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.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)