It's early morning; at least an hour before clarity arises and a quarter-past good sense, as I recall.
Politely, I stand aside, as my mind and body engage in heated argument over whether or not morning has actually arrived. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, my mind concedes to mornings' urgent arrival and begins to turn once again...stubbornly, and on its' own terms.
I find myself at the train station; although, I'm still a little hazy regarding those details. motivating forward, more out of habit than cognition, I board the train clutching my morning brew to my bosom, fumble for my ticket and take a seat. As an afterthought, I check to be certain that the seat was actually unoccupied before I sat myself down. Pleased with myself for thinking of this; and, even more pleased to find that, currently, I was the only occupant. Peril was the theme song of my morning. Earlier, I watched myself dress for the day in the third person; a kind of autopilot that often ends badly (but, that is a story for another day).
I'm headed to the outer reaches of civilization to help my mother divide perennials in her garden. She and I share a deep love of the garden. Smitten since my very first mud pie, I'm looking forward to our day playing in the dirt. So is Mom; she has assembled the tools and a plan. Mom is nearing 80 yet, somehow, remains younger than me. A mystery you would understand, if you saw her skipping through garden chores like a sprite on steroids. By late afternoon, there was a need to drive a stake just to determine that I was still moving forward. Meanwhile, "the sprite" and her jet-propelled wheelbarrow circled me wildly replanting shasta daisies...show off.
Evening found me back on the train, headed home to the city. Gartefully, I sank back in my seat and into a great book. Lounging contentedly, enjoying the hour+ ride home.
Comedy Enters (Stage Left)
When we arrived at the station, guess who couldn't rise from her seat?! Try as I might, I was stuck....one with the seat, a prisoner of limbs now frozen in place. Solid; an ironic tribute to garden sculpture. My first thought,"I can't live here...it's not a dining car". Apparently, only my body was paralyzed. My mind, still fluid, had survival as its priority.
As last resort, the Conductor had to give me a boost...And, the ultimate humiliation is complete.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
A Dieters' Lament
Today finds me eating strawberries while imagining whipcream. (Note: successful dieting is entirely dependent on a good imagination and a terrible memory) Mournfully, these sweet little berries cry out in their solitary state. Orphaned. Bereft of companionship. Culinary martial law has been declared until I loose a few pounds.
I spent my morning on the elliptical trainer, trying to outrun those persistent calories. I ran with dogged determination (dogged...what a crazy word...my dogs only work that hard @ napping!) Calories are tenacious things with a stubborn bent for being stored. They have great stamina and cling to this single-minded purpose for all they are worth. Lurking in the shadows ready to overtake devoted foodies on their way to excellent discovery. They pursue; therefore, I run.
It's my habit to muse, as I run. Musing is a fabulous distraction that spares me from hearing all the unspeakable messages my muscles are screaming at me(currently, they are mocking me in tandem). Bravely, I muse on, "Has anyone seen my endorphins? They seem to be MIA". I conjure up a picture of my renegade endorphins taking over some unsuspecting passerby and propelling her wildly into a frenetic fast forward...at least, someone has use of them. This weak attempt at comedy affords me a chuckle. I wonder if laughter burns calories...hmmmm. In a fit of hysteria, you could easily burn 100's of calories. It occurs to me that the only thing standing between rubenesque and reasonable is a comedy marathon. I love this kind of science!
Propelled by the jet fuel that is laughter, I will advance science while I run to outer Mongolia and back.
I spent my morning on the elliptical trainer, trying to outrun those persistent calories. I ran with dogged determination (dogged...what a crazy word...my dogs only work that hard @ napping!) Calories are tenacious things with a stubborn bent for being stored. They have great stamina and cling to this single-minded purpose for all they are worth. Lurking in the shadows ready to overtake devoted foodies on their way to excellent discovery. They pursue; therefore, I run.
It's my habit to muse, as I run. Musing is a fabulous distraction that spares me from hearing all the unspeakable messages my muscles are screaming at me(currently, they are mocking me in tandem). Bravely, I muse on, "Has anyone seen my endorphins? They seem to be MIA". I conjure up a picture of my renegade endorphins taking over some unsuspecting passerby and propelling her wildly into a frenetic fast forward...at least, someone has use of them. This weak attempt at comedy affords me a chuckle. I wonder if laughter burns calories...hmmmm. In a fit of hysteria, you could easily burn 100's of calories. It occurs to me that the only thing standing between rubenesque and reasonable is a comedy marathon. I love this kind of science!
Propelled by the jet fuel that is laughter, I will advance science while I run to outer Mongolia and back.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Diet is a Four-Letter Word
Well, it's spring and I am blooming alongside the rest of nature. Just swell! The crocus and the hyacinth have learned to be lovely and fragrant, as they swell and blossom. While, it would seem that, I am just pudgy. Clad in the weighty evidence of winters' carb-laden comfort; I feign shock at the irrefutable evidence on my frame. Reality has established an absolute; I am destined to lose the same 8 lbs. every spring. Some people herald the arrival of spring by sighting the first robin or the Fed Ex Guy wearing shorts. I, however, watch the scale. As the indicator approaches a full 8 lb. gain, I know that spring as sprung.
The specter of bathing suit season looms. I look about nervously, trying to will that thought back into hibernation. I will arrive at resignation soon enough; denial is still happily in charge and planning my next snack. I am required to walk through my day with great care and stealth to avoid any reflective surfaces that might betray the slender vision of myself in my minds' eye (Fragile reverie. Kids, do not try this at home). It's vital to prepare mentally before engaging in this perennial battle, choose a strategy, amass an arsenal of defense and write out a culinary last will and testament.
Diet, that four-letter word, designed to separate me from cozy philosophy with mashed potatoes or the sunshine of a hot-buttered roll.....grrrr. If I may speak frankly, a tomatoe is lovely when served simply sliced; it hums a sun-warmed and fragrant melody. However, it stands up and sings an entire aria when dressed in glistening olive oil with its' best friends basil and mozarella di bufalo. Warm ciabatta bread will beg to come along; to be polite, you must acquiesce. While tomatoe and melba toast look on, forlorn, with noses pressed against the window. I realize this is just grief talking, yet....
Hanging by the slenderest thread, in desparation she cries, "My kingdom for a croissant!" This declaration assures me that I am sufficiently deprived and should begin to see results soon. Yesterday, the scent of a cinnamon roll candle sent me drooling over the Pavlovian edge....pitiful spectacle.
Will Shakespeare said, "Appetite is a universal wolf". Now would that be served with or without gravy?!!
The specter of bathing suit season looms. I look about nervously, trying to will that thought back into hibernation. I will arrive at resignation soon enough; denial is still happily in charge and planning my next snack. I am required to walk through my day with great care and stealth to avoid any reflective surfaces that might betray the slender vision of myself in my minds' eye (Fragile reverie. Kids, do not try this at home). It's vital to prepare mentally before engaging in this perennial battle, choose a strategy, amass an arsenal of defense and write out a culinary last will and testament.
Diet, that four-letter word, designed to separate me from cozy philosophy with mashed potatoes or the sunshine of a hot-buttered roll.....grrrr. If I may speak frankly, a tomatoe is lovely when served simply sliced; it hums a sun-warmed and fragrant melody. However, it stands up and sings an entire aria when dressed in glistening olive oil with its' best friends basil and mozarella di bufalo. Warm ciabatta bread will beg to come along; to be polite, you must acquiesce. While tomatoe and melba toast look on, forlorn, with noses pressed against the window. I realize this is just grief talking, yet....
Hanging by the slenderest thread, in desparation she cries, "My kingdom for a croissant!" This declaration assures me that I am sufficiently deprived and should begin to see results soon. Yesterday, the scent of a cinnamon roll candle sent me drooling over the Pavlovian edge....pitiful spectacle.
Will Shakespeare said, "Appetite is a universal wolf". Now would that be served with or without gravy?!!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Winds of Change
There is a fierce wind at work outside today. It appears to be rearranging everything not nailed down and a few things that were. The building that my condo rests in has been blown eastward a full 6 inches and threatens to continue this unusual migration. At this rate, our building is likely to require an address change by early afternoon; preferably, remaining in its' current zip code.
During pre-flight preparation, all apparel is securely latched in place, all seats and tray tables are in the upright and locked position. I exit the front door of our building with a posture of preparedness worthy of a true adventurer. I'm promptly sucked out into a force that I can only liken to that of a jet engine. My neighbor and her little dog, Toto, fly by; enroute to Kansas, I suppose. The most unusual inventory of personal belongings collect, like so much jetsam, clinging nervously to corner and niche. Impromptu sculpture; accidental performance art played out with great display. I would applaud; but, to pause is folly. Individuals strive to motivate forward against the wind like a great army of mimes.
As you know, landing with a great crosswind is a tricky business. I end up overshooting my destination by a full two blocks. I have successfully exited the powerful slipstream and prepare to assess the damage. It appears that the high winds have successfully blasted every bit of makeup off the west side of my face. I look like both the before and the after photo following a makeover. As for my hair, I look like a volumized version of Donald Trump. Mother Nature has given me a cubist quality; very Picasso today. Who am I to argue with great art and a free makeover. I decide to embrace it, add a little lipstick and a runway-stomp. I begin my day as a trendsetter.
Note: A whirlwind is only a positive force when referring to romance.
During pre-flight preparation, all apparel is securely latched in place, all seats and tray tables are in the upright and locked position. I exit the front door of our building with a posture of preparedness worthy of a true adventurer. I'm promptly sucked out into a force that I can only liken to that of a jet engine. My neighbor and her little dog, Toto, fly by; enroute to Kansas, I suppose. The most unusual inventory of personal belongings collect, like so much jetsam, clinging nervously to corner and niche. Impromptu sculpture; accidental performance art played out with great display. I would applaud; but, to pause is folly. Individuals strive to motivate forward against the wind like a great army of mimes.
As you know, landing with a great crosswind is a tricky business. I end up overshooting my destination by a full two blocks. I have successfully exited the powerful slipstream and prepare to assess the damage. It appears that the high winds have successfully blasted every bit of makeup off the west side of my face. I look like both the before and the after photo following a makeover. As for my hair, I look like a volumized version of Donald Trump. Mother Nature has given me a cubist quality; very Picasso today. Who am I to argue with great art and a free makeover. I decide to embrace it, add a little lipstick and a runway-stomp. I begin my day as a trendsetter.
Note: A whirlwind is only a positive force when referring to romance.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Science of a Handbag
I carry a serious-size purse. The kind of purse that could house a private jet, if I was ever stranded on a desert island. It's not confined to carrying a single volume to read on the train but, the entire library of congress. This particular bag has a basement-level that's perfect for storing items reserved for occasional use. Daily, it governs with a wisdom and depth that successfully navigates all practical affairs of life with time to spare. It's great weight has an anti-theft property (somewhere in the city is a thief who will never be the same). Essentially, it is a magnanimous portal of provision; all this while projecting fabulous fashion. Exceptional and I exceptional by association.
Like a girl scout on steroids, I am prepared for a host of my own needs, as well as, those of random strangers. From the sublime to the ridiculous--provision is secure. One minor hiccup. This bag can be a black hole, of sorts; a hungry vortex laying claim to loose change and, occasionally, innocent by-standers (wow, is that ever embarrassing when that happens!). I ask you, exactly where does stuff go when it's placed inside the vast, dark universe of its' interior confines? I propose that each addition is drawn into a pre-ordained, 10 minute orbit--no more, no less. This would explain everything. Items, like house keys, can vanish completely; thus, defying all-out search involving an all-points bulletin and bloodhounds. Said items will automatically reappear in 10 minutes--no more, no less; thus, proving my theory.
It can take several orbits to find smaller items like my mental faculties.
Like a girl scout on steroids, I am prepared for a host of my own needs, as well as, those of random strangers. From the sublime to the ridiculous--provision is secure. One minor hiccup. This bag can be a black hole, of sorts; a hungry vortex laying claim to loose change and, occasionally, innocent by-standers (wow, is that ever embarrassing when that happens!). I ask you, exactly where does stuff go when it's placed inside the vast, dark universe of its' interior confines? I propose that each addition is drawn into a pre-ordained, 10 minute orbit--no more, no less. This would explain everything. Items, like house keys, can vanish completely; thus, defying all-out search involving an all-points bulletin and bloodhounds. Said items will automatically reappear in 10 minutes--no more, no less; thus, proving my theory.
It can take several orbits to find smaller items like my mental faculties.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Nature in Urban Clime
Water sounds are like God's own lullabies. Tranquil, peaceful. They quietly meander, soothing frayed edges. Last evening, I floated downstream on one such reverie. A good book in hand; I slipped easily into its' pages. A steady, gentle flow of water played through my subconscious. I succumb to it's siren song until I recall that I actually live in a concrete tower. Water sounds can only mean one thing.....I spring (no pun intended, just brilliant coincidence) to my feet.
Discovery is made; I stand and stare like I'd been tazered. The toilet is bubbling over, ever so gently, like a porcelain fountain in the center of a piazza. Momentarily transfixed by the beauty of this disaster, it occurs to me that a fountain would actually be a great addition to the ambiance of our home. Of course, this particular fountain might be a hard-sell to the neighbor downstairs; he's really grounded in practicality.
I wade in to turn off the water supply, at it's source. Icy water ends all romantic notion. Gladly, this puts an end to the merry, little stream making its way across the living room. The bug-eyed baby scampers for higher ground; the pragmatic half of our doggie duo. Our poodle-girl is sporty and loves water. Before I can form the word no-o-o-o-o, she gleefully takes a skid through the middle of our new waterway, as if skiing. She flashed me a grin as she flew past (because insult had to be added to injury); displaying her very best, "Hey, Mom, watch me, watch me" expression. Great, a toilet water soaked poodle...this is getting better by the minute (note: this really is sarcasm, I haven't entirely lost my grip on life). Apparently, this mess was determined to grow legs and stomp all over my evening. I have no appreciation for dark comedy of this sort.
This toilet has an evil bent and acts up frequently; despite the fact, that it has had a transplant of all its' vital parts--twice. I think it's possessed. It's one of those "thorns in your side" that you envision blowing up in the backyard. Repair jobs of this kind are no easy task. Failure is coerced by the fact that the instructions are written in an enigmatic code with one piece missing (sort of like when you asked Aunt Gladys for the recipe to her signature layer cake with the perfect swirly frosting; yet, it never turns out quite right or even edible because there has been some tampering with the formula. Sorry, Aunt Glad, we caught on to you years ago). Well, I'm convinced that whoever writes these plumbing instructions has a vendetta against mankind or plumbing...possibly both.
The mess is cleaned up; repair resolved upon. I pause for applause with my wrench raised heavenward....I am woman....Iam plumber....I am tired!
I resolve to sleep with one eye open tonight, lest I dream that I am rafting downstream. And the saga continues.
Discovery is made; I stand and stare like I'd been tazered. The toilet is bubbling over, ever so gently, like a porcelain fountain in the center of a piazza. Momentarily transfixed by the beauty of this disaster, it occurs to me that a fountain would actually be a great addition to the ambiance of our home. Of course, this particular fountain might be a hard-sell to the neighbor downstairs; he's really grounded in practicality.
I wade in to turn off the water supply, at it's source. Icy water ends all romantic notion. Gladly, this puts an end to the merry, little stream making its way across the living room. The bug-eyed baby scampers for higher ground; the pragmatic half of our doggie duo. Our poodle-girl is sporty and loves water. Before I can form the word no-o-o-o-o, she gleefully takes a skid through the middle of our new waterway, as if skiing. She flashed me a grin as she flew past (because insult had to be added to injury); displaying her very best, "Hey, Mom, watch me, watch me" expression. Great, a toilet water soaked poodle...this is getting better by the minute (note: this really is sarcasm, I haven't entirely lost my grip on life). Apparently, this mess was determined to grow legs and stomp all over my evening. I have no appreciation for dark comedy of this sort.
This toilet has an evil bent and acts up frequently; despite the fact, that it has had a transplant of all its' vital parts--twice. I think it's possessed. It's one of those "thorns in your side" that you envision blowing up in the backyard. Repair jobs of this kind are no easy task. Failure is coerced by the fact that the instructions are written in an enigmatic code with one piece missing (sort of like when you asked Aunt Gladys for the recipe to her signature layer cake with the perfect swirly frosting; yet, it never turns out quite right or even edible because there has been some tampering with the formula. Sorry, Aunt Glad, we caught on to you years ago). Well, I'm convinced that whoever writes these plumbing instructions has a vendetta against mankind or plumbing...possibly both.
The mess is cleaned up; repair resolved upon. I pause for applause with my wrench raised heavenward....I am woman....Iam plumber....I am tired!
I resolve to sleep with one eye open tonight, lest I dream that I am rafting downstream. And the saga continues.
Monday, March 16, 2009
On Your Marks...
The alarm sounds; a rude and vociferous device, lacking both tact and diplomacy, as it ushers in each week day. My feet hit the floor running. I bolt for the starting line--the bathroom. Bleary and blurry (that age-old, hilarious duo) cause me to trip over one of our dogs 3 times, giving my husband unfair advantage--argggh! Obviously, he and the bug-eyed baby are in cahoots, again. He takes the lead, enjoying a swaggering victory lap, as he begins the day in the winners' circle.
Thirty years of test trials have proven that it takes this man an eternity + 10 minutes to shave. I know what you are thinking, Michelangelo could sculpt him a whole new one in less time; nonetheless, the current methodology prevails. I am not one to sit on my laurels and wait (mostly, because this often proves painful--trust me). So, I pad toward the kitchen to lay claim to the last bagel. I ask you, exactly who is the victor now! My son heads out the door with both dogs in tow or is it the other way round? Hard to tell from here.
A certain quiet reigns with a fragile brevity. Thankfully, the coffee pot is of an independent nature and it has begun merrily steaming of its' own accord. The most heavenly aroma greets me; surely God's own morning nectar. I pause to breathe it in. Sunshine fills the room to overflowing. Since, all this sunshhine is a calorie-free treat, I consider buttering my bagel. However, this is a "victory" bagel and worthy of far greater consideration slathered upon it. I opt for Nutella. A favored choice; coffee and Nutella have inspired great choral composition in angelic realms. Swathed in sunshine and my cozy robe, I pick up the morning paper and settle in to enjoy my morning repast.
The day takes a sudden left turn, headlong it careens into comedy. New discovery arrives with the subtlety of a 4 car pileup...today is Saturday! I hate when this happens.
Thirty years of test trials have proven that it takes this man an eternity + 10 minutes to shave. I know what you are thinking, Michelangelo could sculpt him a whole new one in less time; nonetheless, the current methodology prevails. I am not one to sit on my laurels and wait (mostly, because this often proves painful--trust me). So, I pad toward the kitchen to lay claim to the last bagel. I ask you, exactly who is the victor now! My son heads out the door with both dogs in tow or is it the other way round? Hard to tell from here.
A certain quiet reigns with a fragile brevity. Thankfully, the coffee pot is of an independent nature and it has begun merrily steaming of its' own accord. The most heavenly aroma greets me; surely God's own morning nectar. I pause to breathe it in. Sunshine fills the room to overflowing. Since, all this sunshhine is a calorie-free treat, I consider buttering my bagel. However, this is a "victory" bagel and worthy of far greater consideration slathered upon it. I opt for Nutella. A favored choice; coffee and Nutella have inspired great choral composition in angelic realms. Swathed in sunshine and my cozy robe, I pick up the morning paper and settle in to enjoy my morning repast.
The day takes a sudden left turn, headlong it careens into comedy. New discovery arrives with the subtlety of a 4 car pileup...today is Saturday! I hate when this happens.
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