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.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Clutter :)
Clutter on the kitchen counter top assaults my peace of mind. "It must be banished from the Kingdom," declares the Queen, with raised scepter, to no one in particular. Poised for perennial battle, I prepare to subdue the mundane piles o' life. I survey the breadth of the task. It's been said that clutter is evidence of a life well-lived. I have enough evidence here for my entire neighborhood. How grateful they will be to know that.
You'd think that this kitchen counter top was made of Velcro. It's host to an adhoc collection of family paraphernalia worthy of ceremonial deposit inside a time capsule. The generous, yet anonymous, donors are nowhere to be found... or, perhaps, entombed amidst this rubble. Who can tell? I sigh resignation. I'm usually the one left standing by the ominous, anonymous pile every time the music stops in this cosmic game of musical chairs. The Queen, definitely, needs a new strategy.
So, I muse--A catapult would make this job alot more fun. Perhaps, David Copperfield could show up for tea and make it all disappear in performance art. As you well know, art cannot be denied. If only I were famous; I could sell it on ebay. All superior notions. Well, superior to the "sort and pitch" session that lies ahead of me. This particular clutter looks concerned, as I mutter about matchbooks.
However, the clutter on my writing desk is of another genus. This clutter is wonderfully fertile; friendly with a warm familiarity not unlike an embrace. Discovery lays amongst these pages. Treasure crowns each pile. Abundant evidence of the life within. Pictures, snippets that inspire. Thoughts nurtured; notes on the way to contented destination. To sit, within its comfortable confines, is to be cradled. A wonderful world unto itself. A retreat.
The Queen sweeps the random collection from the counter top to be disposed of by Sir "Hefty". I hear he loves to recycle. Peace reigns in the Kingdom.
You'd think that this kitchen counter top was made of Velcro. It's host to an adhoc collection of family paraphernalia worthy of ceremonial deposit inside a time capsule. The generous, yet anonymous, donors are nowhere to be found... or, perhaps, entombed amidst this rubble. Who can tell? I sigh resignation. I'm usually the one left standing by the ominous, anonymous pile every time the music stops in this cosmic game of musical chairs. The Queen, definitely, needs a new strategy.
So, I muse--A catapult would make this job alot more fun. Perhaps, David Copperfield could show up for tea and make it all disappear in performance art. As you well know, art cannot be denied. If only I were famous; I could sell it on ebay. All superior notions. Well, superior to the "sort and pitch" session that lies ahead of me. This particular clutter looks concerned, as I mutter about matchbooks.
However, the clutter on my writing desk is of another genus. This clutter is wonderfully fertile; friendly with a warm familiarity not unlike an embrace. Discovery lays amongst these pages. Treasure crowns each pile. Abundant evidence of the life within. Pictures, snippets that inspire. Thoughts nurtured; notes on the way to contented destination. To sit, within its comfortable confines, is to be cradled. A wonderful world unto itself. A retreat.
The Queen sweeps the random collection from the counter top to be disposed of by Sir "Hefty". I hear he loves to recycle. Peace reigns in the Kingdom.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Lost & Found
50 is fabulous!! This euphoria is occasionally interupted by the crackling of my knees, as I ascend a staircase. Accompanied by the loud snapping of synapses, as I try to recall where I laid my keys. I've lost my capacity for endless activity. Now less fluid, I'm really more of a concentrate. A lively, bright cologne becomes a complex, spicy eau de parfum that goes to bed long before midnight.
Time has traveled by at great speeds reshaping most of my personal terrain--a generous benefactor. Perhaps you've noticed that time doesn't travel light, it arrives laden with baggage. Literally. There is bagg-age under my eyes, upper arms and, well, other places. Essentially, everything settles about an inch below the waterline. Perky and bright now refer to the quality of my morning espresso. Apparently, among other things, time is a comedian. Some days, time is hilarious.
I'm learning to navigate by these new stars. Life is full of enough daily discovery to rival Columbus or Marconi. I lose enough hair each day to knit myself a counterpart (perhaps she could keep track of the keys). The floor is, definitely, farther away each time I bend over (Is this my imagination or have you noticed this, as well?). Candlelight is my fabulous new beauty secret. And, the cavalcade of discovery continues on.
Currently, I daydream about the realities of replacement parts (pie-in-the-sky; afterall, is still pie). I have a penchant for remedy--time waits for no one. A savy girlfried taught me to check the bed carefully each morning for parts that fall off in the night. This is a hilarious philosophy until you actually find one! I round this corner to find rich stores of experience, like great platters of pate de foie gras with cognac, spilling over into depth and perspective (never known for my grace--I spill everything, even metaphor).
I settle in and enjoy the view....50 is fabulous!! I've finally arrived; it's me, only better. I know the secret handshake and everything. Life begins on a whole new plane, as I prepare to converse with the Cheshire Cat on a great many topics.
Essentially, once you shed your glossy shell, you get to enjoy the nut inside! And, she's wonderful!
Time has traveled by at great speeds reshaping most of my personal terrain--a generous benefactor. Perhaps you've noticed that time doesn't travel light, it arrives laden with baggage. Literally. There is bagg-age under my eyes, upper arms and, well, other places. Essentially, everything settles about an inch below the waterline. Perky and bright now refer to the quality of my morning espresso. Apparently, among other things, time is a comedian. Some days, time is hilarious.
I'm learning to navigate by these new stars. Life is full of enough daily discovery to rival Columbus or Marconi. I lose enough hair each day to knit myself a counterpart (perhaps she could keep track of the keys). The floor is, definitely, farther away each time I bend over (Is this my imagination or have you noticed this, as well?). Candlelight is my fabulous new beauty secret. And, the cavalcade of discovery continues on.
Currently, I daydream about the realities of replacement parts (pie-in-the-sky; afterall, is still pie). I have a penchant for remedy--time waits for no one. A savy girlfried taught me to check the bed carefully each morning for parts that fall off in the night. This is a hilarious philosophy until you actually find one! I round this corner to find rich stores of experience, like great platters of pate de foie gras with cognac, spilling over into depth and perspective (never known for my grace--I spill everything, even metaphor).
I settle in and enjoy the view....50 is fabulous!! I've finally arrived; it's me, only better. I know the secret handshake and everything. Life begins on a whole new plane, as I prepare to converse with the Cheshire Cat on a great many topics.
Essentially, once you shed your glossy shell, you get to enjoy the nut inside! And, she's wonderful!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
I Plan To Plan?!!
I could plan for the future; if only, today was not blocking my view. Today doesn't always have a high regard for plans. I, on the other hand, adore planning. If planning were an Olympic sport, I could medal in it. Definitely. Planning is reflexive like breathing. Today pauses to consider my plans with wry grin.
As tomorrow becomes today, it makes its' intentions clear. You can negotiate with tomorrow but, today enters with its' mind clearly set. Today has decided to rearrange my plans--how rude!! "Just who will be picking up all these scattered plans?", she issues tersely through clenched teeth. Today has not learned the graciousness of hospitality. A guest for only 24 hours, it seems in a hurry to establish itself. Ever the attentive hostess, I begin to unpack the day.
The tyranny of the urgent pops out first. It shouts demands and then marches off, satisfied that it has been heard first (really, who doesn't like to be validated). My morning askew from the altered direction, it travels off-script. The general scheme is going well but, I'm not entirely comfortable. Not unlike the time that I wore my little sisters' sweater to school. It came so close to fitting, yet... I look over my shoulder trying to catch a glimpse of my former plans. I carry on bravely making lemonade from those lemons (a bright version of lemonade with raspberries, for obvious reasons). Weekdays were not created for adventure and off-roading. Weekdays are all-business, productive and directed. They love to try daring new things, in theory, but have an affinity for the mundane and dependable.
Next, I find a package--a large package. It's wrapped in plain brown paper, very unassuming. My fingers move methodically to unwrap it. Out pour blessings, at least a weeks' worth. Oooooooo! All this for today?! Fortunately, they've arrived with a map like the one that accompanies a box of chocolates (because it's super disappointing to bite into a nougat when you are expecting a hazelnut). Maybe today isn't so bad, after all.
Perspective enters of its' own accord (stage left) and settles in.
As tomorrow becomes today, it makes its' intentions clear. You can negotiate with tomorrow but, today enters with its' mind clearly set. Today has decided to rearrange my plans--how rude!! "Just who will be picking up all these scattered plans?", she issues tersely through clenched teeth. Today has not learned the graciousness of hospitality. A guest for only 24 hours, it seems in a hurry to establish itself. Ever the attentive hostess, I begin to unpack the day.
The tyranny of the urgent pops out first. It shouts demands and then marches off, satisfied that it has been heard first (really, who doesn't like to be validated). My morning askew from the altered direction, it travels off-script. The general scheme is going well but, I'm not entirely comfortable. Not unlike the time that I wore my little sisters' sweater to school. It came so close to fitting, yet... I look over my shoulder trying to catch a glimpse of my former plans. I carry on bravely making lemonade from those lemons (a bright version of lemonade with raspberries, for obvious reasons). Weekdays were not created for adventure and off-roading. Weekdays are all-business, productive and directed. They love to try daring new things, in theory, but have an affinity for the mundane and dependable.
Next, I find a package--a large package. It's wrapped in plain brown paper, very unassuming. My fingers move methodically to unwrap it. Out pour blessings, at least a weeks' worth. Oooooooo! All this for today?! Fortunately, they've arrived with a map like the one that accompanies a box of chocolates (because it's super disappointing to bite into a nougat when you are expecting a hazelnut). Maybe today isn't so bad, after all.
Perspective enters of its' own accord (stage left) and settles in.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Home, Home On The Range
I'm recovering from a turbo-charged, busy week here at the homestead. A mountain range of laundry lies to the east. A protective layer of dust envelopes the expanse of the interior ecosystem. Nothing but tumbleweed in the fridge. Larder is bare. A blight; an ode to neglect. To complete this scene--dry bones lie in a series across the living room floor, a tongue and cheek editorial left by one of the dogs. Probably, the bug-eyed baby...she always has the last word.
Overwhelmed and uninspired, I seek counsel from a cup of coffee. Inadvertently, I discover that if you raise the newspaper a half inch and lean forward the whole mess vanishes, hmmmmm. I'm amused by this small exercise in wit (check it out, it's only 6 am and I've already exercised. This day holds real promise). I begin practical resolution creating a list and a plan. My pen runs out of ink mid-list. Coincidence? A sign from above to spend the day in other pursuits? A cry to adopt a new decorating philosophy of carefree abandonment (it's very "green"--you just let nature reclaim it). So many decisions, so early in the morning.
I snap on the stereo imploring the Gypsy Kings and their driving latin beat to give this job some inspiration. Leaping to my feet with a double barrel squirt bottle and hip waders, I become a whirling dervish of cleaning force. Dust bunnies scurry for cover (General Rule: Dust bunnies must be removed from the premises or be named. Either course of action is correct). I look dust square in the eye and cut a swath through the center. I find that once you call its' bluff, dust loses all its' nerve. I'm unstoppable. Mr. Clean's powerful twin sister.
I moved with a full head of steam, bent on laying claim to the condo for civilization. I polished and buffed my way through the whole place boldly announcing my intention toward a serious clean. It wasn't wise to dawdle in my path. Daring the fates, my son nearly got a "Soft Scrub" facial with a lemony Mr. Clean rinse.
Note: Never flush your mop water while your hubbie is in the shower.....I never knew that man could sing!
Overwhelmed and uninspired, I seek counsel from a cup of coffee. Inadvertently, I discover that if you raise the newspaper a half inch and lean forward the whole mess vanishes, hmmmmm. I'm amused by this small exercise in wit (check it out, it's only 6 am and I've already exercised. This day holds real promise). I begin practical resolution creating a list and a plan. My pen runs out of ink mid-list. Coincidence? A sign from above to spend the day in other pursuits? A cry to adopt a new decorating philosophy of carefree abandonment (it's very "green"--you just let nature reclaim it). So many decisions, so early in the morning.
I snap on the stereo imploring the Gypsy Kings and their driving latin beat to give this job some inspiration. Leaping to my feet with a double barrel squirt bottle and hip waders, I become a whirling dervish of cleaning force. Dust bunnies scurry for cover (General Rule: Dust bunnies must be removed from the premises or be named. Either course of action is correct). I look dust square in the eye and cut a swath through the center. I find that once you call its' bluff, dust loses all its' nerve. I'm unstoppable. Mr. Clean's powerful twin sister.
I moved with a full head of steam, bent on laying claim to the condo for civilization. I polished and buffed my way through the whole place boldly announcing my intention toward a serious clean. It wasn't wise to dawdle in my path. Daring the fates, my son nearly got a "Soft Scrub" facial with a lemony Mr. Clean rinse.
Note: Never flush your mop water while your hubbie is in the shower.....I never knew that man could sing!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
How To Lose 100 lbs. In Just One Day
I'm facing the tyranny of a closet cleaning day. This gruesome reality will require some bribery. So, I promise myself a cookie per closet. Okay, so I borrowed this formula for success from our dogs. They are inspired to stand on their head or defy gravity in all manner of stunts for a cookie--the perfect precedent for my day. I mean, really, making a mess just to clean up a mess is an incongruous, lopsided philosophy that leans precariously against reason. Can I have an Amen!
Procrastination, my only real defense, has risen to artform. I'm quite proud of my evasive creativity (creativity should always be encouraged in all its expressions...it's art and must not be denied). As it turns out, I'm something of a savant. Urgent matters arise to postpone this dreaded task. Pressing issues, like chatting with a telemarketer, she sounds a little down and could use a win. Or, the ever popular, draw up a list of all the other chores you are dodging so that the "chore fairy" will have something to work with when she arrives. If all else fails, I can give conference to our dogs who feel urgent need to air their grievance over why they are the only members of the family without a seat at the dinner table (our bug-eyed baby, the chihuahua mix, is their advocate.. standing her ground, she doesn't even blink...Doc Holiday would have met his match at the okay corral).
Despite my best efforts, the need for order will not concede. Between you and me, tidiness is very demanding and just a little bossy. It stands stubbornly, arms folded stalwartly, blocking all my exits. I'm worn down by it's persistence and the need to find my other glove. Bravely, I approach the closet door, armed with all I will need to subdue it. I'm going in though risk is great. It occurs to me that it's no coincidence that C.S. Lewis found an entire world, Narnia, inside a closet. Resolve rallies...I swing open the door revealing my vocation for the next 2 hours. "This is definitely a two cookie job", she stated confidently with arms akimbo.
Are you aware that belongings can take on a life of their own in the quiet, darkness of their closet cloister? I think that this particular closet has borrowed from the neighbors again because I don't even recognize half of this stuff!!
Procrastination, my only real defense, has risen to artform. I'm quite proud of my evasive creativity (creativity should always be encouraged in all its expressions...it's art and must not be denied). As it turns out, I'm something of a savant. Urgent matters arise to postpone this dreaded task. Pressing issues, like chatting with a telemarketer, she sounds a little down and could use a win. Or, the ever popular, draw up a list of all the other chores you are dodging so that the "chore fairy" will have something to work with when she arrives. If all else fails, I can give conference to our dogs who feel urgent need to air their grievance over why they are the only members of the family without a seat at the dinner table (our bug-eyed baby, the chihuahua mix, is their advocate.. standing her ground, she doesn't even blink...Doc Holiday would have met his match at the okay corral).
Despite my best efforts, the need for order will not concede. Between you and me, tidiness is very demanding and just a little bossy. It stands stubbornly, arms folded stalwartly, blocking all my exits. I'm worn down by it's persistence and the need to find my other glove. Bravely, I approach the closet door, armed with all I will need to subdue it. I'm going in though risk is great. It occurs to me that it's no coincidence that C.S. Lewis found an entire world, Narnia, inside a closet. Resolve rallies...I swing open the door revealing my vocation for the next 2 hours. "This is definitely a two cookie job", she stated confidently with arms akimbo.
Are you aware that belongings can take on a life of their own in the quiet, darkness of their closet cloister? I think that this particular closet has borrowed from the neighbors again because I don't even recognize half of this stuff!!
Saturday, February 14, 2009
A Sole Affair
I heard a pair of Cole Haan Pumps say the loveliest thing one day, as they walked by. Polite and engaging; congenial to everyone. Always something pleasant to say and so correct, that even Emily Post cannot find fault.
Have you noticed, shoes hold power to transform (just ask Cinderella). They can speak an expressive confidence into your very sole. My conferences with shoes began when I was a girl. The first day of school, the holidays, a pair of summer sandals. My mother would take my sisters and I downtown to Brumlich's shoe store. She would never purchase the pair that called loudest to me so, I willed my favored choice to speak quietly. I learned to listen carefully, as they spoke in turn. Patent leather mary janes had a sophisticated message; I wore them home. The click their heels made on linoleum was a triumph! They were glorious and I was glorious in them. What power shoes held!
A chatty lot, they have so much to say....if you incline, you're likely to hear all manner of secrets. They are generous and lend freely. Sensible oxfords impart conservative advice and words of safety. They will often convey the same advice as your Aunt Gertrude so, never expect them to invite you out for a spontaneous evening of fun. Nevertheless, they lend a fabulous studious flair to my tweed trousers. Stilettos are a bit dangerous and should only be worn by those licensed. they have the moderation of an italian race car. Assertively commanding attention Travels at great heights..they do not know limits. The sexy sandals are a light, airy friend of stiletto. Subtle power. They have serious affect without all the attitude. Full of fun , they love to travel and luncheon al fresco. Witty, catching passersby unawares...never underestimate them. Boots. Nancy Sinatra says, "they're made for walking" so, I guess that's just what they'll do. Discerning shoes listen but, rarely speak. Red shoes never learned to whisper. They are considered a secret weapon in any wardrobe. Consult Defense Department before purchase. Athletic shoes have a no-nonsense approach with clear goals (do not even think about a Twinkie when purchasing these or they will give you a real "what for"). Philosophical shoes announce,"Be true to thy self--never clomp around in the wrong shoes or your neighbors will phone in a complaint (okay, so I just added that last part gratuitously). Loafers are plain speaking and simple (they really have a thing for tights but, don't tell them I told you). So many shoes, so little time.
While on the train, the perfect pair of peep toe pumps whispered the mysteries of femininity to attentive ears. I nod in agreement.
Have you noticed, shoes hold power to transform (just ask Cinderella). They can speak an expressive confidence into your very sole. My conferences with shoes began when I was a girl. The first day of school, the holidays, a pair of summer sandals. My mother would take my sisters and I downtown to Brumlich's shoe store. She would never purchase the pair that called loudest to me so, I willed my favored choice to speak quietly. I learned to listen carefully, as they spoke in turn. Patent leather mary janes had a sophisticated message; I wore them home. The click their heels made on linoleum was a triumph! They were glorious and I was glorious in them. What power shoes held!
A chatty lot, they have so much to say....if you incline, you're likely to hear all manner of secrets. They are generous and lend freely. Sensible oxfords impart conservative advice and words of safety. They will often convey the same advice as your Aunt Gertrude so, never expect them to invite you out for a spontaneous evening of fun. Nevertheless, they lend a fabulous studious flair to my tweed trousers. Stilettos are a bit dangerous and should only be worn by those licensed. they have the moderation of an italian race car. Assertively commanding attention Travels at great heights..they do not know limits. The sexy sandals are a light, airy friend of stiletto. Subtle power. They have serious affect without all the attitude. Full of fun , they love to travel and luncheon al fresco. Witty, catching passersby unawares...never underestimate them. Boots. Nancy Sinatra says, "they're made for walking" so, I guess that's just what they'll do. Discerning shoes listen but, rarely speak. Red shoes never learned to whisper. They are considered a secret weapon in any wardrobe. Consult Defense Department before purchase. Athletic shoes have a no-nonsense approach with clear goals (do not even think about a Twinkie when purchasing these or they will give you a real "what for"). Philosophical shoes announce,"Be true to thy self--never clomp around in the wrong shoes or your neighbors will phone in a complaint (okay, so I just added that last part gratuitously). Loafers are plain speaking and simple (they really have a thing for tights but, don't tell them I told you). So many shoes, so little time.
While on the train, the perfect pair of peep toe pumps whispered the mysteries of femininity to attentive ears. I nod in agreement.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Cabs @ the WWF
The urban thoroughfare is abundant with conveyance. Tourists in tennis shoes in search of anything that reminds them of home (an inexplicable phenomenon: foregoing genuine cuisine in search of a PizzaHut); the urban chic are fashionably well-heeled gliding down sidewalk runways; coachmen with their equine equipage add their percussion to the scene; cyclists percolate (keeping everyone alert....how thoughtful); buses lumber; cars, cars, cars. A well ordered chaos prevails. Everyone knows their part until a cab careens on to the scene. Let the games begin!
Cabs exist as a hybrid cross between transportation and the WWF. Showmen of epic proportion, they weave in and out of traffic in a frenzied ballet--choreography gone awry. I have box seats at today's event, high above the avenue seated in a favored coffee spot. The players assemble in the arena of the street below.
This is not a governed sport nor does it lay claim to any polite pretense. The rule is "there is no rule"; cabs are exempt from traffic laws, and occasionally, laws of nature. They can turn left from the right lane without hesitation or apology. Communication exchanged is generally of a wordless nature..the waving of various fingers offered wildly to one another and sometimes to passersby. Apparently, they are required to straddle both lanes, whenever possible. It's a complex game. I've determined that they must accumulate points for daring escapade during each shift. A heated competition that allows them to earn status as true gladiators. A mysterious sport, we are left circumspect of the hazards but, what of the finer points of this game. I've picked up a few I can share. Such as, Steve McQueen movies are required study, you really do get better gas mileage if you drive on only 2 wheels, and cabs are cleaned out using a millenial calendar (as in any sport, care of equipment is key). Many cabbies are scientists. If you drive fast enough you can actually turn back time. One such researcher has just hurtled past me in a blur....he will end his shift yesterday.
As I write this account, the next heat has begun. Two cabbies have stopped side-by-side, blocking thoroughfare, to shout injustice at one another. Outrage builds, wild gesturing ensues inspiring the crowd which cheers on its' favored contender. What showmen! Both gladiators jump back into their cabs and speed off nearly taking out 2 tourists and 1 lightpost.....this catches the eye of 1 cop. A 50 point penalty. The fans are not disappointed today.
Cabs exist as a hybrid cross between transportation and the WWF. Showmen of epic proportion, they weave in and out of traffic in a frenzied ballet--choreography gone awry. I have box seats at today's event, high above the avenue seated in a favored coffee spot. The players assemble in the arena of the street below.
This is not a governed sport nor does it lay claim to any polite pretense. The rule is "there is no rule"; cabs are exempt from traffic laws, and occasionally, laws of nature. They can turn left from the right lane without hesitation or apology. Communication exchanged is generally of a wordless nature..the waving of various fingers offered wildly to one another and sometimes to passersby. Apparently, they are required to straddle both lanes, whenever possible. It's a complex game. I've determined that they must accumulate points for daring escapade during each shift. A heated competition that allows them to earn status as true gladiators. A mysterious sport, we are left circumspect of the hazards but, what of the finer points of this game. I've picked up a few I can share. Such as, Steve McQueen movies are required study, you really do get better gas mileage if you drive on only 2 wheels, and cabs are cleaned out using a millenial calendar (as in any sport, care of equipment is key). Many cabbies are scientists. If you drive fast enough you can actually turn back time. One such researcher has just hurtled past me in a blur....he will end his shift yesterday.
As I write this account, the next heat has begun. Two cabbies have stopped side-by-side, blocking thoroughfare, to shout injustice at one another. Outrage builds, wild gesturing ensues inspiring the crowd which cheers on its' favored contender. What showmen! Both gladiators jump back into their cabs and speed off nearly taking out 2 tourists and 1 lightpost.....this catches the eye of 1 cop. A 50 point penalty. The fans are not disappointed today.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Music Will Soothe Your Soul?!!
My neighbor is giving a free concert....how generous. Sadly, said concert is blaring through the wall and I'm nearly through the roof over it! His selections blare at a frequency reserved for public address systems and all manner of emergency sirens. His music stylings have a stubborn bent toward old show tunes. This annoys even the dog (my poodle-girl touts classical music with a serious preference for Bach). Truthfully, she's either annoyed or she's singing along...it's a hard call.
What to do, what to do....I've knocked on his door but, he can't hear my pleas over the sound of "Old Man River" at 9,000 decibels! I'm trying to disregard the din but, really, who can wax poetic while being audibly assaulted. I tried to call the doorman in on this; however, my nerves are so frayed that I could not recall my name to lodge official complaint (great, now he thinks he received a prank call from a loud party given by Rogers & Hammerstein!).
Perhaps, I could slide an updated CD collection under his door. On second thought, subtlety doesn't seem within is repretoire. Does the UN give crash courses in diplomacy? I'm desperate to find solution. Half the artwork hanging on the walls has jumped to it's death and the other half is looking very nervous!
Possibly, a battle of the bands is in order.....tomorrows headline,"City High Rise Mysteriously Dissolves Into Dust" Film at 11.
What to do, what to do....I've knocked on his door but, he can't hear my pleas over the sound of "Old Man River" at 9,000 decibels! I'm trying to disregard the din but, really, who can wax poetic while being audibly assaulted. I tried to call the doorman in on this; however, my nerves are so frayed that I could not recall my name to lodge official complaint (great, now he thinks he received a prank call from a loud party given by Rogers & Hammerstein!).
Perhaps, I could slide an updated CD collection under his door. On second thought, subtlety doesn't seem within is repretoire. Does the UN give crash courses in diplomacy? I'm desperate to find solution. Half the artwork hanging on the walls has jumped to it's death and the other half is looking very nervous!
Possibly, a battle of the bands is in order.....tomorrows headline,"City High Rise Mysteriously Dissolves Into Dust" Film at 11.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Wry Sojourn
Leaving the city behind, with it's comfortable hum,
Streets speak their music, 100 stories in tome,
The air is full, loud and restful,
Defies explanation.
As thoughts are driving down the milky way,
Toward sloping, snow covered hills in quiet undulation,
Plenty of room for contemplation?
The air is different here, silence blares,
A sound splits the air,
I believe I hear the growing of my hair,
That seems to be the derivation.
Stars touch the ground, one million plus three,
Twinkling in conversation, perhaps to the moon, maybe?
Distracted by all this noise silence can make,
Really, how much more can my nerves take?
Streets speak their music, 100 stories in tome,
The air is full, loud and restful,
Defies explanation.
As thoughts are driving down the milky way,
Toward sloping, snow covered hills in quiet undulation,
Plenty of room for contemplation?
The air is different here, silence blares,
A sound splits the air,
I believe I hear the growing of my hair,
That seems to be the derivation.
Stars touch the ground, one million plus three,
Twinkling in conversation, perhaps to the moon, maybe?
Distracted by all this noise silence can make,
Really, how much more can my nerves take?
Friday, January 30, 2009
This Just In....
You know how it is when the simplest things build atmospheric pressure within you that beg to be released so, that you literally explode with laughter. Well.....
I put my bra on inside out three times....once, okay....twice, well that can happen to anyone but, three times?!!! I kept turning it round and then inside out but, kept coming out with the same result. After busting out laughing (because, really, underwear comedy is the absolute funniest in the genus comedy), I finally resolved to just wear a sports bra today. Since the skill involved in donning a traditional undergarment is evasive.
Just one movement in the comedic concerto of my day. When coordination was handed out, I wasn't even in the line (actually, I wasn't aware that there was a line)!!
I put my bra on inside out three times....once, okay....twice, well that can happen to anyone but, three times?!!! I kept turning it round and then inside out but, kept coming out with the same result. After busting out laughing (because, really, underwear comedy is the absolute funniest in the genus comedy), I finally resolved to just wear a sports bra today. Since the skill involved in donning a traditional undergarment is evasive.
Just one movement in the comedic concerto of my day. When coordination was handed out, I wasn't even in the line (actually, I wasn't aware that there was a line)!!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
The Coffee Diet...If You Dare
It's been my experience that foods which please are filled with all manner of properties, designed especially, to expand the waistline. Anything creamy is instructed to go directly to my waist with stops along the way at the hips and thighs. At the height of this injustice...it takes 6 months to take off what can be gained in one Superbowl weekend. Short of sewing my lips shut; I seek remedy stat! The top button of my jeans is gonna' blow at any moment, taking out windows and setting off car alarms.
Exercise seems a powerful ally; and, I really do love to walk. At this point, I'd have to walk to outer Mongolia and back to remedy the situation. Clearly, this will never work....my son will notice if I'm not home to make dinner. Adding whole grains is, yet another, strategy of the successfully slim. I contemplate this briefly; however, the terror of an earlier encounter with flaxseed has scarred me for life. The nightmare is too fresh to pursue. In a random flash of momentary brilliance, the perfect solution comes to me in a riddle. What's dark, rich and satisfying with absolutely no fat, calories, sodium, cholesterol, nitrates, sugar (see appendix for the balance of this list, it's simply too long to publish)? COFFEE, and its' wealthier twin, espresso. The perfect diet food.
All is resolved upon, while I'm converting my engine over to run on twigs and sticks; I'll answer my hunger pangs with this elixir of life. I read that coffee is, in fact, what enabled King Arthur to pull the sword from the stone. So there you have it, coffee endows you with superpowers (a life philosophy shared by Juan Valdez--the early days). I toast my new contrivance with this lovely, high octane brew and send it coursing through my veins.
After my third cuppa' joe...my thoughts, that once came patiently and well ordered, raced along the rails. I can run faster and jump higher than the other kids. This is fabulous. Why didn't I think of this earlier?! "Just think of what can be accomplished at this speed", she said not sensing the inherent danger, not to mention the folly of her choice.
Four cups of coffee and two espressos later (which incidently seems to be my limit)...evening is fast approaching...thoughts stuck in overdrive....hands are moving faster than my brain (this never ends well)...wild-eyed, I can't slow down--it'll be next Tuesday before I can even sit down....heart pounding, every cylinder pumping at it's zenith....I cry out in the wisdom of that age-old prophet, George Jetson, "Jane, stop this crazy thing!" My plan may have a flaw.
Perhaps, exercise is the way to go. More later....
Exercise seems a powerful ally; and, I really do love to walk. At this point, I'd have to walk to outer Mongolia and back to remedy the situation. Clearly, this will never work....my son will notice if I'm not home to make dinner. Adding whole grains is, yet another, strategy of the successfully slim. I contemplate this briefly; however, the terror of an earlier encounter with flaxseed has scarred me for life. The nightmare is too fresh to pursue. In a random flash of momentary brilliance, the perfect solution comes to me in a riddle. What's dark, rich and satisfying with absolutely no fat, calories, sodium, cholesterol, nitrates, sugar (see appendix for the balance of this list, it's simply too long to publish)? COFFEE, and its' wealthier twin, espresso. The perfect diet food.
All is resolved upon, while I'm converting my engine over to run on twigs and sticks; I'll answer my hunger pangs with this elixir of life. I read that coffee is, in fact, what enabled King Arthur to pull the sword from the stone. So there you have it, coffee endows you with superpowers (a life philosophy shared by Juan Valdez--the early days). I toast my new contrivance with this lovely, high octane brew and send it coursing through my veins.
After my third cuppa' joe...my thoughts, that once came patiently and well ordered, raced along the rails. I can run faster and jump higher than the other kids. This is fabulous. Why didn't I think of this earlier?! "Just think of what can be accomplished at this speed", she said not sensing the inherent danger, not to mention the folly of her choice.
Four cups of coffee and two espressos later (which incidently seems to be my limit)...evening is fast approaching...thoughts stuck in overdrive....hands are moving faster than my brain (this never ends well)...wild-eyed, I can't slow down--it'll be next Tuesday before I can even sit down....heart pounding, every cylinder pumping at it's zenith....I cry out in the wisdom of that age-old prophet, George Jetson, "Jane, stop this crazy thing!" My plan may have a flaw.
Perhaps, exercise is the way to go. More later....
Monday, January 26, 2009
If I Ruled The World...
Day is done, sun has set, dinner served. While my family is still in a carb-induced stupor; silently, I slip away to my secret lair. Smooth marble walls give way to the gently sloping tub, designed to cradle a weary spirit.
My escape complete. Undetected by all. Well, nearly all. My poodle-girl decides she could really use a good steam, as well. Impervious to the power of carbs; she is always on high alert, ready to assert herself (liberated from the role of family pet because she has no idea that she's really a dog). Familiar with the routine, she stretches out on the rug--Cleopatra on her barge.
I relax in a hot tub of scented water and candlelight. Carried on gentle current downstream. My tub is my think tank. One minor caution: Reverie of this type can inspire the phone to ring just out of reach. As well as, to inspire household emergencies; such as, when your husband cannot find the chocolate ice cream and requires back up stat. Despite the risks, I dissolve into a contemplative state. I wander through my day aimlessly reviewing the happenstance, humanity and humor on parade. Whenever I meet a disappointment, I add a therapeutic new ending, that always amuses me. Doubt finds no soil to establish itself. Foiled it stalks off in a sulk (just it's luck, I embrace my idiosyncracies).
It's here, this exact spot, where I stumble into a new ponderance. What if life had a soundtrack. How powerful would that be?! Lending clarity to life's situations. Obviously, if hero music is blaring, you should continue your pursuit, at all cost. Spurred on to victory with full orchestra. If a sad medley plays tenderly, you will feel empowered to cry in public (like when the chick in front of you buys the last Fox & Obel oatmeal cookie...you know, truly sad stuff. My apologies to my dear friend Janeen for using such a cruel example). Once again, important discovery is authored by time in the tub.
I emerge from my soak with balance restored, contentment in residence, brilliant new discovery resolved upon. Is that Clair DeLune I hear playing? I do rule the world...
My escape complete. Undetected by all. Well, nearly all. My poodle-girl decides she could really use a good steam, as well. Impervious to the power of carbs; she is always on high alert, ready to assert herself (liberated from the role of family pet because she has no idea that she's really a dog). Familiar with the routine, she stretches out on the rug--Cleopatra on her barge.
I relax in a hot tub of scented water and candlelight. Carried on gentle current downstream. My tub is my think tank. One minor caution: Reverie of this type can inspire the phone to ring just out of reach. As well as, to inspire household emergencies; such as, when your husband cannot find the chocolate ice cream and requires back up stat. Despite the risks, I dissolve into a contemplative state. I wander through my day aimlessly reviewing the happenstance, humanity and humor on parade. Whenever I meet a disappointment, I add a therapeutic new ending, that always amuses me. Doubt finds no soil to establish itself. Foiled it stalks off in a sulk (just it's luck, I embrace my idiosyncracies).
It's here, this exact spot, where I stumble into a new ponderance. What if life had a soundtrack. How powerful would that be?! Lending clarity to life's situations. Obviously, if hero music is blaring, you should continue your pursuit, at all cost. Spurred on to victory with full orchestra. If a sad medley plays tenderly, you will feel empowered to cry in public (like when the chick in front of you buys the last Fox & Obel oatmeal cookie...you know, truly sad stuff. My apologies to my dear friend Janeen for using such a cruel example). Once again, important discovery is authored by time in the tub.
I emerge from my soak with balance restored, contentment in residence, brilliant new discovery resolved upon. Is that Clair DeLune I hear playing? I do rule the world...
Friday, January 23, 2009
Bifocals and Mt. Everest
Bifocals and Mt. Everest are eternally linked by an unspoken common capacity. Both beg to be conquered by some, the brave few called by destiny (yet another case where caller i.d. is so handy...no one likes to be surprised by destiny). Concerning bifocals, this call arrives on or about the 40th year of life (I'm sorry to report that the call to conquer Everest remains a secret known only to destiny and it's not talkin'. So stay alert). Essentially, "To see or not to see, that is the question". I'm fairly certain that this wisdom would be found among discarded drafts on Shakespeare's writing desk, had anyone looked closely enough to make this valuable discovery.
Bifocals, trifocals, lined or progressive. A whole new world of vocabulary opens before me bringing choices which don't provide progress, so much as to allow me to remain successfully static. In a world filled with amazing advancements in science, this seems a paltry offering. How about a quadfocal that would allow you to see through a plot or to see what, in the world, the guy in that car ahead of you is thinking making such moves in heavy traffic...I'd settle for seeing the laundry done. These advancements leap forward, nothing static here. But, of course, this kind of genius suspends all laws of reason and has a tendency to be more Warner Bros. than Wright Bros.; irregardless, all would be well received. Just one of the ridiculous things that rattles around in my brain looking about for an exit. Occasionally, I must liberate them to the page.
Confined to finite choices, I proceed accordingly, selecting the appropriate number of "focals". Clear images emerge from the hazy, watercolor depths. All is fabulous while I'm sitting still and admiring the view(s). I walk forward tentatively. The floor seems to be on an unfamiliar plane (not at all where I left it). I navigate cautiously away from base camp. My greatest challenge lay just ahead...a personal Mt. Everest, the dreaded staircase. I summon all my courage to begin the perilous enterprise of descent, sans caribiner and cable (foolishness or boldness, I'll let you decide). You have to employ the skill and precision of a nuerosurgeon to keep each tread within the tiny bifocal window provided. Danger lurks. One false step and I'll plummet into the depth, ruining my new tights and putting a substantial ding in my pride. Descend too quickly and the tread beneath can actually dance (curiously, always to a tune you've never heard before) between the various windows of these lenses. I see the carnage in my minds' eye. The balustrade slips through my hand, as I gain scientific proof that inertia exists. Swiftly, taking out innocent mono-focal folks, as I make my descent like a derailed bullet train. We lay in a heap at the bottom of the staircase with nary a brandy-laden St. Bernard in sight. Film at 7.
Prudently, I decide to take the elevator until I learn to drive these things!
Bifocals, trifocals, lined or progressive. A whole new world of vocabulary opens before me bringing choices which don't provide progress, so much as to allow me to remain successfully static. In a world filled with amazing advancements in science, this seems a paltry offering. How about a quadfocal that would allow you to see through a plot or to see what, in the world, the guy in that car ahead of you is thinking making such moves in heavy traffic...I'd settle for seeing the laundry done. These advancements leap forward, nothing static here. But, of course, this kind of genius suspends all laws of reason and has a tendency to be more Warner Bros. than Wright Bros.; irregardless, all would be well received. Just one of the ridiculous things that rattles around in my brain looking about for an exit. Occasionally, I must liberate them to the page.
Confined to finite choices, I proceed accordingly, selecting the appropriate number of "focals". Clear images emerge from the hazy, watercolor depths. All is fabulous while I'm sitting still and admiring the view(s). I walk forward tentatively. The floor seems to be on an unfamiliar plane (not at all where I left it). I navigate cautiously away from base camp. My greatest challenge lay just ahead...a personal Mt. Everest, the dreaded staircase. I summon all my courage to begin the perilous enterprise of descent, sans caribiner and cable (foolishness or boldness, I'll let you decide). You have to employ the skill and precision of a nuerosurgeon to keep each tread within the tiny bifocal window provided. Danger lurks. One false step and I'll plummet into the depth, ruining my new tights and putting a substantial ding in my pride. Descend too quickly and the tread beneath can actually dance (curiously, always to a tune you've never heard before) between the various windows of these lenses. I see the carnage in my minds' eye. The balustrade slips through my hand, as I gain scientific proof that inertia exists. Swiftly, taking out innocent mono-focal folks, as I make my descent like a derailed bullet train. We lay in a heap at the bottom of the staircase with nary a brandy-laden St. Bernard in sight. Film at 7.
Prudently, I decide to take the elevator until I learn to drive these things!
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Help...I'm Being Pursued by Pastry!!
Help....I'm being pursued by pastry! If only there was a 911 rescue for this sort of emergency.
I've declared a fast from pastry (and it's dreamy cousin, chocolate) for the month of January. At first blush, this seems a reasonable discipline. Sadly, saying "whoa" to pastry has created a "woe" of another sort. Apparently, this temporary armistice drew a proverbial line-in-the-sand. They've organized. They've reinforced their numbers. Unwittingly, I've provoked the pastry community; they are in pursuit, and closing fast, to bring me back into their camp! I'm leaving this account, like bread crumbs, should the worst occur and I am overcome.
I've waged this war before...my arsenal is expansive but, my opponent is powerful and great in number. I have to be vigilant both day and night to outwit their siren song (as everyone knows this is their greatest weapon Note: If it's chocolate pastry things ramp up exponentially). I play my trump card, a sugar-free baked apple as a preemptive strike. They meet me strength for strength, pulling out the really big guns....dark chocolate almond bark (found while searching the cupboard for Splenda to complete the apple treat, oh the irony of it all)....I break into a sweat. I swiftly counter by rerouting my day. I evade the neighborhood bakery, ducked down an alley to avoid running head-on into a donut (not just any donut, mind you, but a hot donut with just the perfect cinnamon to nutmeg ratio...you know the one), denied all the propaganda served up by butter pecan ice cream, outran an oatmeal cookie.....and my feats of impressive, evasive prowess continue on. Yet, their relentless pursuit carries on in organized assault.
The final blow leaves me reeling....I'm challenged to a duel by a beautiful custard cream puff. I hear myself say, "no, thank you" politely announcing my resolve. I felt polite retort would calm their ire and not allow escalation to the next level. Apparently, good manners are no match for pastry of this caliber.
Resolve is melting faster than frosting at a summer picnic. I may have need to enter the witness protection program but, I will prevail! Stay tuned....
I've declared a fast from pastry (and it's dreamy cousin, chocolate) for the month of January. At first blush, this seems a reasonable discipline. Sadly, saying "whoa" to pastry has created a "woe" of another sort. Apparently, this temporary armistice drew a proverbial line-in-the-sand. They've organized. They've reinforced their numbers. Unwittingly, I've provoked the pastry community; they are in pursuit, and closing fast, to bring me back into their camp! I'm leaving this account, like bread crumbs, should the worst occur and I am overcome.
I've waged this war before...my arsenal is expansive but, my opponent is powerful and great in number. I have to be vigilant both day and night to outwit their siren song (as everyone knows this is their greatest weapon Note: If it's chocolate pastry things ramp up exponentially). I play my trump card, a sugar-free baked apple as a preemptive strike. They meet me strength for strength, pulling out the really big guns....dark chocolate almond bark (found while searching the cupboard for Splenda to complete the apple treat, oh the irony of it all)....I break into a sweat. I swiftly counter by rerouting my day. I evade the neighborhood bakery, ducked down an alley to avoid running head-on into a donut (not just any donut, mind you, but a hot donut with just the perfect cinnamon to nutmeg ratio...you know the one), denied all the propaganda served up by butter pecan ice cream, outran an oatmeal cookie.....and my feats of impressive, evasive prowess continue on. Yet, their relentless pursuit carries on in organized assault.
The final blow leaves me reeling....I'm challenged to a duel by a beautiful custard cream puff. I hear myself say, "no, thank you" politely announcing my resolve. I felt polite retort would calm their ire and not allow escalation to the next level. Apparently, good manners are no match for pastry of this caliber.
Resolve is melting faster than frosting at a summer picnic. I may have need to enter the witness protection program but, I will prevail! Stay tuned....
Monday, January 19, 2009
An Hour to Myself...
The operation is set to commence at 1300 hours. Absolute secrecy is imperative (loose lips sink ships), chicanery is essential. The details of the plan are on a need-to-know basis only. Said plans are written in an undecipherable code (actually, just my longhand which my husband says always has the look of being written with my foot). My spirit smiles with giddy anticipation....time all to myself. I utter a silent yet ebullient "va-hooooo" in my head, so as to remain undetected. This "va-hooooo" was strictly under the radar.
I review my plan with all of its shadowy detail. This cloak and dagger stuff is kinda' fun.
Checklist: A good read, check
Knitting, check
My disguise (wardrobe is key--you must blend into your surroundings), check
Microfilm, secret code & bus pass, check
Catchy themesong (Man for U.N.C.L.E, Get Smart...No, Mission Impossible.Perfect.
Music is key, it sets the tone for any event, really),double check
I wrote my congressman, but to no avail. I'm prepared to take matters into my own hands. The coast is clear. The time is at hand. I make my move. Disguised behind dark glasses (this holds its own peril when crossing the landscape of the living room), I tiptoe through the room so as not to wake the fates. I was nearly in the clear when I heard an approach. Frozen, one with the wallpaper. It's our little chihuahua mix (the mastermind of our doggie duo). She views me with a mix of condescension and suspicion--eyebrow arched. I've always suspected her to be a double agent. After dazzling her with my footwork and a dog treat, for good measure, I give her the slip.
I'm out the door and on my own. Merrily, thinking my own thoughts. I sat knitting and read for a bit. Breathed in. Breathed out. It was great! Somehow made more satisfying by being an occasion and not the norm.
Alas, like a favorite ride at the amusement park, it's all over in a heartbeat. I plot once again for another day....
I review my plan with all of its shadowy detail. This cloak and dagger stuff is kinda' fun.
Checklist: A good read, check
Knitting, check
My disguise (wardrobe is key--you must blend into your surroundings), check
Microfilm, secret code & bus pass, check
Catchy themesong (Man for U.N.C.L.E, Get Smart...No, Mission Impossible.Perfect.
Music is key, it sets the tone for any event, really),double check
I wrote my congressman, but to no avail. I'm prepared to take matters into my own hands. The coast is clear. The time is at hand. I make my move. Disguised behind dark glasses (this holds its own peril when crossing the landscape of the living room), I tiptoe through the room so as not to wake the fates. I was nearly in the clear when I heard an approach. Frozen, one with the wallpaper. It's our little chihuahua mix (the mastermind of our doggie duo). She views me with a mix of condescension and suspicion--eyebrow arched. I've always suspected her to be a double agent. After dazzling her with my footwork and a dog treat, for good measure, I give her the slip.
I'm out the door and on my own. Merrily, thinking my own thoughts. I sat knitting and read for a bit. Breathed in. Breathed out. It was great! Somehow made more satisfying by being an occasion and not the norm.
Alas, like a favorite ride at the amusement park, it's all over in a heartbeat. I plot once again for another day....
Friday, January 16, 2009
She Who Hesitates.....
Look out, I'm on a tear...I have to tell this tale quickly before even my brain freezes over. Surviving the recent arctic blast has reduced me to looking a bit like the Sta-Puft Marshmallow guy (some think more like the Michelein Tire Man, but discerning minds have agreed it's the Sta-Puft guy).
An exuberant cold. This is the kind of cold that graduated first in it's class with a major earned in penetrating and a minor in bone chilling. I'm contemplating the need for anti-freeze in my undergarments, for pete's sake. Creative apparel is required.
Standing in front of my closet on yet another arctic morn, all my fashion decisions are made based on a garments' R-Factor. Employing a scale of warm to uber-warm. Warning: Garments with an uber-warm rating have the capacity to actually melt 10 lbs. off your frame (so, there is a bright side); however, they burst into flame if you remain indoors. You are forced to wear enough layers to send you flailing out the door searching for the nearest snow bank, if you dawdle indoors. There is a fine balance to be achieved here.
This morning, I faced a 6 block walk. This is an intimidating distance when all your bodily fluids are transformed to the consistency of a 7-11 Slurpee within 10 minutes. Survival as my inspiration (some people envision a sandy beach at times like these....I envision missing my next cupcake, it drives me on). Walking swiftly with the tenacity of an explorer conquering a new world, and a fixed vision of that beautiful cupcake before me (with buttercream, of course), I set out. Not to be defeated by mere weather and it's recent snotty attitude, I will prevail. Valiant in spirit, I sail out the door.
She who hesitates will be frozen to the pavement like a totem to passersby....a resident until spring or until June 1st, whichever arrives first!
An exuberant cold. This is the kind of cold that graduated first in it's class with a major earned in penetrating and a minor in bone chilling. I'm contemplating the need for anti-freeze in my undergarments, for pete's sake. Creative apparel is required.
Standing in front of my closet on yet another arctic morn, all my fashion decisions are made based on a garments' R-Factor. Employing a scale of warm to uber-warm. Warning: Garments with an uber-warm rating have the capacity to actually melt 10 lbs. off your frame (so, there is a bright side); however, they burst into flame if you remain indoors. You are forced to wear enough layers to send you flailing out the door searching for the nearest snow bank, if you dawdle indoors. There is a fine balance to be achieved here.
This morning, I faced a 6 block walk. This is an intimidating distance when all your bodily fluids are transformed to the consistency of a 7-11 Slurpee within 10 minutes. Survival as my inspiration (some people envision a sandy beach at times like these....I envision missing my next cupcake, it drives me on). Walking swiftly with the tenacity of an explorer conquering a new world, and a fixed vision of that beautiful cupcake before me (with buttercream, of course), I set out. Not to be defeated by mere weather and it's recent snotty attitude, I will prevail. Valiant in spirit, I sail out the door.
She who hesitates will be frozen to the pavement like a totem to passersby....a resident until spring or until June 1st, whichever arrives first!
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Dear Canada
Dear Canada,
Thank you for the lovely arctic blast. You'll be glad to know it arrived yesterday and we are enjoying it already.
The bracing subzero breezes were perfect for flash freezing dinner as I carried the groceries home. We will be able to enjoy it next May when it thaws.
The prodigious volume of snow was an unexpected bonus; how thoughtful of you to add that in!
Love,
The Frozen Masses
Thank you for the lovely arctic blast. You'll be glad to know it arrived yesterday and we are enjoying it already.
The bracing subzero breezes were perfect for flash freezing dinner as I carried the groceries home. We will be able to enjoy it next May when it thaws.
The prodigious volume of snow was an unexpected bonus; how thoughtful of you to add that in!
Love,
The Frozen Masses
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
A Household Refrain
I washed the floor last evening. It gleamed, hopeful, in the soft light of evening. A solitary activity (only because everyone within a three block radius scatters....clinging invisibly to walls and behind curtains). I swirl soapy water in ponderous, easy circles. Quiet, therapeutic (that's not weird, right?!). Lost in my own thoughts, enjoying the rhythmic quality of the task. The light herbal scent wreaths my consciousness (not exactly a night at the spa but, aromatherapy nonetheless). I enjoy a contemplative task.
It would seem; however, that a clean floor is just left of a reasonable expectation. Upon completion, an inevitable law of nature begs to be displayed with a force more powerful than gravity. The very moment you wash the floor someone or something WILL spill, dump out or track schmutz (a fabulous yiddish word for all manner of substances sticky-icky...beside being expressive, it's really fun to say)within 10 minutes....possibly less. Proven to be as dependable as jello salad at a potluck; and, as certain as eating something red while wearing white will end badly. In fact, if Einstein had ever washed a floor, I'm certain he would have proved this theory with the mathematical precision.
An observation: You can delay these affects only by leaving the mop casually displayed in a prominent spot. All is well as it surveys the clean, polished landscape during it's brief reign. I think my only hope here is to convince my husband that it's actually sculpture and must remain--art cannot be denied. An artful sentry bravely presiding over a freshly buffed surface.
Very specific protocol is involved in the undoing of said clean floor. The offender is always stunned, amazed that their interaction with the juice pitcher would end in such a way...undoing an entire hours' work in 10 seconds. Genuine apology proffered. With a wry grin, fingers are pointed....the dog falls scapegoat to the crime again (made only more ridiculous by actually knowing this dog...a very tidy little poodle who expresses frantic horror on the rare occasion she gets sick by the door) This ploy falls defeated, my poodle-girl and I have a pact...she is exonerated once again.
Well, the last swoosh of the mop is complete. I survey my efforts with a satisfied stretch. I prop my feet up in deference to a job well done. The fatal moment arrives after I leave the room for a millisecond. Salty, size 10 boot tracks traverse the entire room....argggh. I wonder if I could teach my son to levitate?
It would seem; however, that a clean floor is just left of a reasonable expectation. Upon completion, an inevitable law of nature begs to be displayed with a force more powerful than gravity. The very moment you wash the floor someone or something WILL spill, dump out or track schmutz (a fabulous yiddish word for all manner of substances sticky-icky...beside being expressive, it's really fun to say)within 10 minutes....possibly less. Proven to be as dependable as jello salad at a potluck; and, as certain as eating something red while wearing white will end badly. In fact, if Einstein had ever washed a floor, I'm certain he would have proved this theory with the mathematical precision.
An observation: You can delay these affects only by leaving the mop casually displayed in a prominent spot. All is well as it surveys the clean, polished landscape during it's brief reign. I think my only hope here is to convince my husband that it's actually sculpture and must remain--art cannot be denied. An artful sentry bravely presiding over a freshly buffed surface.
Very specific protocol is involved in the undoing of said clean floor. The offender is always stunned, amazed that their interaction with the juice pitcher would end in such a way...undoing an entire hours' work in 10 seconds. Genuine apology proffered. With a wry grin, fingers are pointed....the dog falls scapegoat to the crime again (made only more ridiculous by actually knowing this dog...a very tidy little poodle who expresses frantic horror on the rare occasion she gets sick by the door) This ploy falls defeated, my poodle-girl and I have a pact...she is exonerated once again.
Well, the last swoosh of the mop is complete. I survey my efforts with a satisfied stretch. I prop my feet up in deference to a job well done. The fatal moment arrives after I leave the room for a millisecond. Salty, size 10 boot tracks traverse the entire room....argggh. I wonder if I could teach my son to levitate?
Friday, January 9, 2009
From the Hurried & Harried.....
Once again, lost in thought trying to reclaim a lost thought. I briefly consider a candlelight vigil in honor of my departed capacity for recall before I move on to a more practical resolution (the dramatic is always much more fun to contemplate than the reasonable, in these cases). As the sun fights to break through the mists.....Will it prevail? Will the proper synapses fire? Did I remember to turn off the iron before leaving the house this morning? Eyes squinched closed in reverent concentration akin to the respectful silence given a golfer facing a tough shot. A hush falls... recollection begins to dawn. At last, the errant thought is successfully retrieved (and the crowd goes wild!!)
Well, it's been another one of those days where you move surely and certainly in to the kitchen but, when you arrive you can't remember why (which gets a little silly after the first three trips). This oft recurring scenario only serves to prove my personal philosophy that if you put too much in the front of your brain, something truly important will probably fall off the back. A tragic reality in my world.
An earlier prophet once said, "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most". This well spoken wisdom is fast becoming my new theme song with full orchestra! Perhaps it is time to slow my pace a bit instead of running around like my hair is on fire...I'll contemplate that when I have more time.
I can readily recall and recite a ba-zillion mundane facts at will; however,challenge me to recall the items off the grocery list that I, inadvertently, left at home and I'm toast! (file this under sad but ironic)
You know, I had a brilliant concluding thought for this little tirade; sadly, I was interrupted and forgot it! Game, match. The battle rages on......
Well, it's been another one of those days where you move surely and certainly in to the kitchen but, when you arrive you can't remember why (which gets a little silly after the first three trips). This oft recurring scenario only serves to prove my personal philosophy that if you put too much in the front of your brain, something truly important will probably fall off the back. A tragic reality in my world.
An earlier prophet once said, "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most". This well spoken wisdom is fast becoming my new theme song with full orchestra! Perhaps it is time to slow my pace a bit instead of running around like my hair is on fire...I'll contemplate that when I have more time.
I can readily recall and recite a ba-zillion mundane facts at will; however,challenge me to recall the items off the grocery list that I, inadvertently, left at home and I'm toast! (file this under sad but ironic)
You know, I had a brilliant concluding thought for this little tirade; sadly, I was interrupted and forgot it! Game, match. The battle rages on......
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Intrepid?!!
Well, it's Tuesday so naturally it's snowing. Apparently, Tuesdays are the ordained day for snow this season. Tuesdays do not have the exclusive rights to produce prodigious amounts of the wintry stuff. A random Wednesday or a Thursday may very well enter the fray, if only half-heartedly. You can depend on Tuesday, Tuesday's are ordained.
Snow is so beautiful, idyllic, when viewed from a cozy seat by a crackling fire. A lovely, steaming mug of your favorite winter beverage at your side. Beware, this is a fragile reverie. Insidious stuff, snow...step out your door and it quickly becomes adversarial. (I've often daydreamed of sending the weatherman a case of really good bakery in hopes of diverting a storm front, maybe two. But, then reason and reality put an end to this kind of genius and all you'd have is a chubby weatherman...I plead this is no time for reality...I'm desperate here).
This morning I was forced to walk out the door dressed like I was headed for the Iditarod. Winter accoutrement can be cruel. My hat, gloves, scarves, sweater generate enough static electricity to power Cleveland. I received a vigorous re-styling by way of static when I removed my hat. Hair standing on end, I spent the entire morning with a look of surprised horror.
And, does it stop there? Oh no, it does not. My pride takes another great blow. I really put on a show for all those on the corner of Huron and Wabash. It was spectacular! (I would still be out there signing autographs if it wasn't so cold). I was walking along feeling quite snarky(one of my good friend, Kate's favorite words...don't you just love it) in my purple coat with the funnel neck collar and my Audrey Hepburn black sunglasses....feeling like a girl and then some...when I hit a patch of ice. My Audrey Hepburn moment took a sudden turn toward Lucille Ball. I was out of control, limbs shot out every direction (think interpretive dance without the great choreography or grace). I couldn't stop the mayhem....it seemed my performance would unfold in a full three acts....most probably, coming to a close in the chiropractors office.
Well, winter generally continues through about May so, more on this later....
Snow is so beautiful, idyllic, when viewed from a cozy seat by a crackling fire. A lovely, steaming mug of your favorite winter beverage at your side. Beware, this is a fragile reverie. Insidious stuff, snow...step out your door and it quickly becomes adversarial. (I've often daydreamed of sending the weatherman a case of really good bakery in hopes of diverting a storm front, maybe two. But, then reason and reality put an end to this kind of genius and all you'd have is a chubby weatherman...I plead this is no time for reality...I'm desperate here).
This morning I was forced to walk out the door dressed like I was headed for the Iditarod. Winter accoutrement can be cruel. My hat, gloves, scarves, sweater generate enough static electricity to power Cleveland. I received a vigorous re-styling by way of static when I removed my hat. Hair standing on end, I spent the entire morning with a look of surprised horror.
And, does it stop there? Oh no, it does not. My pride takes another great blow. I really put on a show for all those on the corner of Huron and Wabash. It was spectacular! (I would still be out there signing autographs if it wasn't so cold). I was walking along feeling quite snarky(one of my good friend, Kate's favorite words...don't you just love it) in my purple coat with the funnel neck collar and my Audrey Hepburn black sunglasses....feeling like a girl and then some...when I hit a patch of ice. My Audrey Hepburn moment took a sudden turn toward Lucille Ball. I was out of control, limbs shot out every direction (think interpretive dance without the great choreography or grace). I couldn't stop the mayhem....it seemed my performance would unfold in a full three acts....most probably, coming to a close in the chiropractors office.
Well, winter generally continues through about May so, more on this later....
Friday, January 2, 2009
Weathermen and the Bathroom Scale
A random inaugural thought as the new year begins....there are two things (well, at least two) guaranteed to make or break your day....the weatherman and the bathroom scale. If they join forces, you are really in trouble (give it up and plan to spend the day under the covers with at least one package of Oreos...this is an important detail, so you might want to make a note).
I discovered this cruel philosophy of the fates this morning (I really should learn to weigh myself in the dark with my eyes closed....the news would be much easier to take). I rose with a song in my still unsuspecting, size 8 heart. It was snowing heavily but, who had a care for this was a "pancakes (pecan, of course silly) with two cups of coffee" morning. I skipped about cheerfully preparing for my day. Blissfully unaware of the peril that lurked (que sinister music). This is when it happened. The gruesome truth was revealed to my unbelieving eyes. Two pounds, I'd gained two pounds....arggh! (at 5'2", this is catastrophic.....a very unjust height for a foodie who really needs to be about 5'11" to offset all the lovely cuisines in the world). I watched my lovely dreams for pecan pancakes fade before my eyes....I walk toward the kitchen muttering about high fiber cereal.
I discovered this cruel philosophy of the fates this morning (I really should learn to weigh myself in the dark with my eyes closed....the news would be much easier to take). I rose with a song in my still unsuspecting, size 8 heart. It was snowing heavily but, who had a care for this was a "pancakes (pecan, of course silly) with two cups of coffee" morning. I skipped about cheerfully preparing for my day. Blissfully unaware of the peril that lurked (que sinister music). This is when it happened. The gruesome truth was revealed to my unbelieving eyes. Two pounds, I'd gained two pounds....arggh! (at 5'2", this is catastrophic.....a very unjust height for a foodie who really needs to be about 5'11" to offset all the lovely cuisines in the world). I watched my lovely dreams for pecan pancakes fade before my eyes....I walk toward the kitchen muttering about high fiber cereal.
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