Who Will Win?

No - I'm not writing about the impending election which is a hot topic around here. Rather, I'm writing about another issue that isn't exactly rocking the nation, but is taking up a considerable amount of my time.

S. and I both like plants and the way they bring a little personality to our house. Since we moved in at the end of June, I've been keeping a look out for big plants on sale, and nurturing some of the 4" (and much less expensive) variety that will one day be big and gorgeous also.

I take pretty good care of all seven of them: watering, fertilizing, wiping down and trimming leaves, giving their pots a quarter turn towards sunshine, or trying different locations until that perfect amount of indirect light makes them happy. They're not orchids mind you - just ordinary house plants. But still, I get excited when they grow new foliage. I feel successful when they grow big enough for re-potting. I secretly call them my babies (yuk, right? what nerd says that?)


So you can image my dismay at finding white mealybugs and their webby little nests. Just typing out the word 'mealybug' gives me the shudders because they're kind of creepy, not just because they're insects, but because they are suckers. Not biters. They feed on plants by sucking out the juices. Plant vampires, if you will.

And they are prolific, determined little scrappers!

The plants were put in a strict quarantine (the laundry room) after I pulled these buggers off with a toothpick and then squished them. Ew. Yesterday they got a pesticide bath and today I'm swabbing each individual leaf with rubbing alcohol on a q-tip.

Some Internet sites have suggested these pests are so hard to get rid of that it's best to throw the plants away and start over. But I think not just yet. I'm on a mission. It's me vs. mealybugs!

PS Image to right was borrowed from http://www.answers.com/topic/mealybug. Does anyone else think they look like the Trilobite fossils found at the River Falls Learning Center in Indiana?

At the risk of being mean . . .

Yeah. I'm pretty sure I'm not crazy about receiving scriptures in emails on a regular basis from people I hardly know.

Not because I disrespect the Good Book in any way. I'm just not a person who wants to be bombarded with what someone else thinks should be the thought for the day. I mean, c'mon - I dont even like inspirational posters, or emails that promise good things will happen if you send this hug/rose/smiley face to 100 of your closest friends.' To me, it's more than believing that religion is deeply personal. It's about feeling somewhat foisted upon . . . and I would feel that even if I agreed with the message!

If you (the ubiquitous you) is moved by something inspiration and you want to share with me personally how it deeply touched you, I'm really fine with that. But please take me off your email list when you randomly type out a scripture with no context or wherewithall. Because otherwise, I'm going to be annoyed rather than uplifted.

Now. Tell me what grump I am, and how I'm going to burn for all eternity. I have a response for that too.

Shhh!

Yesteday in the Home Organization section at Lowe's, there was a tiny Latino man with a cart that needed to get past me and my cart. We smiled and manuvered past the obstacles in the aisle. Then he decided what he needed was on the other side of me - again the cart dance with smiling and nodding.

On his way out, he leaned over and said in a conspiratal whisper: You have cute legs.

My surprised and loud response: These ole things?

He shook his head, put his finger to his lips, closed his eyes, and shhh'd me! I didnt know what to make of that and so said nothing. Perhaps my mouth was slightly agape - I'm not sure. I was still looking in the direction where he and his cart rolled around the corner, only to see his head reappear around the end cap and repeat the whole shhhhing gesture. Then he winked and disappeared.

It was the most comical, ridiculous exchange. But I must admit, I was truly flattered. Several times I caught myself smiling and perhaps believing the biking/treadmill routine was finally paying off.

But shhhh! dont tell anyone. It's a secret that only the mysterious little man and I share.

. . gentle into that good night . . .

Sometime between going to bed at 12 am and waking at 6 this morning, my panties gave out. No really. They up and died. They used to be microfiber hiphugging jobbies that shrunk after a washing into what looked like Carters underwear for children. Carter's brand slogan just happens to be: 'if they could just stay little for a little while longer.'

"Little' no kidding. This tiny pair fit last night, but this morning . . . I could pull them up over my head and still have coverage in all the imporant places. Gramma's bloomers from her large days were smaller, and sorry Gramma, but that's saying a lot.

So goodbye sad, limp and shapeless skivvies. You always made me feel supported and protected, from begining to . . . end. I'm sorry your demise was so sudden and soon soon.


Ummmmmm . . . .


. . . . amen??

Geez I dont know how to end this. I've never stood over a dead pair of panties in a waste basket before.

I Had a Dream

It was such a happy dream that when I woke up in the middle of it, I went back to sleep in the exact same sleeping position and concentrated only about the dream to see if it would pick up where it left off. And it did!

I woke up rested and buoyant. But I cant remember a thing about that dream. And it's bugging the heck out of me!

Just because it rhymes, dont make it poetry

I have written some really, REALLY bad and overly dramatic poetry over the last 25 years. But I kept this drippy tripe because, well, it kind of saved me. It was therapeutic to write about teenage angst, evolving ideas about love, and a marriage that sucked at the heels of my soul like a killer riptide.

While unpacking boxes I found two pieces about Sam, the first husband. They were written 10 years apart and I think there is a worthy comparison here - just not sure what it is.

1995
I gave. I gave. I gave it all.
You wanted short. I was too tall.
I'd break my legs to be that small,
then would you be happy?

A smile, a hug or laugh or two
would have been the greatest gift from you.
Funny how my heart was true
but not content or happy.



2006
My countenance was a reed
waving, bending, from storms recovering.
Then unhappy 'he' pulled me down
with heavy words and blows to my sinuous fiber.
Each day I could stretch a little.
And each day a little less, and less,
until my head drooped, back bent forward,
low to the earth where his feet trod.

What was motion? And freedom?
With no air to stir me I could not remember.
Root rot choked my last autonomous bits.

Then from the nadir I noticed the wind,
and riding with it the scent of peppery pine oils.
Whisperings in trees spoke urgently to me,
lowly, inconsequential me! and I listened,
awakened to the knowledge of my very own self.
I demanded my body rise above the choke-hold
and ascend to the bliss of forgotten powers.

I am burden-less. My roots wiggle without his permission
and I wave, and I bend when I want to.
I remember how glorious it is to be just me.


See? It's all drivel. But damn it felt good afterwards.

The Old Days

So many old acquaintances have come out of the woodwork lately. I feel like I'm taking a long bath in nostalgia.

Masquerade Wedding

Regardless of where we live, my sister and I have remained loyal to our hair stylist in Louisville, KY, which often means making appointments around visits to home, or flying in more often than we might normally. For some months now, Holly has been planning what sounds like the most tripped-out, crazy, fun wedding ever, and we've just found out we've been invited to the reception part of her big day. It's a masquerade to be held on Halloween in Cave Hill Cemetery.

Part of the fun of planning the costume is fantasizing about what character we'd step into for an evening. Slutty nurse/pirate/vampiress dresses of 100% polyester are absolutely out of the question for E and I (not that there's anything wrong with that. ) She has decided to be a French Can Can dancer, and I've decided to be Henry VIII's second wife, Anne Boleyn (pre-beheading, although POST beheading would be a super neat trick.)

The pattern came in Saturday, and I'm very excited about shopping for the material to create my own version.

The famous "B" necklace will be a part of the ensemble . . .

. . . as well as this French Hood.

This should be a great challenge for my dusty sewing skills!

Ample bum, tiny seat

It's been about 2 decades since I rode a bike (btw its true, you never forget how) I was surprised that my balance was fine and my legs could keep up with the continuous pumping. It was my butt that got the whoopin. I hope it toughens up!

Chicken Soup

I'm a little embarrassed to write this, but I am engrossed in a "Chicken Soup for the Soul" book. In case you havent heard of this cliche'd literary phenom, each Chicken Soup book is a collection of heart-rending, tear-jerking, make-you-wanna-live-your-life-better stories. Truly, it's like reading 101 three-to-five page condensed versions of "It's a Wonderful Life." I cant read these books in public because 1. tears will be shed and 2. Kleenex will be used copiously, followed by loud, honking sessions of nose blowing.

Though I'm convinced there is more sap in one of these books than in the entire state of Vermont (and wherever else syrup is made) my overly sentimental heart succumbs to the "awwWWW!" factor each and every time.

I havent read them in probably 10 years (thinking I had outgrown them and become a little more sophisticated) but then came across this:



Bring on the Puffs, the Kleenex and the generic stuff my Dad buys. Chicken Soup AND pets? There's no way I can get thru this with dry eyes. This stuff could expose the soft underbelly in hardened criminals on death row. I'm toast. Or maybe more like toast, dipped in milk, and fallen apart into gooey nondescript globs. A milk sop, if you will.

House Hunting

This is not based on scientific fact, but intuitively, I believe that houses have personalities, and therefore each house has something of merit to offer. House shopping feels somewhat like lining up the all the sweet little puppies, knowing only one will leave the litter and be your faithful companion.

Fortunately, S. had a few stipulations for our new abode, one of them being the house must increase in value while we're enjoying it. It is also extremely fortunate that we agreed upon which house would do that for us.

As soon as our offer was accepted, I felt a little sorry for the houses that fell by the wayside. Is that weird? It was like I got to know them a little, like a person, and then said: "I know you tried really, really hard, and I like you. But this is where we part. Sorry."

Poor little orphan houses. I hope they find someone to love them.

I Feel A Sin Coming On

My sister posted this picture of Eddie on Facebook and I just had to have it for myself. She and JD of Chicago fame said they never stopped laughing the whole time . . . which makes me wonder if I might have been in a funk, or a delirious stupor, when TallL and I saw the show. I enjoyed the show in a 'isnt this a fun, and enteraining spiel' kind of way, but not in a 'I'm laughing so hard my face hurts' way.

People sitting around us were definitely cracking up, including Lolling Head Guy. Therefore I deduce I must have brought the mediocre sense of humor with me instead of the good one. And loving Eddie Izzard the way I do, I'll give him a second chance to knock my socks off when the dvd comes out. (If I had it do over, would I still go? Heck yeah I'd go - it's Eddie!)

Jonesy - You Can Do Better

I was so looking forward to seeing Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull, just like I had looked forward to the three movies that preceded it. The fourth Jones movie was highly anticipated and eagerly awaited by me. Finally! A good flick was coming down the pike - one that I'd probably add to my "BelovED Favorite Films of All Time" list.

But it was not to be. The script was cheesy, not funny. And except for Harrison Ford, the acting was, well, it was bad. I LIKE Kate Blanchet, but she wasnt believable as bad Russian commrade. And if the actress who played Marion USED to have skills, she lost them somewhere between Raiders and Skull.

AND it was predictable. sigh.

On the other hand and on a completely different note, I accidentally found a plaid pair of skorts that I'm just loving.

Holland, MI

We're moving to a place that has one of these:



. . . and one of these:



Nuff said.

. . . and the results are . . .

. . . NOT pregnant!

Whew! Amazing how 4 or 5 days of semi-angst can eat at you.

We'll probably try for a little spawn of our own this year (when we have relocated to job(s) and obtain insurance for kiddos,) but a baby at this particular juncture would have been . . . challenging.

The theme for our show this summer is "Live Studio Audience" and all the music is TV related. For the first half of the show we have to wear costumes of a TV character that is not a cartoon (otherwise I would be Velma from Scooby Doo.) I had the hardest time figuring out which costume would be quirky and sorta me. And then I found this:



. . . and knew. I have to be the Flying Nun. That headpiece is to die for! My friend JD says St. Clare of Assisi is the patron saint of TV . . . maybe she can be incorporated somehow on a rosary instead of a cross.

The Drag Weekend that is so NOT a Drag

So its Monday night, which in Eddietime means three days till flying to DC to see TallL, and four days until The Show. I'm having probs coming up with something faaaabulous to wear for the big event because, dangit, I dont swath myself in anything remotely outrageous. Not even close. I cant even manage fashionable, unless a stained t-shirt is haute couture. *sigh* I accepted plain as my clothing mantra long ago. But when Eddie picks me out of the crowd and asks me to have cafe au lait with him after the show, I need to be puttin on the ritz, not wiping the crumbs of one off me.

Bookish Love

Whoa. It's the 26th? Somehow I lost three whole days.

Blogger has a place to list your favorite books in "Profile." As much as I adore lists, I didnt type one. It simply changes too much. What I liked last week is meh today. So I wrote a description instead and then realized I had more to say on the subject - why not here?

Favorite Books?

Books that suck you into a story that is so real, so right now, it's as if you're an actual character that hasnt been mentioned yet. Books that, when you put them down, follow you around while you pull on socks and walk the dog. The storyline and characters fill the creases and folds and pores of your skin like bathwater, and every miniscule hair on your body feels a change in tone, an ominous sign, a foreshadowing of things yet unknown. It engages every emotion: it is not just a story, but it is your secret life, the one you have always wanted but have never dared to try. After the climax crests and your eyes are tired from lack of blinking, the denoument provides resolution, but not resolution enough. You close the cover - the stacked and numbered leaves no longer accessed or needed. But your mind continues the adventure: what happens next? Because surely, this is not the end. It cannot be the end.

Im Grounded!

The one thing I always wished for in the past was more time to do things 'right,' or time for projects that make me happy. I am doing some of those things, but now that I have oodles of sand in the hourglass, I'm very wasteful and careless with it. I cant provide exact numbers, but there is a lot of piddling and frittering in front of the TV or on boards online. Before I know it, the day has gone by and what really do I have to show for it? Not a whole lot. I figure I need a little, just a little, discipline in my currently carefree existance.

So yesterday I grounded myself from daytime TV, and spent the day as if I were at work accountable for some kind of production. Granted the day had 1-2 hours slotted for reading, and 60 mins for computer time, but when the timer went off, I got up and willed myself to do something else, like cleaning, crafts or practicing music. For the moment, I'm liberated from liberation! The chains of a schedule - how I need it.

A Congress of Beekeepers

Only 12 more days until we see "Stripped" in DC, and I'm so excited I can barely stand it! It's going to a great weekend.

I just spent some time on the Beekeepers website, and if it was my job to do so, I'd change some things. I wonder how I could pass my ideas along? hmmmm . . .

Making Stuff

In the quest to make the Worlds Most Perfect Granaola, Trial 1 was mostly successful (dispite questionable substitutions and a slightly Wheaty-like aftertaste.) It called for unknown-to-me ingredients like flaxseed (oooo!)and coconut oil (ahhhh!)which required rooting around in fishy Asian markets, and leaving out certain items altogether. I'd def do it again . . . with modifications, of course.

The original (and probably already perfect) recipe can be found here:

http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Megans-Granola/Detail.aspx

So what next? Homemade yogurt? The Muslims invented yogurt cultures in third world conditions centuries ago - why shouldnt I try it?

For me, the driving force behind making art/food/cleaning products, is a mishmash of semi-uninimportant hooha, but still I'm driven, absolutely DRIVEN, to do it! Control was never something to be had, or if so, was lost long ago.

But wouldnt you too if you were bored, unchallenged, trying to go green (okay pale green), and got your rocks off occassionally beating a throw-away, consumer-hungry system?

The thing about creating, with a view to the environment or not, is that it's a snowball effect. Once bitten by the desire to make, it cannot be satiated. Even while doing other things, the creative brain is searching for viable outlets for making some kind of mark. Prime example, I attempted to make laundry detergent, knowing full well, that if it was successful, it could not END there. I was already thinking about the next cleaning product project, and the next one, and the one after that.

Sometimes I ask where will this path take me? But in reality, the satisfaction comes from having tried, and learning a thing or two in the process. Even sucky failures are momentary adventures for brain cells never before utilized. We use what, an estimated 1% of 1% of our mental capacity? I'll never understand cold fusion or Dimensions 4 thru 10, but I can make stuff, by golly. I sure can make stuff.

Granola Girl

I'm gonna do it. I'm going to make granola - right here in my kitchen with organic products. How hard can it be?

Someone please intervene if I start blogging about macrame plant hangers. . . and the same goes for crystal deoderants, patcholi and hemp products.

But rain barrels and compost heaps are okay. Because they are uber cool.

Earth Hour Tonight & "The New Weird"

So several sources have encouraged us to turn off our lights from 8-9pm tonight for Earth Hour. Is that all we have to do? Turn off the lights? We can do that . . . as long as S. doesnt have to do without TV. Or Xbox.

Are we still participating if we self-clean the oven for 3.5 hrs, turn the heat and AC on at the same time (with the doors and window open,) and let the cars idle in the driveway the entire evening?

We'll be a part of Earth Hour, because it's smart to be aware of our personal contribution to the global footprint. But I found this amusing: http://www8.earthhourus.org/ has tips for what to do when the lights are off to stave off the boredom. One of them is READ.

um . . . with no lights, how?

But I'm still playing along, still hanging in there - sometimes you have to get creative. How about candles? and it will be dusk/dark. If candleflame is put up against a window pane, the reflection will produce 2x(?) the amount of light - at least it seems reasonable that it would. This could work . . . and I've been looking for an excuse to start "The New Weird."

Ahhhh . . . Saturday nights in the A. household. Riveting.

Whistlepig

In the golf course behind the house we are renting, there is a groundhog ferreting around for grubs and whatnot. The dude (and he MUST be a dude b/c he's flipping huge) waddles and digs around on the open green without a care in the world. I googled him, trying to find out if he was a groundhog or a woodchuck. Turns out he's both, as well as land beaver, whistlepig and ground squirrel. That's a lot of names for a big rodent, and not even as colorful as the ones the groundskeeper most likely has for him while fixing the damage to the course.

We find him entertaining though. Cute and furry woodland creatures add a bit of interest to the day.

Beavis The Weird

Meet Beavis - Mom's hoss of a cat. She torments and eats spiders. And every spider that Beavis eats is one we dont have to catch and release. Although swearing 'Die Spider Die" is satisfying, the smoosh and crush of the spiders demise is icky. We like it when Beavis takes over - its like . . . Mother Nature is our exterminator.

But more about Beavis: she's the self-promoted Protector of the House - she growls at mail carriers like a dog, and patrols the perimeter of each room each morning without fail. It is her duty.

She's also a narcsissist: she meows affirmatively when asked if she's cute. . . we're pretty sure she is saying 'you know I am.'

She has an odd habit of dropping dry cat food into her water dish, only to fish it out and feed herself paw-to-mouth. If you make her mad, she'll scurry to her food bowl for comfort chow like it was a warm fish pie. mmmmmmm.

She knows the sound of a can opener at work on tuna. Actually, she knows the sound of the can opener being pulled out the drawer. No no wait - she knows when you're thinking of using the can opener sometime in the distant future. . . . and when you do, she'll be there.

If you let her under the covers on a cold night, she'll snuggle right up to you as the 'small spoon,' and let you rub her belly until she's snoring with all four paws in the air. What a life.

Other names for Beavis: The Beav, Da Beav, Beavy, Beavies, Beavios DuBios, Beavis De Milo, Hoss, Chunky Monkey, and Punk (because she is an expert harasser of Mom's other resident cat.)

BooYay Balance

Yesterday I ran 10k. Yay!

And I ate icecream, a biscotti, a Weight Watcher chocolate thing and a bag of popcorn. Booooooo.

Big Lots, Big Butt

I'm at least 35, perhaps 40 pounds overweight. While strides have been made with exercise and food choices, the purchase of a scale has been on the back burner since the beginning. Not because I didnt want it, because I did. But I didnt want to pay $70 for it as well as have it look up at me everyday with it's accusing eye. See the difference?

Tonight after ensemble practice, I went to Big Lots! . . . .just to see what a scale might cost there, reasoning that a $20 scale would burn a MUCH smaller hole in the pocket of my big girl pants than 4x that.

Try six bucks! I bought a six dollar scale. It's plain and understated. It's not digital and doesnt have a BFI calculator. But it was six bucks. Who cares!

And (drum roll please) I have lost five pounds.

Love that Swedish store!

Road Rules

At 37, I dont have occassion to pull out my license very often. I mean, it's not like I get carded for adult beverages any more. But still, at some point I should have realized it was going to expire, and perhaps it should have been before it actually expired, and perhaps I should not have let seven months go by before doing something about it. There were no citations or tickets, but I was so annoyed with the fact that I had to go all the way back to the beginning and study for a written permit test like a 15 year old, that I let a half a year go by. I can take the driving test at any time, but until then, I cant drive without a licensed driver WITH me, and I'm stuck with this 'just rolled out of bed' look:



Justice is served.

Roshambo

This is an entire website dedicated to Roshambo. It's true.

You can even try your hand at paper/rock/scissors and pummel the computer wiz. I'm a 5:1!

http://www.42inc.com/~estephen/roshambo/

Beekeepers Unite!

I cant contain my excitement: Eddie Izzard has a new tour coming out, AND I'm going to see him, AND I'm going to DC to revel in his fabulousness with TallL. What joy!

If I was kid, I'd jump and down on the bed! If I was dog, I'd chase my tail! But as I'm neither, blogging will have to do . . . punctuated with spontaneous shouts of 'yippee'!

Yippee!

I ler-err-errve this guy :)

Foodie Wanna Be

I have decided to 'experience' food, not just chew it and push it around for a bit before swallowing it so that it can go directly to my ever-bourgeoning hips. But I'm purposefully mulling about texture, taste, and trying to find words to describe the most basic foods, like grapefruit. And cake.

Grapefruit - juicy pods exploding with tangy-tart citrus followed by a distinctly peppery finish.

Yellow Cake - innocuous sweet base with a hint of . . . of . . .could it be? Yes, it IS coconut, especially in the batter. It is more of a scent, an infusion, not obvious. Can be experienced in the same way the oak in a wine is tasted in air around your lips and tongue after swallowing. Excellently paired with rich, chocolate frosting, not too sweet. Ate an entire cake over seven days to test hypothesis. Hypothesis is now a Theory.

Steak - perfectly seared, tender steak with a slightly pink center and freshly cracked pepper and sea salt to bring out the flavor.

Upon reflection, its better not to analyze meat. The minute I started thinking of meat as the actual muscles and fat that belonged to sweet faced cow not too long ago, it started to lose its appeal. Chewing felt less like chewing and more like masticating. Symmantics? Yes, but it matters. Dont get me wrong. I ate it all. Every bite. But it wasnt as enjoyable as it could have been. And that is why you should not analyze eating meat. Ever.

It's Not Easy Being Green

Today is home spa day - a day of powerful potential. On every spa day I think of unlocking perfect, luminous, glowing skin and bursting forth on the world with my confident radiance. Rarely does this actually happen, but I am an optimist by nature.

At the bottom of countless jars and bottles of goo, I spied an old favorite from Garden Botanica. Wonderful scent, feels good going on, creator of facial magnificence!

After 10 minutes I took the green mask off, but wait, skin is still green. Scrubby scrubby scrubby - ACH! I'm Kermit. I'm a leaf. I'm the stone that never rolled, and did indeed gather moss.

The flash on the camera diminishes my Wicked Witch of the West look by about three shades But here's a general idea of what the Board members will see when I walk in tomorrow on my first official day as choral Treasurer:



I think it's appropriate to be green when you're the money person. It shows a certain sense of team spirit and enthusiasm for the job.

That Darn Cat!

All was quiet in the house while I composed an email to TallL and HB of yore. I was in the middle of trying to be nostalgic and poignant (<- that word has a "g"? huh)oh yes, trying to be nostalgic and poignant, when I heard lipsmacky sounds coming from the kitchen. Could not see a cat anywhere nearby but still the schlurp schlurp schlup. So weird!

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pounce, bold as brass, on the kitchen counter, licking a stick of butter. You odd bugger! A stick of butter??????? And what are you doing up here?????

He was obviously not impressed with what I considered a reasonable and justified tyraid. With one eye he viewed me passively while the other eye rolled back in his head at half mast, never once stopping with the licking and purring as only cats in Cream Nirvana can do. This was not to be tolerated. I slapped my hand down beside him. He tensed but decided I was harmless and leaned in for one more delectible tidbit. Then yawned and jumped casually to the floor, his tail swishing slowly back and forth. His entire countenance had every air of chanting 'nanny nanny boo boo.'

Pounce: 1; Crazy Yammering Human: 0.

Teen Tournament Week

*gasp* Jeopardy!'s on!

Screw blogging!

Minty Immersion

Last night I was befuddled and achy with a germy coup de'tat taking place in my body (the Monarchy's strict Policy of Health was overthrown quite suddenly in the night.) I couldnt stop thinking about MIL's sauna in Michigan by Lake S., and how nice it would be to be baking in it, sweating out the invaders headquarted within. Too bad there is 14 hours driving time between us, and she's snowbirding in Florida anyway.

But still, the thought was so alluring. . . I couldnt get it out of my head. What to do? With few energy reserves left, I dragged my sad frame upstairs to fill the tub with water just below scalding and added a few drops of Tea Tree Oil - it's 42,000 EIUs (the good stuff.) The air was filled with a soupy steam. I sunk into the water with a bit of "ooh!ah!oh!," applied a face mask, and placed a hot soaked wash cloth on my chest, just like mom used to do when I was five.

The face mask timer was set for seven minutes, and for seven minutes I felt surrounded and infused with minty zephyrs, the kind that let your whole diaphram expand, open your pores and encourage you feel human again. Ah what peace, what tranquility. Who can remember sick when there is this?

Hot Toddy

The best part of getting sick is the license to do nothing except lie around in a pool of self pity, surrounded by boxes of Puffs nose friendly tissues, the remote control and the softest, most comfortable pajamas on the planet. And, until a few years ago, the Road to Wellville was not complete without this special stuffed toy from childhood that was Gramma's interpretation of Humpty Dumpty - it was soft, well-used, well-loved and handmade. Excellent company for the Down and Out me. Somewhere in my early 30's I outgrew Humpty Dumpty, who in the meantime, graduated to treasure trunk status, and is awaiting to emerge upon the birth of our as of yet unconceived first child.

Now it's all about the hot toddies.

The American Lung Association says the traditional hot toddy, which includes your liquor of choice only serves to dehydrate you. Pffft. Dehydration. What do they know?

I was really looking forward to making a hot cup of tea and truly testing the myth that alcohol can 'kill' the germs - modernity be damned! But we're out of everything except a coffee liqueur, and a marsala cooking wine. Ummm, no thanks. We are also out of lemons. Things are not looking good.

However, necessity is the mother of invention, and my overlarge cup currently runneth over with hot Sleepytime Celestial Seasonings tea, two sticky but generous globs of honey and a lemon drop. Fragant, steamy and comforting. And supposedly nondehydrating. *Happy sigh.*

Letting Go

Is a blog supposed to be lighthearted fluff, or can you talk about more meaty things? If the blog-gods are offended, perhaps lightning will strike this very keyboard and my career as Blogger Novice will abruptly come to an end.

My father-in-law, with whom S (husband) was not close, died yesterday evening at 66. FIL had M.S. for 10 years or so . . . the paralyzing, painful strain. He lived in a convelescent "old folks" home where he could get 24/7 care and had access to plenty of morphine and a cocktail of other pain inhibitors. His outlook matched his quality of life, which was poor.

It is good he's not suffering physically and mentally anymore. His mind was fully functioning and so with frustration, he witnessed his body gradually decline, to the point where he could barely feed himself. His environment was utterly depressing to say the least. As a sidebar, I will discompassionately mention it could have much better if he had taken care of himself when he was first diagnosed, and did more to prepare for his own care and keeping when he was still relatively healthy. These inconsiderate decisions affected his sons by default.

While I'm glad FIL is finally at rest for his own sake, I am more relieved for S, who though grieving in his own way, can let go of caring for his father. It's been a long road of regret, guilt, apathy and odd affection for the father that tried (but not quite hard enough) to the best of his ability, and made and broke lots of well-intended promises. At least, that's how it looks to me, the outsider.

S is in San Diego now taking care of the final arrangements - I hope he'll have a chance to visit the old haunts and spend time with people who have known him his whole life. They were there when S was dealing with the detachment of an alcoholic, absentee father, and they saw S make a life for himself in spite of it. Grown Up S is clear headed and taking it all in stride, and Im as proud of him as I could be. But still, I know S The Boy is still in there somewhere, the boy with that sweet, hopeful face who just wanted to go fishing with his Dad. I wish I could take that little guy into my arms and tousel his hair until he was ready to be let go . . . because I love him too.

Do you REALLY want to eat that?

Remember Stray Cat Strut? "He's got cat class and he's got cat styyyyyyle."

Pounce is gi-normous gray tabby with a very distinguished white goatee and tuxedo markings on his chest. If this were the 1930's, his paws would be all about the spats. Simply put, he is the Fred Astaire of the feline world, sans top hat and cane and leading lady . . . but I'm sure there is a graceful cat out there somewhere who would play the Ginger to his Fred.

OH he's got style, but maybe not so much on the class. I hate to burst his suave and debonaire bubble, but he's a bit of a doofus. I've been sitting on the couch with a cold and general malaise for the past two days. In that time frame, I've observed this well-fed cat who eats prescription gourmet cat food, attempt to consume people-vitamins, coffee with milk, tea with honey, cranberry juice, pizza AND carrot cake, a metal fixing from jewelry making supplies, a small wire, a glass bead and several scraps of carpet lint. He did manage to scarf down a feathery bit of plastic from a grocery bag, which promptly came back up. Yay. That's always fun.

(So here's the part where I admit I talk to animals. And they talk back?)

Me (in disbelief) : Do you really want to chew on my plants?
Pounce (in all earnestness): Yes. I do. I really do want to mangle the leaves, then eat them. And I'd like it if you'd stop telling me not to play with my food. I'm a CAT. It's what I do.

Oy. Cats these days.

1988 Revisited

I knew it! I knew she had it!

Ok, I wasnt absolutely sure, but 20 years ago I have this vague memory of leaving my senior yearbook with Matt Schweder with a request to pass it on to Jeannie Gaines to sign. You have to understand: the whole yearbook business was one of my favorite parts of year-end school (that, and the fact that it was the end of the school year!) I was determined to get as many signatures as possible. Everybody and anybody could sign it . . . 'come one, come all. Do you know me? No. But here, be the first to 'sign my crack' and write "LYLAS" at the end. Because even though you wont remember me 30 days from now, it's important that you pen the anacronym for 'love ya like a sister.' No, you dont have to mean it. Here's a pen . . . ."

So real life got busy . . I forgot about the yearbook . . . . Jeannie forgot about it . .. it fell off the map somewhere between cap&gown euphoria and 'ugh - high school.' Five years after graduation, it entered my consciousness again, and on a whim of nostalgia I tried to track it down. But the book I coveted with such great esteem in 1988 remained elusive, disappearing into the cosmos of bad hair and silly fashion. Comforting myself with 'high school was in general a horrible experience - who wants those memories?' was a help. And the other three yearbooks had been packed away untouched in a dark basement corner for years. Obviously, the senior annual was not a needed item.

But for fifteen more years after the initial search , there were a couple of nagging thoughts: 1. I never got to read what Matt wrote, and that bugged me. He was a great chum back in the day, and 2. The set of yearbooks was not complete. There was a lonely SCHS yearbook out there somewhere, separated from his brothers, looking for a good home. Oh the travesty.

It is 2008. Jeannie Gaines, now Stivers, contacted me on Facebook to announce her parents found my senior yearbook. Aha! Truth prevails!!!!! I was all kinds of wierd in high school, but crazy wasnt one of them, and now it has been proven!!! She was very sweet to sent to me last week. I'm not sure what I was more excited about: reading what Matt wrote, completing the yearbook collection, or being vindicated after two decades. Yes, I'm aware all of those reasons probably require some kind of therapy, but that is another blog.

There will probably be more on this subject. It doesnt feel ousted just yet.

The Island of my Couch

It's a cold, rainy, gray day - the kind of day that if you were out and about you'd rather be home, not sloshing and slogging around town while your toes go numb and your hair frizzes about your head. You'd fantasize about sitting on the couch with a good book or movie. Your lovely blanket would be gathered about like a giant hug and your hot cup of tea an offering of love everytime you bring it to your lips. You may fade in an out of blissful little naps, but no worries. There is nothing more important to do than to give in to this singular, sweet moment.

I will stay on the island of my couch until I have no choice but to leave it.

To My Creative Cats

Please.

Think "inside the box."

Thank you.

Mean and Green

I havent worked since December. I have no challenges which can only mean - a mess is about to be made. But this time, I did not pull out the art or jewelry supplies or start a sewing project oh no.

This time, I made an attempt to concoct homemade laundry detergent - 64 loads worth. It sounds ambitious, but all in all, a relatively easy science experiment in the making of gelantenous slime. I stood over the washer during the rinse cycle practically fretting. Will it work? There were odd globules in there - will they leave spots? What if the clothes dont smell good? Oh dear, oh dear - what was I thinking? As soon as the washer came to a halt, I did the old sniff test and stuck my nose right in the center of a pair of underwear that I knew to be especially cruddy not hours before. Ok, so that's gross but Ahhhhh. Pure as the driven snow.

I was so pleased with my granola girl self that I turned right around and made homemade dishwasher detergent.

Leave me alone. I'm bored.

The Nest

I'm addicted to a site called The Nest, an offshoot of The Knot (an online wonder that helped me keep it all together when planning to marry S.)

When I'm nesting, I dont read the articles about the most current interest rates in real estate, or nifty ways to cook chicken. I read the boards, specifically Relationships, Sex and Romance, Family Matters, and Married Life. The boards are where its at. The drama, the entertainment, the ridiculousness . . . . I cant seem to tear away.


That's where I was from November til now, and why I havent blogged. However, boards are miniblogs, like prep school for real blogging. And now I'm here.

Still The Nest beckons like a Siren, and I feel my ship being pulled between her snarky rocks.

What . . . is your quest????

I'm running again, or should I say 'wogging' - a blend of walking and jogging. Whatever it is, I logged over 95km in January! This change from Lazy J to Crazy J merits the purchase of new pants. Jeans to be specific.

The last time I bought a pair of jeans I liked, Tall L was town. It was a grueling process but still, with her around I found a pair within 1.5 hours. With Tall L, anything is possible.

Two days ago I shopped to celebrate losing a 1/2 size, and spent half of an entire day dropping trou. Every blue pile on the shelf held such promise -I just knew each pair would be the one that fit perfectly and made me look so thin I appeared to be standing infront of a freakish circus mirror. All to no avail. The sales people changed shifts. The cleaning crew came in. I got demin burn. The manager offered to personally sew a custom pair of jeans if I would just leave the store. And I did, empty handed. But I did remember to put back on the trousers I came in with.

Soon the doorbell will ring, and I will sign for my divinely flattering, not-too-tight, not-too-loose, custom made jeans . . . . which will be amazing because the manager never took measurements. She must be really good.