much worse as the week went on.
Both my daughters went to work at the Red Cross shelter over the next few days, and both of them told me stories about the people they met there, people who suddenly found themselves living in an episode of the Twilight Zone. They brought lists of names to me and asked me to do computer searches for those names on databases that were springing up to help people locate their loved ones. Surreal doesn't even begin to describe that week.
It's been a long year if you measure by the damage that's still visible and the people who still don't have permanent homes. On the other hand, if you live anywhere near Katrina's path and there's a tropical storm in the Gulf (which there is), you can measure the brevity of the year by the gooseflesh on your arms.
May God bless all those people whose Katrina memories are so much worse than mine.
*******
For some of the best photos and essays about Hurricane Katrina, check out Operation Eden by Clayton Cubitt.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Sole survivor
One question leaped to mind as TV journalists reported that 49 people died in the Kentucky plane crash this morning and only one survived: How would it feel to be that sole survivor? I'm sure there'd be a certain amount of survivor's guilt, but I'd think there would also be an overwhelming sense of responsibility.
I can imagine that if I were that person, I'd spend the rest of my life trying to understand why I was spared. What great thing is it that I'm supposed to do? How can I relax and watch Big Brother when there must be some special reason for my existence? Could you give me just a hint, God, so I'll know where to begin?
In my life as it exists today, I relish the freedom to spend an entire Sunday afternoon reading a good book. What some might see as a waste of time, I see as healthy R&R and personal enrichment. But if I were the sole survivor of a plane crash, would I be able to enjoy a day of relaxation, or would I feel that I'd be cheating the "higher power" that saved me by not spending every waking moment in active pursuit of the betterment of society?
No answers here, kiddos, just questions. What do you think?
I can imagine that if I were that person, I'd spend the rest of my life trying to understand why I was spared. What great thing is it that I'm supposed to do? How can I relax and watch Big Brother when there must be some special reason for my existence? Could you give me just a hint, God, so I'll know where to begin?
In my life as it exists today, I relish the freedom to spend an entire Sunday afternoon reading a good book. What some might see as a waste of time, I see as healthy R&R and personal enrichment. But if I were the sole survivor of a plane crash, would I be able to enjoy a day of relaxation, or would I feel that I'd be cheating the "higher power" that saved me by not spending every waking moment in active pursuit of the betterment of society?
No answers here, kiddos, just questions. What do you think?
Kentucky plane crash
CNN journalists covering this morning's plane crash in Kentucky gave frequent updates regarding the location where families of crash victims were being asked to gather for official information. As I imagined the breaking hearts of those family members whose pleasant Sunday morning had been turned into a nightmare by this life-disrupting event, the words and melody of an Everly Brothers song from 1961 kept replaying in the back of my mind. It was a sad song then and it's especially sad on a day like today.
(Note: Italicized words were spoken instead of sung.)
(Note: Italicized words were spoken instead of sung.)
EBONY EYES
On a weekend pass I wouldn’t have had time
To get home and marry that baby of mine,
So I went to the chaplain and he authorized
Me to send for my Ebony Eyes.
My Ebony Eyes was coming to me
From out of the skies on Flight 1203.
In an hour or two I would whisper I do
To my beautiful Ebony Eyes.
The plane was way overdue, so I went inside to the airlines desk and I said "Sir, I wonder why 1203 is so late."
He said, "Aw, they probably took off late or they may have run into some turbulent weather and had to alter their course."
I went back outside and I waited at the gate and I watched the beacon light from the control tower as it whipped through the dark ebony skies as if it were searching for my Ebony Eyes. And then came the announcement over the loudspeaker: "Would those having relatives or friends on flight number 1203 please report to the chapel across the street at once."
Then I felt a burning break deep inside
And I knew the heavenly ebony skies
Had taken my life’s most wonderful prize,
My beautiful Ebony Eyes.
If I ever get to heaven I’ll bet
The first angel I’ll recognize,
She’ll smile at me and I know she will be
My beautiful Ebony Eyes.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Home free!
Late last night I picked up the phone and heard the stuttering tone that signals a voice mail message is waiting. It was Kadi's vet. "The liver biopsy test results came back," I heard her say in a cheerful voice, "and everything looks good."
Phew!
Phew!
Friday, August 25, 2006
Things are getting out of hand
Earlier this week I found myself thinking about the broad spectrum of human character. I wrote down some of those thoughts and planned to make them the subject of today’s blog entry. But then something else happened -– also character related -– that I decided to write about instead.
I was kind of shocked at something that occurred today while I was on the interstate, driving home for lunch. I was in the fast lane, drivinga mile or two over the speed limit. The last time I’d looked in the rearview mirror, there was nothing behind me for at least half a mile, but this time I glanced up and saw an SUV approaching like a bat out of hell.
The reason I was in the left lane is that I was in the process of passing a string of slower vehicles to my right. As the SUV came speeding up behind me, I was watching for a safe opportunity to move back into the right lane. The SUV, unfortunately, couldn’t wait to see what I planned to do. Instead, he moved right up on my bumper, did a last-minute zig in between two closely spaced cars to pass me on the right, then a reckless zag back in front of me, just barely missing my right front fender.
That kind of driving scares the heck out of me, but it wasn’t shocking. What took me aback was what happened immediately afterward. All of a sudden, I found myself watching my 63-year-old left hand, entirely of its own volition, whip itself into the air and extend its middle finger skyward. Can you believe it?
I can count on the fingers of one hand the times in my life I’ve made that particular gesture, and most of those times it was done in a joking way. Why in the world would my hand make an ass of itself now, when I couldn’t back up such an aggressive gesture if my life depended on it?
Now, I’m pretty laid back, but I'm not pretending that I never have a mean or angry thought. Once in a while I do. I guess everybody does. Most of us, fortunately, have learned that life is much easier when we don’t act on every random thought that crosses our minds. It’s called “self-control,” and up until today I thought it was something I’d pretty much mastered.
So here I sit, thinking about character again. I’ve decided that I’m fairly comfortable with the content of my character overall, but there are some individual parts of me that need attention. Among other things, there are my feet and knees that have become increasingly uncooperative. Also my butt. The lazy thing parks itself in a chair at the slightest excuse. And now I’ll have to keep a close watch on this errant hand.
I was kind of shocked at something that occurred today while I was on the interstate, driving home for lunch. I was in the fast lane, driving
The reason I was in the left lane is that I was in the process of passing a string of slower vehicles to my right. As the SUV came speeding up behind me, I was watching for a safe opportunity to move back into the right lane. The SUV, unfortunately, couldn’t wait to see what I planned to do. Instead, he moved right up on my bumper, did a last-minute zig in between two closely spaced cars to pass me on the right, then a reckless zag back in front of me, just barely missing my right front fender.
That kind of driving scares the heck out of me, but it wasn’t shocking. What took me aback was what happened immediately afterward. All of a sudden, I found myself watching my 63-year-old left hand, entirely of its own volition, whip itself into the air and extend its middle finger skyward. Can you believe it?
I can count on the fingers of one hand the times in my life I’ve made that particular gesture, and most of those times it was done in a joking way. Why in the world would my hand make an ass of itself now, when I couldn’t back up such an aggressive gesture if my life depended on it?
Now, I’m pretty laid back, but I'm not pretending that I never have a mean or angry thought. Once in a while I do. I guess everybody does. Most of us, fortunately, have learned that life is much easier when we don’t act on every random thought that crosses our minds. It’s called “self-control,” and up until today I thought it was something I’d pretty much mastered.
So here I sit, thinking about character again. I’ve decided that I’m fairly comfortable with the content of my character overall, but there are some individual parts of me that need attention. Among other things, there are my feet and knees that have become increasingly uncooperative. Also my butt. The lazy thing parks itself in a chair at the slightest excuse. And now I’ll have to keep a close watch on this errant hand.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Maintaining the physical me
Yesterday was Kadi's day at the doctor; today was mine. It was time to get a checkup so I could get my regular "old person" prescriptions renewed. I know I could probably eliminate a couple of meds if I'd make up my mind to eat only from the foods-that-taste-like-cardboard group (that gives a whole new meaning to the term "box lunch," doesn't it?), but I'll just take the pills for now. I'll live and die as a flavor junkie.
In addition to the routine stuff at the doctor's office, I mentioned to her that I'm having trouble with my feet and lower legs again. That was a major complaint about five years ago on my first visit to this doctor. At that time, and again today, the discussion went something like this:
Dr.: Do your heels hurt?
Me: Ohhhh, yes.
Dr.: And when you first get out of bed, do you kind of hobble around, but then it gets better after you've been up for a while?
Me: That's it exactly.
Dr.: You have tendonitis.
So, I'll be going back to doing exactly what she told me to do five years ago -- the thing that helped me feel so much better that I eventually defied logic and stopped doing it. Once again, I will be wearing sturdy, ugly athletic shoes, the expensive kind with really good arch supports, all the time that my feet are on the floor. No more little slip-on shoes or going barefoot around the house. And the kicker? This time, the doctor suggested that I consider wearing support stockings.
Sob. In case there might be one person out there who doesn't recognize me immediately as an old person, my clodhopper-supported feet will out me in a flash. I guess it's just wishful thinking that someone might think I'm wearing these shoes so I can go for a run.
I also mentioned to the doctor that by the end of each day my legs seem to have rolled themselves down to my ankles. She explained about valves vs. arteries and said that women's veins are normally weaker than men's (that's "veins" -- not "brains" -- just clarifying for my male readers). The weaker veins, along with age and gravity, she said, are responsible for most older women having some problems with swelling ankles. In the absence of other medical conditions, i.e. diabetes, congestive heart failure, etc., the swelling itself is apparently not a big deal.
The serious ankle-swelling ailments the doctor named are the very same ones I'd found on Google (search criteria: feet + ankles + "swelling like hell"). I'm glad she ruled them out.
From now on I'll try to keep my feet propped up for part of each day to better distribute the fluid that's moseying from one end of me to the other. I'm thinking I'd better be careful not to go too far with that. The people who already like me probably won't change their minds just because my feet are swollen, but I doubt they'd be so tolerant of a swelled head.
In addition to the routine stuff at the doctor's office, I mentioned to her that I'm having trouble with my feet and lower legs again. That was a major complaint about five years ago on my first visit to this doctor. At that time, and again today, the discussion went something like this:
Dr.: Do your heels hurt?
Me: Ohhhh, yes.
Dr.: And when you first get out of bed, do you kind of hobble around, but then it gets better after you've been up for a while?
Me: That's it exactly.
Dr.: You have tendonitis.
So, I'll be going back to doing exactly what she told me to do five years ago -- the thing that helped me feel so much better that I eventually defied logic and stopped doing it. Once again, I will be wearing sturdy, ugly athletic shoes, the expensive kind with really good arch supports, all the time that my feet are on the floor. No more little slip-on shoes or going barefoot around the house. And the kicker? This time, the doctor suggested that I consider wearing support stockings.
Sob. In case there might be one person out there who doesn't recognize me immediately as an old person, my clodhopper-supported feet will out me in a flash. I guess it's just wishful thinking that someone might think I'm wearing these shoes so I can go for a run.
I also mentioned to the doctor that by the end of each day my legs seem to have rolled themselves down to my ankles. She explained about valves vs. arteries and said that women's veins are normally weaker than men's (that's "veins" -- not "brains" -- just clarifying for my male readers). The weaker veins, along with age and gravity, she said, are responsible for most older women having some problems with swelling ankles. In the absence of other medical conditions, i.e. diabetes, congestive heart failure, etc., the swelling itself is apparently not a big deal.
The serious ankle-swelling ailments the doctor named are the very same ones I'd found on Google (search criteria: feet + ankles + "swelling like hell"). I'm glad she ruled them out.
From now on I'll try to keep my feet propped up for part of each day to better distribute the fluid that's moseying from one end of me to the other. I'm thinking I'd better be careful not to go too far with that. The people who already like me probably won't change their minds just because my feet are swollen, but I doubt they'd be so tolerant of a swelled head.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
What's up, Doc?
Good news, that's what! The ultrasound of Kadi's liver and spleen looked great, no sign of any problems at all. We still have to wait for the results of a needle biopsy they did today, but the vet seemed really confident. Up until now I would have described her as cautiously optimistic; today she seemed to be enthusiastically optimistic -- a significant upgrade that means a lot to me.
Happy campers at our house today!
Happy campers at our house today!
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