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.