(One Wild Oat)

What I've Been Up To, Mostly

2011-10-22T14:26:00.003-04:00

- Gearing up for my fifth year in a job I barely tolerate. On a bright note, it occurred to me that I'm putting in maybe 30 hours a week, and getting away with it. But I spend about two hours a day on the road, which eats up any gain.

- Adjusting to an empty nest. If you don't count my college son coming home every weekend, or babysitting for friends, or extra people occasionally for dinner.

- Senior portrait photography. I'm constantly comparing myself to the professionals with their $5000 Nikon cameras and their full versions of Photoshop, and of course I come up short. But I don't really do too badly with what I have, I guess, and the bonus is that it's a creative outlet. Here are a couple of samples:

Snapshots

2011-06-14T10:37:00.004-04:00

Snapshot - n. An isolated observation. My brain is filled with them, but only a few stand out, either dramatically or romantically, as truly key moments in my life. Here, I'll develop them into some kind of word photograph for your viewing pleasure. I hope you like black and white.

1983, Grand Canyon, Arizona - I stand on a precipice, some sort of dangerous outcropping which overlooks the Canyon, my knees a bit wobbly, but it seems a test of my courage and an attempt to immerse myself as deeply as possible into the surrounding beauty. I am Elizabeth Bennet from the film Pride and Prejudice, but without the long, flapping skirts.

1986, My sister's backyard, rural Indiana - I sit in a chair, warm in the summer sun, smiling down at my first son who is only weeks old. I happen to look up, still smiling, and my eyes meet the gaze of my ex-bad-boy who has apparently been studying the scene before him, and in that moment his eyes seem to say, "Oh, crap. I may have made a mistake by not scooping you up when I had the chance." This is as near as I have ever come to starring in a scene from a romantic movie.

2007, Hospital room, Indianapolis - My nuclear family and I are alone together in a room with my dying father. I stand at the foot of the bed, my mother and one older brother on one side, and my eldest brother and older sister on the other. It occurs to me that this is the first time we have been alone together as a family in possibly thirty years. I am not unaware that it will also be the last time. And in that wordless moment, this snapshot that remains indelibly etched in memory, are revealed volumes of words to rival Ridpath's History of the World.

Paper, Paints & Pens

2011-06-03T21:05:00.002-04:00

When I was a girl, there was nothing more exciting in my life than the beginning of the school year and buying school supplies. Except maybe walking to the drug store in the summer to buy little spiral notebooks and pens.

Forty years later, I'm still excited when I buy office or art supplies. So I was really happy yesterday when I was cleaning out my email inbox, and discovered that I had never used a Staples e-gift card a friend had sent me months ago.

I went to Staples on my lunch hour - even before eating - and chose a little pack of Super Sticky post-it notes in bright colors (on sale), a small, magnetic dry erase board for my fridge (on sale), a pad of watercolor paper, a box of watercolor pencils (one of the greatest inventions since caveman paint), and a purple gel pen that the sales girl talked me into buying to round out the sale to beyond the value of the gift card because she didn't know what to do with my extra 9 cents.

And last night I came home, pulled out a sheet of the thick watercolor paper, set up a still life of a lone orange and two lemons, and transferred their image behind my eyes to paper.

Honestly, I'd forgotten a little what it feels like to create. Other than planting flowers, I haven't done anything remotely creative in ages. And that makes me cranky. And dull, and feeling as if I'm not really living my life. Oh, how quickly I fall back into the same rut, over and over.

The Most Important Thing in Life is Taking the Next Step.

2011-02-08T09:07:00.004-05:00

There are things to be learned when writing a screenplay that involves a character inspired by oneself. Since characters ideally take on a life of their own, you may find yourself suddenly adrift, wondering exactly who you are.

Well, it turns out that who you are is not static. Who you are is constantly changing, just like a character in a book or a film - because every day you make choices. Every day you say and do things that have the potential to change your life and to impact the lives of others. And every day is a new opportunity to reinvent yourself.

But only if you work really hard at it. And only if you learn something from your battle with the bad guys.

The bad guys - literally or figuratively - have been a part of every good story since, well, the dawn of The Story. Good versus Evil appears to be part of the human condition.

And wouldn't it be simpler if the bad guys in our lives came dressed recognizably as Ninjas, a spouse, a boss or a true arch enemy - instead of the foe within.

Because it's the enemy within each of us that may be the most difficult to overcome; especially when we see that fear is his armor. When he won't go away despite our best excuses, or our attempts to rid ourselves of what we
believe may be the real enemies outside of us.

So, while the enemy within may be different for each of us, the key to silencing him seems to be action. Like a stake through the heart of a vampire, action is your only weapon.

First Things First

2011-01-23T14:46:00.005-05:00

I'm about to embark on my authentic life - the one I was meant to be living, the one I dreamed about as a child, the one that surfaces occasionally in daydreams when I am otherwise miserably making my way in the life I mistakenly conjured.

But I wanted to write about it here before I take another step in the right direction.

It's going to take a lot of hard work. A lot of baby steps, and a few steps backward. I'm more determined than ever to do it, though, because not doing what you love is just too costly - to one's health, to the psyche, to the soul.

So here's the life I want to be living within five years: I'll be self-employed. Writer, painter, and farmer of good things to eat and flowers that are good for the soul. (I hope that doesn't make me sound like a hippie.)

And if it's not asking for too much, I'd like to have a groom to saddle my horse for me whenever I want to go riding. His name will be Gerard.

Meet Hailey

2010-12-09T18:46:00.002-05:00

Here's my new granddaughter, who came into the world on Monday, November 29th. While I have plenty of photos I could have posted here, this is the one that I like to think is a glimpse of her future personality.

To those naysayers who don't think babies can smile or laugh, I believe you are wrong.

Disenchanted

2010-11-06T17:28:00.003-04:00

If I had need of a new online identity, Disenchanted would be my choice. Not that Disenchanted would be available - even in the fictional scenario in my head 13,694 people have already tried to claim it, and it is currently owned by a 13-year-old girl who hasn't even lived yet.

But when you've lived as long as I have, you've probably earned your disenchantment. Because life is kind of like being kicked in the teeth over and over again. (Unless you're that guy from the mattress commercial who says, "Ask me why someone who has never had an ache or a pain" loves an expensive mattress that people who actually have aches and pains can never afford. I'd personally like to kick that guy in the balls, and watch him experience pain for the first time.)

I've been thinking about life as a kick in the teeth a lot lately, and I wonder if everyone is kicked in the teeth an equal amount of times, or if some people take more kicks than others. How about celebrities? Does someone stand in for them, to take the teeth kicking on their behalf? Or does life just automatically favor the beautiful and give them even more beauty?

And what role does a positive attitude play? If you get kicked in the teeth and tell yourself it wasn't so bad and it could have been worse, does it really hurt any less? Is it easier to have a positive attitude if everything around you is already positive?

I'd appreciate it if someone could decode what I've written and get back to me with some answers.

Baby I'm-A Want You

2010-10-23T08:08:00.005-04:00

Last Sunday I photographed a 12-day-old baby. That was new to me; I've always done weddings or teen/adult portraits. And I got paid for it, which was nice. Here are a few. I can't explain my new preference for sepia-toned photos.

I can't wait to photograph my first grandchild (a girl) in a month.

So Let it be Written, So Let it be Done.

2010-10-07T17:16:00.003-04:00

Along with the much anticipated viewing of The Wizard of Oz around Halloween every year, and Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer at Christmas, a highlight of my formative years was watching The Ten Commandments annually at Easter. (We were nothing if not predictible.) My sister and I would gather together with Roger, the boy next door, for a viewing party. I secretly admired John Derek's bare chest, in whatever way an 11 or 12-year-old girl can, and we all memorized THE most important line in the entire film, spoken by Yul Brenner as Rameses: "So let it be written; so let it be done."

I write that to explain my bio-blurb over there to the right, which says I am a "screenwriter, photographer, artist and washed-up mechanical bull rider." These are the labels I've given myself, though the world may not agree. While it's true I've totally given up riding mechanical bulls, I was never as good at it as one might think. And it may be true that I take photographs, but I don't do much with them, and I certainly don't make any money at it. I've dabbled in oil paints, almost completed a very large self-portrait, and finished a few small oil and watercolor paintings, yet few people have ever seen them. And - in my head, at least, if not on paper - I'm writing the screenplay that will make me famous. Or at least able to quit my day job.

So call me a liar if you wish, but I cling to these labels as things which at least partially define me, and I've written them for anyone to see, so that they will be done.

The Hindenberg and Other Possible Disasters

2010-09-12T11:14:00.006-04:00

My most recent distraction has been the 40 acres bordering us to the South, owned by a German man and his German wife. Erich passed away about a month ago. Dropped dead right there on his way into the shower of a heart attack at the age of 80, which is as good a way as any to go, I suppose. As we were given first chance at the place, we've agreed to buy it, for a price at once daunting yet reasonable, and it will be up to our sons to pay for the damn thing when old age and retirement poverty prevent us from doing it.

So there's the more practical part. The romantic part - the one I cling to when I find myself dreading the coming days when we must "tighten our belts" as my husband likes to put it - is that the land has so much potential. It's a slice of Germany, planted with firs bordering the big pond, and paths between. My own Black Forest. And this morning the pond, previously hidden by green-black, floating icebergs of moss, was miraculously unveiled and filled with life. Small bluegill darted near the shore and around great, slow moving grass carp and koi, all of them between two and three feet long, appearing unweildy and metallic like a dozen Hindenbergs. Oh, the Humanity. And among them, The Golden One flashed orange like the evening sun falling behind a cloud.

Yesterday evening, while walking along the edge of a woods, I decided to pick up a few hickory nuts. Under one specific shagbark hickory tree were a couple of dozen very large nuts. I was confused at first, because normally, a hickory nut is slightly larger than a grape, and these were huge - about five times the usual size. And though the nut inside isn't cured yet, they were beautiful, large and flavorful. (I may have discovered a hybrid. Which makes me laugh, because my dad was nuts about nut trees, and I never thought I would be.)

It's a fair trade-off, I guess, to be poor, but rich in land and all that it provides.

Photo, No Words

2010-06-25T20:24:00.000-04:00

A Moment.

2010-06-08T09:50:00.004-04:00

Driving up the long driveway to home last night, I had a moment. My husband and two of my sons were in the soybean field below the house, unfolding the booms of a herbicide sprayer. My oldest son has been unofficially out of the military for nearly two weeks, using up leave until his official separation date of June 11. My youngest son is enjoying the summer that precedes his senior year of high school - that is, when his father isn't working him like a slave, and meanwhile, my middle son was working at his job ten miles away.

For one brief moment, my good fortune shone on me like a beam of light: my sons were all at home and safe...including the one who served two tours in Iraq.

Half the Woman I Used to Be

2010-05-22T10:31:00.004-04:00

You probably didn't read it in the news or on any celebrity blogs, but I've been sick for about the last eight weeks. It all began with what I thought might be food poisoning or a virus. I was in gastronomical pain for four days, which subsided to unbearable pain and then finally to the terrible discomfort I'm still living with. When it was clear that this was no ordinary virus or bacteria, I thought it might be my gallbladder, since it's common on both sides of my family. So I went for a gallbladder ultrasound, which came back clear - except for the mysterious spot on my liver. The doctor announced that it was "most likely benign," but he wanted a CT scan of my entire abdomen to check things more closely. Once again, the gallbladder was clear, and the spot on my liver was apparently a hepatic hemangioma - something like a strawberry birthmark - which isn't uncommon. But the CT scan revealed a cyst the size of a tennis ball on my left ovary.

When I thought about this discovery, it made sense. I'd been joking that I felt like I was pregnant, because my feelings of extreme discomfort mimicked everything I felt when I was pregnant, and which I assumed back then was the beginnings of gallbladder trouble. That is, pain under my right rib, extending to my breastbone, and even numbness from side to side around the lower part of my ribs. And then there's the thing where every evening, my belly feels like I'm in at least the third month of pregnancy.

I went to an ObGyn for a pelvic ultrasound. He announced that the cyst was the type that wouldn't go away on its own, could potentially adhere to other things surrounding it, and would have to come out along with my ovary. Since he seemed to believe that my 'upper digestive' symptoms couldn't possibly be connected to the cyst, I went ahead with a HIDA scan of my gallbladder, which measures gallbladder function - even though I was convinced the results would be normal. They were.

So I've learned some things. One: doctors don't know everything, and often, I think, women know their bodies best. I'm more convinced than ever that once I have surgery to remove the cyst, all my other symptoms will magically go away. And two: even if you are a self-proclaimed hypochondriac, you should still listen carefully to your body, because there's always the possibility it's really trying to tell you something.

My surgery is Wednesday at 8:00 a.m., and I'll admit I'm a little scared. They plan to do the surgery laparoscopically, but depending on what the doctor finds, they may have to open me up. But I'm still not so frightened by that as by the fact that I have high blood pressure, and I smoke. Then there's also the fact that they're removing one of my ovaries (which I assume hasn't been functioning anyway, so what's the big deal?)

But I joked with someone at work this week, who I won't see again until I return to work, that "the next time you see me, I'll be half the woman I am now." He's an older guy who still likes to flirt with the ladies, so it wasn't exactly a surprise when he said smoothly, "That's still twice as much woman as we need."

Anyway, wish me luck. I'll try to blog again by Thursday so you'll know I'm still alive. ;)

Favorite Photos from the Weekend

2010-05-02T18:24:00.003-04:00

My youngest son, Cord, went to his first high school prom last night. Earlier in the week we'd dashed to the nearest tuxedo rental place at nearly the last minute, where a tailor asked him to fill in a form with his name and address. None of my sons have ever cared about their handwriting, and Cord's C's look like L's. So when the young girl at the computer later entered the order for Cord's tuxedo, he became Lord [last name]. We laughed about it at the time, and the girl made no effort to change it.

When I went to pick up the tuxedo on Friday, I used my best British accent when I asked for Lord [last name]'s tuxedo.

Here is milord (on the left) and his friends:

Since the light yesterday evening was so beautiful (overcast after a rain), I came home and shot some photos of my middle son and his girlfriend. This is a favorite - a shot I copied from a photo my niece did of a couple and their John Deere tractor.

Everything Old is New Again

2010-04-25T07:37:00.005-04:00

Yesterday, while getting lunch at Subway, there was a cute girl, about 20, in line in front of me. She wore a North Face jacket and blue jeans, and cowboy boots - with spurs attached. She reminded me of me.

I used to be her in the early 1980's, and though I never actually owned spurs, I wanted them. I wanted to go on a pack trip in the wilds of Wyoming. I took care of five horses - three of my own, and two which belonged to my sisters-in-law. I went to rodeos, spent all of my spare money on tack and horse feed, and listened to Country Music almost exclusively.

My favorite singing artist at the time was, of course, George Strait. There were songs of his (especially if they had a rather plaintive violin solo) that made my heart almost burst with a longing to Go West, to lasso some cowboy out there and saddle him with a bunch of kids.

Instead, I married a farmer, and together we sprouted three boys. When I found out I was pregnant the third time, I said a prayer: if this can't be a girl, at least let him be able to sing.

He was a boy. It wasn't until he was five or six years old that I recognized his singing ability, when he would do this impression of an opera singer. The vibrato and tone at such a young age was amazing. But I couldn't get him to really sing until much later. And now that he is 17, the only time I get to hear it is either when he is in the shower, or when he's riding with me in the truck. His artist of choice is George Strait, and when he sings along, I am silently enthralled. It takes me back to who I used to be. I drive slower just to soak up as much of it as I can. And honestly, it is almost like hearing George Strait in stereo. Perfect range, perfect pitch, perfect vibrato. The trouble is, I doubt he will ever do anything with it. He is talented in so many other ways that singing falls by the wayside. But it might be okay. If this was a gift intended just for me, I'll take it.

Wood Sprite

2010-04-18T19:52:00.004-04:00

This is what I was doing on the evening of April 15th, when I should have been working on taxes:

And I spent most of the day today playing with these photos (and others) in Photoshop Elements. The best thing about today was that there were no deadlines to be met. You can find the model's blog HERE

Five O'Clock Shadows

2010-04-06T08:55:00.020-04:00

While looking at photos of Gerard Butler just now *ahem*, I ran across an article which said, "Researchers in Britain have found that women are more attracted to men with stubbly chins than those with clean-shaven faces or full beards – in fact, the fair sex prefers them for love, sex and marriage."

It's nice to have my own instincts confirmed. I've always been a fan of the five o'clock shadow, and the darker the shadow the better. I'm not, on the other hand, a lover of beards. Once the length of facial hair gets beyond a certain point, it stops being sexy for me.

This is about right:

Or this:

Beard stubble even makes what might otherwise be a baby face, acceptable:

And totally changes my acceptance of an actor, along with my perception of his skill:

(Oh, yes. Titanic, who?)

I will even accept it when a man's facial hair grows in a little white trashy:

(Especially if he is hot, to boot.)

But the award for the most perfect five o'clock shadow goes to this man, based on depth of color, panache, and all sorts of other adjectives:

I believe I've proved my point. You're welcome.

It wasn't unpleasant.

2010-04-03T09:26:00.007-04:00

My mom phoned me this week to let me know that a church member (who opened her home to our small congregation when we didn't have a place to meet, and who has been battling pancreatic cancer for about the last year) had been told by her doctor that the end was probably near. My mom went to visit her on Wednesday, and suggested that I send her a card.

On Thursday I forgot all about the card until evening and it was too late. So yesterday after work, I bought a card, wrote a note inside, addressed the envelope, and then was suddenly freaked out by the fear it wouldn't be delivered in time. So I called my mom and told her so. She said, simply, "Then take it to her." This freaked me out even more. Not surprisingly, I'm uncomfortable with dying. The image of the last days of my husband's uncle, who also had pancreatic cancer, are still vivid in my mind. I remember his eyes looking into mine in those last hours, and it was as if his soul had already been in transition. I don't know how else to describe it.

So I called my husband to ask his opinion. He said, "Deliver it yourself." So I called a co-worker who always gives good advice, and he gave me permission to not go. Oddly enough, his contrasting opinion is what gave me the courage to drive to her home and visit her.

I'm glad I did. She sat up in her bed while I visited. And though she was a shadow of her former self, she was in good spirits - whether for my benefit or her own, I'm not sure. She seemed to genuinely appreciate my being there. And her last words to me were, "I'll be fine. I'll see you someday. Either here, or somewhere else."

It's strange how I have very often had the intention of comforting someone else, and I was the one who ended up being comforted. Like everyone else, I suppose, I've always had a fear of dying. Facing it seems to take the sting out.

Afterward, since it was right on the way home, I went to visit my Aunt and Uncle, both of whom have recently dealt with huge medical issues. My Uncle loves to talk, and is always thrilled when new ears show up. He told me (not for the first time) about how he is allergic to wasp stings. He discovered it while they were building their house. He said he began going into anaphylactic shock, and thought to himself, "'Well, I'm dying.' And it wasn't unpleasant."

So maybe it's not. For those fortunate enough to not die painfully, maybe it's like being wrapped in a blanket of peace.

As I drove home afterward, I was suddenly aware of what felt like the weight of an arm across my shoulders. I've had this experience before, of feeling as if someone has put their arms around me. Then I felt a tingling on top of my head - almost like a ruffling of my hair - and it was so intense that I reached up and scratched my head. I know I'm a bit strange to think so, but it felt as if my dad was saying, "I'm proud of you."

Vignette

2010-03-29T19:48:00.000-04:00

Her lips were berry-stained and ripe. In her arms she held a basket brimming with summer, and summer was in her. It twined around the crown of her dark head, and tucked itself behind her ears. She danced through the dewy grass with lithe grace to the music of birdsong, clutching the basket to her breast like a lover. She sang, and the sun cleared the clouds like a smile.

Woman of Leisure

2010-03-24T09:34:00.004-04:00

I'm curled up on the sofa with my laptop, still in my pajamas. When I woke at 5 this morning, after having fallen asleep only four and a half hours before, I felt pretty sick and nauseated. It was enough to put me off even trying to go to work, so I went back to bed and slept until 8.

After a cup of coffee, I'm feeling a little better, but still have a weird, nagging headache that has made me undecided about going to work. If I'm feeling sick, that should be the end of the story, right? But I know that one day away will put me one day behind.

I was thinking earlier, my body all warm and cozy beneath this rich, chocolate microsuede blanket, that I wouldn't mind being a woman of leisure. Then I thought, I wonder how much work it would take to become one? which seemed sort of funny and ironic to me. Seriously, though...as attached as I am to some of the people I work with, I'm not really committed to the job itself, and it wouldn't bother me to leave it. So what would it take? Writing a novel or two? Learning to paint masterpieces in oil that people are scrambling to buy? Inventing a social networking site? A co-worker mentioned the other day that he was surprised to discover that his neighbor's son was the founder of the site formspring.com, and his neighbor had initially invested in it. Why can't something like that happen to me?

I would just like to feel I was doing something to make the world a better place. Something besides keeping airplanes from falling out of the sky. Don't get me wrong - I think airplanes not falling out of the sky is important - but I'm only indirectly holding them up there. With massive stacks of paper. Like a modern day Atlas who doesn't require any real strength.

Disgruntled

2010-03-23T08:47:00.002-04:00

I suppose I'd just like to vent for a bit, since it's the time of month for venting. I'll just form a list, shall I?

1. I wish people at work would stop asking me how to spell things. Did you not graduate from high school? Do you not have spell check on your computer? Do you not have a Websters Dictionary just behind you, collecting dust on the shelf?

2. Every once in a while, I go through a period of feeling very unaccomplished. It's as if my life is meaningless, and I haven't really contributed anything to the world except three wonderful human beings (which should be enough). It's happening now, and I'm not sure what to do about it. Most days I feel so overwhelmed by my job (which I hate more and more every day), that I don't have the energy to do anything creative. It may have a lot to do with having barely survived another long winter, as these times of self-reproof seem to occur in February/March.

3. Why would anyone trust The Government?

4. Speaking of government, here's something that has been bothering me for a long time. America was founded on the backs of hardworking, self-sufficient men and women. Where have they all gone? I suppose I have quite a different perspective than some people, since I'm married to a farmer who is one of the hardest working people I have ever known. Living in the country encourages self-sufficiency, and it seems to me that (speaking generally) it's city people who expect the government to take care of them, and rural people who want the government to leave them the hell alone. This was illustrated to me on the local news one day last summer, after a huge amount of rain. A journalist was asking a woman in a car about the condition of city streets, and she replied that the sewer drain had been blocked by debris all day, and when was the city going to come out and do something about it? Like a complete maniac, I yelled at the television set, "Why don't you get out of your freaking car and clean it yourself?" It's what I would have done, but maybe that's because where I live, there is no government to help out. And besides, we take a certain amount of pride in being able to take care of ourselves like real adults.

5. I hate when I buy a cosmetic (most commonly, lipstick), then find out immediately after unsealing the product and using it that it's all wrong for me. What a waste of money.

6. I've pretty much run out of steam. More later, maybe.

The Outlaw Jesse James

2010-03-19T08:23:00.000-04:00

From the beginning, I've observed with some curiosity the love affair between actress Sandra Bullock and motorcycle builder Jesse James. It seemed to me the classic bad boy/good girl combination, which is rarely a good idea. But I wished them luck.

Over the past five years of their marriage, Sandra has blossomed. I'd been thinking recently - especially while watching the film The Blind Side - that being in love has given Ms. Bullock an inner glow she didn't really have before. Add to that her recent box office successes, and she appeared to be on top of the world. We women are suckers for love; you only need to look at the popularity of romance novels to see this. And this woman was clearly in love.

But now, the rumor is out that Jesse James had an 11-month affair with this woman:

I can't know what went through the man's head when the alleged affair began, but I suspect it was something like this: I need to take a shit. I don't feel like shaving today. I'd like something to eat and a cold beer. I want to have sex with something - preferably ~~a woman~~ my wife, but she is off making a film and this tattooed chick seems to be more into me than Sandra does at the moment.

So here we have a hint about several things:

1. If you want to have a husband, a man might be a bad choice.
2. You should never place all of your happiness in the hands of another person (man or woman).
3. There's no accounting for taste.

My feathered friend.

2010-03-18T21:11:00.004-04:00

This is Paulie. Paulie joined the family about twelve years ago, when we ran into him in a pet shop. I'd wanted a small parrot for a while, since I knew that was all I could afford, and when I saw this little green-cheeked conure perched unhappily in a cage, his chest bare of feathers because he'd plucked them all out, well, I felt sorry for him. By contrast, the sun conure that shared his cage was brilliant in every way: cheerful, sunny, brightly colored. But there sat Paulie, naked before the world and wanting only to be loved for who he was. I fell for it, and I'm pretty sure I got a discount for buying him naked.

It took a while before his feathers grew out. I knew they would - self-pluckers usually have some kind of psychological problem, and I figured he wouldn't go crazy as a result of living with us. Turns out I was right, surprisingly.

I know he looks sweet enough, but he's actually a little shit.

Newton's Third Law of Motion

2010-03-17T09:08:00.002-04:00

I just made a mental breakthrough about work.

When I first started this job, I loved it. I looked forward to being here everyday, because I was busy but not overwhelmed. Then the powers-that-be decided none of us was efficient enough, and we weren't smart enough to figure out how to be more efficient on our own. So they paid a consultant HUGE dollars to figure it out for us.

The result? Certain areas became more efficient and streamlined. Meanwhile, more work was created in other areas.

Newton's Third Law of Motion states, For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

It's all about balance. You can't lighten the scales on one side without weighing down the other, and my side is carrying all the weight.

Practicality

2010-03-15T12:44:00.003-04:00

My husband is a practical man. I don't suppose he is to blame for this, since he was raised by folks who lived through the Great Depression and who believed that only one gift (probably socks) was an acceptable thing for a boy to open on Christmas morning. But I blame him anyway, because in the process of being married to him for over 24 years he has ruined me. And I don't mean 'ruined' in the Biblical sense, although that's true, too. What I mean is that I have come to accept that I'm never again going to get what I really want for Christmas.

I can illustrate this perfectly by using only two examples:

EX. 1: One year as Christmas approached, it was obvious that our television was going out. Do you know what I wanted for Christmas? Probably diamonds. Do you know what I got for Christmas? That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I got a television set. Have I mentioned that I don't watch TV all that much?

EX 2: My husband had been complaining about the mountain of clutter which always manifests itself after ten or fifteen years of raising children. So that year on Christmas morning, I was surprised and rather grateful to find that Santa had left, beneath the tree, several plastic storage containers, all shiny and new and ready to fill. But wait! There's more! All wrapped up in pretty Christmas paper, totally unable to camouflage itself, was a brand new toilet seat.

Above and Beyond

2010-03-15T09:15:00.005-04:00

Urban Cynic is trying to help me blog every day by giving me topics to choose from. I ended up failing yesterday, because I got caught up with doing housework and laundry, and then drove almost to Kentucky with my son so he could meet his girlfriend on her way back from Tennessee. And I'm about to partially fail today, because the topic I chose is 'the nicest thing anyone has ever done' for me, but I'm stealing a story I wrote two years ago at Myspace.

My father passed away after suffering from a massive stroke on March 11, 2007. Because he went so quickly and unexpectedly, I was haunted by his death and by questions about whether we did everything we could.

Almost one full year later, my youngest son began losing the use of his legs, and doctors discovered that he had a blood clot pushing against the nerves in his spine. He underwent emergency surgery to remove the clot at the same hospital where my father died. My son's surgeon was phenomenal. Talk about a good bedside manner! He was the kindest doctor I've ever met, and I will forever be grateful to him not only for literally saving my son from paralysis, but for figuratively saving me from it as well. Here's the story:

It was one year ago today that my dad had his stroke. I might not have remembered it if I hadn't spent the afternoon at the hospital where he died.

For a whole year, I've been pretty haunted by my dad's death. Second-guessing everything, including whether we should have opted for surgery. I think my misgivings were caused by the fact that I was never there when the doctor spoke to the rest of the family.

So today, when [my son] had an appointment with the neurosurgeon who operated on him, I decided to ask for his opinion. I have to tell you what an exceptional guy Dr. Bellew is - intelligent and good at what he does, with an aura of calm assurance and an uncanny ability to connect with people.

I said, "Can I ask you an unrelated question?"

He said, "Sure."

So I explained the situation with my dad, and told him that what bothered me most was that in a life or death situation, my dad would have fought for my life, but I didn't feel I had fought for his. And do you know what his answer was? He said, "I can look at the films with you, and let you know what I think."

So he led me down corridors to a room with computers, where all the films are archived for who knows how long. He typed in my dad's name. Dad had a lot of films, some of them from years ago. It was like seeing some weird kind of history of his body. Dr. Bellew pulled up the CT scan - 2007/03/11, 16:36. It was pretty freaky - a year ago almost to the minute. He took me through the complete scan. Pointed out every detail, including the line that indicated pressure squeezing against the opposite hemisphere of the brain, and all the dark area which clearly indicated that my father would never, ever have been the same person, even with surgery.

That's how Dr. Bellew performed brain surgery on me today. Since I was sired by a guy from Missouri, I guess someone just had to 'show me.'

The Story of My Tattoo

2010-03-13T13:15:00.003-05:00

I grew up with the belief that tattoos were for sailors and dope heads. So it wasn't until the tattoo became popularized by the general public and girls on Spring Break in Florida that I actually considered getting one myself. Then my son's former girlfriend, and the Swiss exchange student who was living with her decided they were getting tattooed, and they invited me to go.

My love for angels and birds had made me an instant fan of the wings on the FedEx box in the movie Castaway. So when I didn't see anything I liked in the tattoo shop, I attempted a drawing of my own, which was supposed to look like this:

...but came out, according to the tattoo artist, looking like a heart in a basketball hoop. Obviously he didn't share my artistic vision.

What I ended up with was what I like to describe to people as "wings that have been ripped off of a dead bird." Now, don't get me wrong. The color is beautiful. The feathers are detailed and gorgeous. But the raw bones at the top sometimes make me feel like a biker chick...which I am not. When I wear white, I feel as if people are wondering what kind of hideous birthmark I was born with.

So do I regret it? Yes and no. I'm grateful for the experience of having been through the entire process. The romantic in me believes that the intent behind my tattoo (the FedEx wings) later manifested itself into my job with FedEx. But do I want to be reminded of this permanent marking later in life, when my skin is sagging and wrinkled and someone has to change my diapers? Absolutely not.

I realize that a tattoo is a very personal thing. I think it may be an attempt to leave a trail of who we are and what we've experienced. But the truth is, that makes about as much sense as a scout trying to erect a trail marker on his horse.

The true legacy is to leave our marks outside of our own skin.

My Own Huckleberry

2010-03-13T08:20:00.004-05:00

My father was brilliant. If I had to categorize him as a character in a fictional world, he would be the absentminded professor. One moment he would try to use trigonometry to help me understand 3rd grade math; the next, he would be completely unable to remember where he left his car keys.

In my younger days, he had a marked duality that made him formidable. It wasn't until I became a working parent myself that I began to understand this: the pressures of making a living, combined with the task of raising four responsible human beings, can be overwhelming. At his best, he was kind and approachable. When at his worst, it was his voice that intimidated. But even then, my biggest fear was only that the neighbors would hear him yelling. My second biggest fear was being whipped with his belt. While I think it only happened to me once, the sound his belt made traveling through belt loops was enough to bring me in line, and I can still hear that sound in my head.

Naturally, I appreciated the times he was approachable. And my favorite childhood memory of him is the Summer nights when he would sit in the backyard with my sister and me, pointing out the hazy constellations that hung above our bright city, and telling stories about when he was a boy in Kansas City, Missouri. His boyhood adventures took on an almost legendary status in my mind. The stories were so big and so brave, that it could have been Mark Twain telling me about Huckleberry Finn. But it was those stories that made him human, and much more real to me.

In the following years, he became just a father again. It wasn't until about forty years later, during an impromtu lunch and what would be the last time I ever saw him "living," that he became real to me again. He opened up in a way I will always treasure - about his dreams and all the things he loved. And that hour I spent with him might be my favorite memory as an adult.

Abbreviated.

2010-03-12T12:49:00.002-05:00

I was just going through my posts and noticed there are several drafts I started but never finished. Things with such tantalizing titles as End of a Summer Which Never Began, Life Like a Movie and Movies That Should Have Had Sequels. And as much as I would love to find something of substance beneath the titles, it's not there. Just like all my published posts!

But I shall not despair! One of these days the drought will end, and I'll discover all over again that I'm a writer. Or, at least, that I want to become one. Because I'm not yet ready to give up on the dreams of the five-year-old I once was.

The Cadence of Words

2010-03-09T12:38:00.005-05:00

I remember the first time I was captivated by the lyrical words of Dylan Thomas. I'd read the poems for which he is most known, of course, but they failed to strike a chord in me. Then a friend recommended that I read Under Milk Wood, a collection of Thomas' stories which was first published in book form in 1954. (The book has never been out of print, by the way.) I felt his words had the cadence of a lullaby. Cadence comes from the Latin word cadere, meaning to fall, which seems especially appropriate in this case. Dylan Thomas weaved a spell, and I fell.

In the intervening years, the rise and fall of his voice has been my muse, and a beat I return to in order to hear my own words. Thomas was a master of word sounds. It seems he was fond of words that hissed, and is it any wonder? He was born in a place called Swansea.

Time passes. Listen. Time passes, he writes. And

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

A journey through his words is like a summer day in a blackberry patch. Here, a phrase, soft and spattered on the tongue. And there, a thorn to prick you, in case you dared to sleep.

Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrogered sea.

His words make my heart swell with an elusive longing. My fingers tingle with the promise of phrases almost ripe and unplucked; words that cling stubbornly to their stems until, finally, they dry on the vine.

It's little comfort that the words are there somewhere. What I need is a thing to help remove them. Maybe, like Thomas, I ought to take up drinking.

Everyone wants to make their own mistakes.

2010-02-02T07:28:00.002-05:00

One of the things that puzzles me the most about human nature is an unwillingness to follow advice. As a teenager I was especially resistant to it, and I often said (or at least thought to myself), "Let me make my own mistakes!"

And I did. My modus operandi was to, whenever possible, not make decisions. Instead, I allowed life carry me like a river. A sort of very boring, slow-moving river that would be the absolute opposite of a thrill ride. When faced with a major decision (or even a minor one), I would consult a Magic 8 Ball. Or I would establish an invisible yes and no on a table top or my knees, then alternate between them with my finger, saying:

Engine, engine, number 9,
going down the Chicago line.
If the train should jump the track,
do you want your money back?

And then I would have to make another decision. If I was riding a train, and the train derailed, would I ask for my money back? Well, I guess. And if I was injured, I might even file a lawsuit against the railroad. I mean, really, that's not a hard decision to make. So, yes.

Y - E - S spells yes
and you are not it.

And there would be my answer, which mathematically is always 'no' if you have alternated between the two choices by syllable and chosen 'yes' to the 'do you want your money back' question, and 'yes' if you would be stupid enough to forego monetary compensation.

But why put yourself through a train wreck at all? Not sure about college? Just don't go. Get a job at the first place you go looking for one. If it's that easy, it was meant to be. Thinking about marriage? Get pregnant - accidentally, of course - which sometimes but not always assures a ring on the finger. And if a ring happens, it must have been Fate! In the years that follow, don't even consciously plan your other pregnancies, either! They'll happen on their own.

In the event your 'plans' of being just a wife and mother don't pan out, and you get tired of working at a particular job, someone you know will always know when there is a job available somewhere else. You won't necessarily make very much money, because, remember, you refused to make a decision about college, and colleges didn't come to YOU, and if you don't have that little piece of paper that says you are smart, no one else will think you are smart and pay you accordingly.

And for heaven's sake, DON'T SAVE ANY MONEY! A few years ago, about twenty-five years too late, I read a neat little book called The Richest Man in Babylon, a collection of parables on finance. Probably the most important advice contained in the book is to pay yourself ten percent of everything you make - and then don't touch it. I remember thinking, I wish I had read this book 25 years ago! But, would it have made a difference? No. And do you know how I know? I gave the book to my oldest son to read. While it's possible he didn't read it at all, I still told him about the ten percent thing. And he hasn't taken my advice. So I told my middle son about the ten percent thing, and he hasn't taken my advice.

So, go ahead everyone. Don't listen to me. Make your own mistakes. I know you want to. Go on and flip a coin or eenie-meenie-mynie-moe your life-altering decisions. Or don't decide at all, and just give Fate the job.

Who could have a day this bad?

2010-01-24T13:48:00.003-05:00

I watched the first half of Gone With the Wind last night. It's been a while since I've seen the movie, so it felt a bit fresh to me. And as I watched Scarlett deliver a baby for the wife of the man she loved, escape a burning city, be kissed and abandoned by Rhett Butler, and drive a dying horse home to Tara only to find her mother dead and her father crazy, I decided I've never had a day that bad. We should all consider that comparison, even though my example is fiction. But you don't have to look very far in the world to find bad days even worse than that.

I'm very happy at the moment. So happy that I just spent the morning shining up my house and cleaning windows inside and out. It helps that it is 50 degrees F outside. This afternoon I will devote myself to oil painting.

I looked at the boys basketball statistics for the Indiana High School Athletic Association last night, and discovered that my son was listed as 38th in the State for the number of rebounds per game. This morning, the Indianapolis Star listed him as 13th in the State. Frankly, I'm amazed. His school is one of the smallest in Indiana, and his team doesn't have a very good record. Mom is pretty proud.

Look out, Vermeer, here I come.

2010-01-21T12:25:00.003-05:00

I'm ready for my next form of therapy. On my lunch break, I bought a 30 x 48 inch 'gallery wrap' canvas upon which I plan to brush a masterpiece. Well, that's the plan. I'll be using a technique known as glazing, for which Johannes Vermeer was well known. Without boring you with too many details, glazing is a method by which colors are placed on a canvas in very thin layers using an oil-based medium. After a layer has dried, and another placed on top of it, the colors become not physically but optically mixed, thus creating a luminosity in the painting.

The key words there are 'after a layer has dried.' This project is meant to be a work of patience, above all else. My tendency to rush things is legendary, and I'm hoping to prove I can wait. A little.

This is why I'll be painting in my husband's heated 'shop' - the same place my cat resides. The wood stove keeps the place at an almost constant, arid 80 degrees. It's hard to say whether oils will dry faster in those conditions, but I'm betting on it.

And if not...well...I'll be patient. What's the hurry?

Cuckoo Cigarettes

2010-01-20T09:09:00.004-05:00

Several years ago, I sent a carton of Swiss-made, Russian cigarettes to a writer friend of mine. When asked how in the world I got them, this is how I replied:

After the cigarette plant's great purple flowers are buzzed by bees, their long, graceful stems (which look like ivory cigarette holders) begin to sprout tiny white cigarettes. This happens in a valley somewhere between the Alps and the Red Sea. The plants are nourished by pure mountain water and the pale Swiss sun. A pretty maid named Adelheid tends the plants carefully, protecting them from night creatures such as foxes and bums. When at last the moon is full and the cigarettes are ripe, Adelheid picks each one by hand and packs them into small boxes.

She gives the boxes to Tobias, who strings them on red ribbons from the legs of cuckoos, who have been fortified for their long flight on cheese and chocolate. The cuckoos are trained to make the arduous journey to Ukraine almost overnight. Sometimes they are shot down over Moscow by MiG fighters. Finally, the birds arrive at the home of Ivan and Kiska Solovyov, where they are fed Borscht and the cigarette packs are removed from their legs.

Then I order cigarettes on the internet and they're sent by international airmail from Ukraine, which takes about 5 weeks.

The cuckoos are much faster.

So I do have an imagination, after all. Occasionally I'm capable of writing fanciful things. But it's been a long time.

Prompted by a Bot

2010-01-16T14:45:00.002-05:00

There was an email in my spam box just now from Polina. Polina asks in her subject line, "Hey, why do you not write?"

Well. That's a very good question, Polina. Why DO I not write? Because not writing is what I do.

I watched a film called Finding Forrester a few nights ago. The film stars Sean Connery as William Forrester, a reclusive writer who published one critically acclaimed novel, then disappeared. Forrester reluctantly takes under his wing a young black writer, Jamal Wallace, whose talent blossoms under Forrester's mentorship.

One of the scenes that stayed with me was when Forrester tells Jamal that "you write your first draft from the heart, and the second draft from your head."

My problem seems to be writing from my head too much. My head is full of critics who don't want me to write at all. It's funny; the critics think everyone else writes beautifully. The critics believe I have nothing important to say, and above all else, nothing interesting or entertaining.

This is why I do not write, Polina. I could give you a hundred other excuses, but I have given you the most valid reason. So stop emailing me.

Call me The Light Bulb Bandit

2010-01-11T18:25:00.002-05:00

After an already shitty day, my husband informed me this evening that the new owner of our former house (our former landlord's son) is telling people that we took all the light bulbs with us when we left.

Well...light bulbs are expensive. And I'm so frugal (NOT) that it only makes sense that I would steal light bulbs that might be considered "fixtures" by someone else.

No, I didn't take your f*&^%ing light bulbs, you douchebag. The only fixture I can think of that didn't have light bulbs in it when I left was the ceiling fan that hasn't worked for 15 years.

People are idiots.

Mutants

2010-01-09T12:19:00.005-05:00

This morning I watched some animal program that showed the largest cat in the world - a liger - half lion, half tiger. This was especially surprising to me, because I thought the liger only existed in the imagination of Napoleon Dynamite.

I've become sort of an odd creature, too, since the move. You might call me by my latin name, Ancilla analus. My OCD has really kicked into high gear. Speck of lint on the floor? No way. Little orange flag sticking up from behind the satellite receiver? Gone, because it wasn't one of my colors. Bread crumb on the countertop, I laugh at you before I pinch you between my fingers and throw you in the trash. And heaven forbid there should be a streak on the glass tabletop. I hardly recognize the person staring back at me from the mirror as she battles a speck of something on the glass.

Too bad my behavior is only the result of newness. Give me a couple of months, then you can come over and hunt for dust bunnies under my sofa.

Prolifique

2010-01-05T09:30:00.004-05:00

A few days ago I happened to pull up actor Johnny Depp's IMDb page, perhaps by accident, and I was stunned to see what he's working on simultaneously. Fifteen films in development. Two films in pre-production, two films in production, and three films in post-production. I realize, of course, that he isn't doing all of this alone, but just having committed to all those projects might be overwhelming for some.

This led me to thinking about the creative process in general. Is it fair that some of us spend most of our lives doing things we don't want to do? I don't think so. I would love to be constantly involved in creating something beautiful and lasting. Unfortunately, that isn't the case. At all. If creativity were measured on a scale of one to ten, I would be somewhere near...let's see...minus 100.

On the other hand, I do spend eight hours a day, five days a week making something. If I was a sculptor...but then again, no...(Elton John reference), I would have created, by now, about 100 Davids. My efforts in working for someone else might have yielded a few War and Peaces. Because, really - I'm not bragging, since it's the truth - I am the world's most prolific Aircraft Maintenance Work Card Package Creator.

So eat my shorts, Johnny Depp.

The Elusimuse

2010-01-04T23:15:00.005-05:00

Rather than write some painful thing that would resemble nails on a chalkboard, I'm going to sleep, then try again tomorrow.

Out With the Old; In With the New

2010-01-01T16:21:00.002-05:00

That phrase is especially meaningful to me this year, since we moved to a "new" home the first week of December. In fact, I turned over to the landlord the keys to our old house only the night before last. As much as I hate to admit it, I had a few emotional final moments at the old place, especially since I'd lived there almost half my life, my boys were raised there, and the rumor is that the old house is going to be torn down.

I've never been sure why I become attached to inanimate objects, somehow attributing to them a human quality. A little crazy, I know, but I do it anyway. So when I said, just before I walked out the door for the last time, "Goodbye old house; I love you," I felt that the house understood, and forgave me for abandoning it.

So today I'm a bit lost. Trying to embrace the new, but not exactly having bonded with it yet.

I guess that's what the next 364 days are for.

I like my passport photo because it makes me look like an international spy or at least a drug dealer.

2009-12-31T13:37:00.003-05:00

Unfortunately, the title of this post has nothing to do with what I'm about to write. I know you're surprised, because who among us couldn't write an entire blog post about their own passport photo?

No, the reason I'm here is to chisel in internet stone my resolutions for the coming year.

Wait! Don't go!

I'll keep it brief. And simple.

1. Walk every day
2. Blog every day

Actually, I hadn't really given it much thought before this very moment, and now I'm drawing a blank.

The good (or bad) news is that I really mean #2, and I think I can stick to it because I installed a wireless router yesterday, which means I can blog in bed. Maybe I'll change the name of my blog to "Blogging in Bed" or even "Blogging in Bed Every Day." Okay, no I won't.

See you tomorrow, and have a very safe but irresponsible New Year's Eve.

Light at the End of the Tunnel

2009-11-30T08:30:00.003-05:00

For the past few months, my husband and I have been remodeling what was previously my mother-in-law's home, located on the 43 acres we have owned for about ten years. It seems rather strange, having owned that kind of acreage, that we have rented the home we live in for the past 22 years, but that's just the way it was...because the agreement was that my mother-in-law could live in the house until she passed away, and my husband was either too cheap or too busy to build a new house on the property.

In the last two years, my mother-in-law began to show signs of dementia. We didn't know how much longer she could continue to care for herself, and the strain of helping care for her was becoming too much for my husband and me. But mostly my husband, since "the farm" is where he works every day. There were some pretty strange things we had to deal with; for instance, my mother-in-law claimed that I told her I wanted to cut her head off, she imagined that people were stealing from her (particularly telephones, which we later found stuffed in closets). Then in July, she fell and broke her hip, which made the decision for us. She is now in an assisted living facility, where she is well cared for 24 hours a day, which had been impossible for us.

So the house remodeling thing: I'm worn out. I have no time to color my hair, or read a book, or keep up on housework, because I've been so busy trying to help get the "new" place liveable. And basically, it's only been three rooms that we've redone. Our bedroom, a living/dining area, and kitchen. The rest will have to wait until we're living there, and even the exterior won't be finished until who-knows-when.

I guess I'm just trying to explain why I haven't been blogging. It took until this morning to realize how much I miss it, and I'm hoping the colder weather, the move, and the advent of Winter will all remedy that.

Maybe I'll even have time to color my hair.

A Word About Flavo(u)r

2009-10-13T14:48:00.002-04:00

Those of you who have read me for a while might know that I am on a very silent, lazy, and fruitless campaign to eradicate Monosodium Glutamate from the planet. Let's set aside the fact that MSG causes me and two of my sons to have migraine headaches, and focus instead on a radical concept: that humans don't really need that much flavor [flavour, if you are reading this in English].

For a while now, I've felt as if my taste buds are dead. I think they've been numbed by too much manmade flavor. It doesn't matter that I've stopped using table salt because of my high blood pressure. Or that, because I'm a smoker, I've slaughtered all the senses in my nose and mouth. No, it has to be all the crap they put in (and take out of) our food, and here's why:

One of the best things about living in the country is that you have access to meat. Like, actual livestock that you can take to the meat processor to have cut up and frozen in little packages that in no way resemble a live animal. Recently, we had a hog butchered, and it was my job to let the meat processor know how I wanted my unrecognizable meat packaged. When we got to the sausage, I was asked what kind of seasoning I wanted. I asked, "Does your seasoning have MSG in it?" They had to check, and the answer was yes. So the woman on the phone suggested something radical - "Do you want us to season it with just salt, pepper, and sage?" "YES!!!" I shouted, as if I had just discovered electricity.

So that's what I got. Sausage, flavored with salt, pepper, and sage. And honestly, it's the best sausage I've ever had. And do you know why?

Because it's full of TRANS FAT.

An Ethics Question

2009-08-31T08:28:00.004-04:00

Suppose you hired a local mechanic/alcoholic (though you weren't aware at the time he was an alcoholic) to work on your car. Suppose you gave him $900 in advance of the work, and he proceeded to be in possession of your vehicle for 5 months. Then he never returned your calls, but when your husband finally stopped by and caught him at home, he told the tragic story about how his 94-year-old father was tortured and murdered by drug dealers in some completely freakish scenario, and when you looked it up on the internet it turned out to be true, so you felt a little sorry for him and understood why he might be stinking drunk all the time and not able to work on your car - not to mention that he was in a terrible truck accident about 10 years before and is in constant pain. So you let it go on a little longer until you've finally had enough, and you go pick up your car, only to find out he didn't do a damn thing to fix it.

What do you do then? Do you let it go, out of compassion, and consider it a lesson learned? Or do you stand up to be the one who stops enabling this person to be an alcoholic who is screwing people over (since you find out you aren't the only one he's done it to)?

Remember, there are no right or wrong answers, but keep in mind this guy is an alcoholic who carries a handgun.

By the way, I missed you all.

Expect the worst and get it.

2009-07-16T12:24:00.003-04:00

I've been gone a while. I'm not even sure why, except that the internet holds little appeal for me right now. (No offense.)

I was experiencing those few, terrible days which occur after the full moon begins to wane, trying to reverse my bad mood by convincing myself that my brain chemistry and thought patterns were completely responsible. It didn't work. On Sunday I went to church, something I rarely do. When I left the house, my kitty was happily dashing about the yard. It occurred to me to put her back inside, but everyone deserves a little freedom, even cats.

It wasn't until later in the day while cleaning house that I realized I hadn't seen her since that morning. I went outside and called for her. No response. This was unusual, since she usually stays very close to the house. I knew that my sons had been in and out of the driveway in their trucks, and I had visions of my cat splattered all over an engine, or, alternatively, a bold coyote having snatched her up by the spine. It sure didn't take long to convince myself that she was gone forever. I decided to take a break to visit the pond, and by the time I got there, I was in tears. My husband asked what was wrong, and I told him I was sure my cat was gone forever. I said it figured, as bad as everything else had gone for me lately. Story of my life, just my luck, God hates me, why would I expect anything different than to get attached to something and have it die. Yep, 'bad luck' has been my training program for years.

So it was pretty humbling when I got home about an hour or so later, and my cat greeted me at the door. On the inside of the house. Apparently she'd found an excellent place to nap.

There is a chapter in Norman Vincent Peale's book The Power of Positive Thinking called "Expect the Best and Get it." I know it's a stretch, but I'm going to work on rethinking my thinking. Of course then I'll have to deal with the agony of dashed hopes all the time, but hell. It's worth a try. I can always go back to the way things were.

My Son, the Cowboy

2009-06-14T13:57:00.002-04:00

My son was walking out the door this morning when I convinced him to let me take some shots of him. Here are two:

I love and hate him for being so photogenic, even in work clothes.

Ben Stiller: the best time I never had.

2009-06-04T07:27:00.002-04:00

It wasn't until I was drying my hair this morning that I remembered being with actor Ben Stiller last night - in my dreams. Though I can't recall any details, we were living it up. And he was incredibly funny; so funny that I woke myself up, laughing, at least 3 times. But was it Ben Stiller that was funny, or was it his comedy writer (me)?

The dream only illustrates to me how important humor is in my life. I've always considered myself more of a 'straight man' than a comedian, but I love to laugh, and I think people always appreciate you when you think they are funny.

Which reminds me of my inappropriate behavior this past Monday night.

My youngest son's high school baseball team played in their Sectional tourney and lost. On the way home, we stopped at a restaurant to eat. One of my son's teammates made it clear to everyone that he would be sitting next to me. Ronnie was a Junior this year, and he doesn't have any trouble growing facial hair. Let's just say it would be easy to forget that he's only 17. Plus, he's very funny.

So Ronnie and I sat together in the booth, with my hubby sitting across from us, and my son at a table nearby. I think it was one of those deals where teenage boys like to go on about "your mom is hot," only Ronnie had the added intent of harrassing my husband, too. The problem is that Ronnie is so funny and so engaging that it may have eventually appeared that I was flirting with him. In an innocent way, of course.

But I still feel like a perv.

"Change" You Can Believe In?

2009-05-31T14:03:00.003-04:00

A cashier handed me this twenty yesterday after I bought groceries for my mother-in-law.

Obviously, the handwritten message brings up all sorts of questions. Where did it come from? Who wrote it? And why? Is someone trying to tell me something? And doesn't it look like a man's handwriting?

I've always been intrigued by the things people write on money. For a while, my oldest son collected dollar bills on which someone had stamped one of those cartoon dialogue bubbles with "I grew hemp" just above George Washington's head.

There's also a website where a person can track exactly where their money has traveled, as long as it is encoded with the www.wheresgeorge.com link, and the serial number has been registered, and other people have actually submitted notes on its progress.

What's the most interesting thing you've ever seen on money?

finally, something to look forward to

2009-05-29T12:11:00.002-04:00

On Tuesday next (that's Old English for those of you not in the know) Survivalist Bear Grylls will be accompanied by comedian and actor Will Ferrell on an adventure in some "ice-bound Swedish mountain ranges" on Man vs. Wild. (Discovery Channel, 10 p.m. EDT)

I think it's sad that the only thing I have to look forward to in life is a television program where I can watch Will Ferrell drink urine and eat reindeer eyeballs. But there it is.

Star of the Sea

2009-05-27T21:12:00.005-04:00

The name Maurita Mason came to me when I thought I was going to be a romance writer, and would therefore need a name that no one could possibly connect to me. I didn't know at the time that an author's real name is usually located next to the date on the copyright page.

For a while I considered Vicki Stone, a shake-up of letters from my maiden name. My dad invented that one, and I might still use it someday. You know...if I ever finish a manuscript. And get it published.

But I've come to identify myself with Maurita. She is me, and I am her. If I were walking down the street, and someone yelled, "Maurita!" I would turn and look, in exactly the same way I still respond to "mom" in public. In the same way I nearly panicked when a co-worker called me "Chickie" one time - my Yahoo Chat incarnation.

So where did I get Maurita? From my given name, Laura, and from a friend who was very dear to me at my first job. Her name was Marita. And Mason is a family surname from my mother's side, and merged magnificently into the Margaret Mitchell-esque author's name I was trying to create. I'm very fond of the initials MM (salute to Lermie), and I also used them previously at Journalspace when I was Moira McGartland and not yet gossamer.

I Googled Maurita Mason earlier, to see if it was safe to give out an email address of that name to someone from work. It isn't. But it led me to discover that Maurita means "star of the sea," which I think is the loveliest thing ever.

Poem Without Permission

2009-05-26T19:46:00.005-04:00

Crash landings and small craft warnings
seeds and grasses in
the cross wind of the plains.
This defiance is perilous:
darting in and out
a ground skirmish
with a young buffalo, the size of a continent,
who seems not to notice
but who avoids stepping on any of us.

Huge and tiny
everywhere,
nowhere.

(copyright 1999 Rick Smith)

I discovered a wren's nest in one of the blackberry bushes last week. I think these are some of the most beautiful bird nests in nature because they are as well constructed as a woven basket, so small and tidy, and they're often built using hair from local animals. In this case, the mama bird used hair from my horse's mane or tail (the black). I'm not sure where the white hair came from - possibly a neighbor's horse - or maybe a long-forgotten artifact from a white horse I used to own. (How long does it take horse hair to biodegrade?)

The eggs are smaller than my thumbnail; the nest no more than two and a half inches across.

I'm sure I'll claim the nest when it's been abandoned, to add to my weird collection. At least I don't pin dead butterflies to cardboard, or something equally morbid.

Uninspired

2009-05-25T20:18:00.002-04:00

Unwilling to be a conduit for negative energy, the writer fed all her thoughts into the shredder located at the base of her skull, until absolutely nothing would come out.

Except this.

When I say "Where in the world is my son?" I really mean it.

2009-05-03T14:59:00.002-04:00

Having a son in transit is almost as bad as having a son in Iraq.

The last message I got from my son the soldier was on April 22nd. He said the Army was "80% sure" he would be flying out of Iraq on May 2nd for his mid-tour leave. If not then, it would be the next day.

So here I am, never far from a telephone, waiting for a call from my world traveler.

Putting it into Perspective

2009-04-28T09:08:00.004-04:00

The population of the world is 6,776,304,630.

The number of people sickened with pneumonia in Mexico is 1,995 (of which 152 have died), and none of these illnesses have been confirmed as being caused by "swine flu."

50 cases of swine flu have been confirmed in the US, and no one has died as a result of the illness.

Confirmed cases of swine flu elsewhere:

Canada - 6
New Zealand - 11
Spain - 2
Israel - 1

for a total of 70 confirmed cases, or .00000001033 of the total world population.

Would the media please shut the hell up.

Sunday

2009-04-26T14:06:00.003-04:00

My niece graciously asked me to help her photograph a wedding yesterday. You may not think so, but holding a camera for seven hours in various positions is pretty exhausting work - especially when the weather suddenly decides to warm up and you forget to drink any water.

I'll leave all the glory to my niece, but just wanted to share this photo I shot of one of the flower girls -

Cuteness.

Where have I been for the last 17 years?

2009-04-20T08:18:00.002-04:00

His role in the 1992 film Scent of a Woman won Al Pacino the only Oscar of his career, for Best Actor.

And would you believe in all the years since 1992, I had never seen this movie? Not even parts of it.

It wasn't until I saw the title on my oldest son's list of favorites on Myspace that I decided to rent it from Netflix. I trust my son's opinions about films more than I do that Ebert guy.

If you've seen Scent of a Woman, I'd like to hear what you think of the film. And I leave you with this:

Still Life

2009-04-19T12:44:00.003-04:00

New Shoes and Cat

Please don't take it too seriously.

Dire Prediction #1,684

2009-04-16T12:01:00.001-04:00

By the year 2023, McDonald's Corporation will have single-handedly exhausted the world's supply of salt.

I'm Melting! and other random stuff.

2009-04-15T12:22:00.004-04:00

Since it's going to be at least 67 degrees tomorrow, I've already decided to wear a dress to work. It's a slim little black shift dress I bought last week, and I've been dying to wear it, but I don't like exposing myself to the cold and I didn't have exactly the right shoes to wear.

So, during lunch, I solved the second problem by going shoe shopping. I found the perfect shoes, but they weren't available in a size 8. So I decided to try a 7 1/2, even though I've never been able to fit my gargantuan feet in anything that small. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that they fit, since everything else about me is shrinking too. Who knows how long I've been wearing shoes that are too big for me?

********

I was eating spaghetti at this little place called Bellacino's when Kurt Cobain appeared on the speakers singing Smells Like Teen Spirit. I don't know when I became old and passed over the threshold upon which lies the inability to listen to Nirvana, but I suspect it may have been the exact same moment when my feet got smaller.

********

There's a robin nesting in a small tree in my smoking area here at work. She has decorated her nest with brightly-colored items from the hangar. I may have to steal the nest when she's done with it. When I get home, I'll add to this post a photo of a wren's nest made of hair from my dog and horses, many of whom have passed on. I consider that gift from nature one of my most priceless treasures.

For the Record

2009-04-11T10:11:00.002-04:00

I've been instructed to never again write about the man who lives in my house. So please stop me if I do.

A sweet little hidden gem of a movie.

2009-04-10T17:48:00.005-04:00

Last night, I forced my husband to watch a movie called Penelope, starring Christina Ricci and James McAvoy (who played Tom Lefroy in Becoming Jane). To be honest, I wasn't even sure if the film was worth watching, but we were soon captivated by the comical little fairy tale.

Ricci plays Penelope Wilhern, who was born under a curse placed upon her wealthy family by a witch seeking revenge for the death of her daughter. Penelope lives out her young life hidden away by parents who are ashamed of her pig snout, until the time comes when her parents seek to break the curse by finding Penelope "one of her own kind" to love her for who she is.

I won't reveal any more of the plot in case you want to see the movie for yourself. And I think you ought to, because a little magic is always fun, and it never hurts to be reminded that it's okay to like yourself the way you are.

7 things

2009-04-10T09:04:00.007-04:00

I wanted my 100th post here at Blogger to be something brilliant and unique, which is one of the reasons I haven't posted. The other reason is that I haven't been feeling well, and I may have finally figured out why. Remember the mechanical bull I rode about 3 weeks ago? Whiplash, maybe. So all the pressure and pain I've been feeling in my head, neck and shoulders probably isn't stress at all, but a consequence of my stupidity.

So instead of the brilliant, unique post I meant to bring you, here is a meme I was tagged with by my very talented and witty niece, Marchelle:

THE RULES:
1. Link to the person who tagged you
2. Share 7 things that people may not know about you
3. Tag 7 people to share 7 things and link to them
4. Let them know they have been tagged

I'm too lazy to play tag, but feel free to play if you want.

1. RUN, FORREST! I was born with crooked feet. For the first year of my life, I wore my shoes on the wrong feet and was shackled with Forrest Gump leg braces.

Seriously. Check out the shoes. Also note that I'm throwing up gang symbols.

2. I'm still convinced that the lyrics to Blinded by the Light really do contain the phrase "wrapped up like a douche." Do not defy me.

3. I would rather hear a man's voice than a woman's. Probably 99 percent of the songs I listen to are by male artists.

4. I want to state, for the record, that chili with pasta in it is not real chili. You people need to get over it. Freaks.

5. I'm pissed off about the PLANET Pluto. I even joined a group at Facebook called "When I was your age, Pluto was a planet."

6. Sometimes when I'm in pain, I sound exactly like I sound right now. Only it's worse when you can actually hear my voice. My voice will cut you.

7. I've developed short-term memory loss, which may result in me saying the same things over and over in this blog. And I only think of really interesting things about me while I'm driving, but they never get written down and I'm not able to remember them the next time I have to do one of these things. Also, the older I get, the more I want to type phonetically. Like won instead of one.

BONUS (because I cheated a little on some of those) - When I was very young, my dad swore pretty often. Most of the time he would say, "Pardon my French." I remember thinking that I wanted to grow up and learn French, too - and I'll be damned if I haven't!

Farm Boys on a Friday Night

2009-04-04T09:29:00.004-04:00

One of the things that isn't a shock after raising three boys is middle-of-the-night phone calls.

This morning at 2:45, I looked at the caller ID on my phone with blurry eyes and felt the last name register in the back of my brain as exactly the same one as the former county sheriff. I answered anyway.

And not surprisingly, my sixteen-year-old son was on the other end.

"Mom?" he said, "Me and Zach were out driving around and ran off the road. We're okay, but the truck's a little messed up. The sheriff wanted me to call and let you know what was going on."

To be honest, I don't remember what I said. I was calm, and very very quiet, because I was already debating the idea of whether to let my husband in on it. I asked if there had been any drinking, and my son said no. My extrasensory skills must have been working earlier in the evening when my son said he was going to his brother's house for a party, and I reviewed with him all the possible consequences of getting caught drinking, as a high school athlete and a 16 year old. Being the youngest of three boys apparently has its advantages - one of the things my son likes to say is "I've learned from my brothers' mistakes." This covers a lot of territory, including girls.

I was glad the boys were unharmed. But I was worried about the truck, because it used to belong to my dad. So after I roused my husband with the news and we showed up on the scene of the accident (both of us - I was told I was there to keep my husband "from killing our son"), imagine my relief when we realized it had been the other kid that was driving, in his own truck. It was pretty banged up, on both sides, and it appears to be skewed a little. They hit the trunk of a blue spruce on one side, flipped around, and hit a mail box on the other side. And then a trash bin.

The owners were standing out in the yard, hugging themselves against the cold and looking angry, along with another homeless-looking guy who had apparently been sleeping in a van outside. I share this information to perhaps shed a little light on the caliber of the residents. The boys had already discussed with the owners their plans to clean up the damage, including replacing the mailbox and cleaning up the trash.

Both of the boys were just here after going to pick up the trash, which my husband says "has been laying all over the yard all week." He knows this because he drives his school bus past their house twice a day. And the 25-foot blue spruce they hit? Well, the lady who lives there must love that tree an awful lot. She says it is worth two thousand dollars, and she'd like to have the money to replace it, even though only a few branches are missing from the bottom.

This irritates me just a little. Here's a situation where the boys are willing to do the right thing to rectify what they've done, and the "victims" have to be assholes about it.

But, you know...it could be Karma biting them in the ass. Because here's what they'd done to Zach's sister's car just before the accident. She'd left it parked in the school parking lot to go somewhere with a friend, with whom she was spending the night.

I like the plastic wrap, and the two bars of soap skewered onto the antenna the best.

Maybe I'm a terrible mother, but it's hard for me to be angry or stern about any of this. I see it as a character-building experience, and all a part of growing up. And the truth is, no matter how many things we learn from others' mistakes, we always learn best from the ones we make on our own.

OMG, Srsly?

2009-03-29T13:57:00.005-04:00

I got the urge to Google "Martha Stewart Turkey Hill" for images of her former home - even though I have a book with photos of it - and I ran across this photo of Martha and some asses:

Not only is this barn more beautiful than the house I live in, it would also be accurate to say it's much cleaner.

I'm gonna go cry until I throw up.

You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

2009-03-29T10:17:00.003-04:00

That's what my dad's mother used to say, and it is the prevailing theme of my life in this house.

There was a time when I at least tried to make my house look presentable. But when the home you live in is nearly 100 years old, and someone else owns it, you tend to not want to throw cash into the money pit.

However - when the vinyl flooring in your kitchen is about to have its 22nd birthday, and has been gouged by boots and heels and a million objects falling on the floor, and the top layer has begun to peel off leaving actual holes so that sweeping with a broom allows all the dirt to collect in the holes and you can't even mop anymore, it is perhaps time to do something about it.

Maybe it's time to confess that I'm not very good at decorating. I know what looks good, but can never copy it. My taste runs anywhere between traditional/American Colonial (something like Martha Stewart's Turkey Hill house) to cottage style to Swedish design to Zen minimalism. If any of that makes sense. I was also raised two miles from the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, so, traditional style + Indy 500 would equal a passion for a black and white tiled floor. I've always wanted one. Always. And now I have it, such as it is.

Please don't point out any flaws in craftsmanship. I did it mostly by myself, despite a couple of attempts by hubby to finish the edges. And do you know why he couldn't finish it? Two reasons, really. One: he spent too much time complaining about the stupidity of laying the tiles diagonally, and refusing to understand the aesthetic appeal. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I would never have a diagonally-layed floor ever again. And two: it's Spring, which means he doesn't have time to do anything not related to farming. If I hadn't finished this project by myself, it wouldn't have been done until next Winter.

There's also some controversy about the wall color. All the males in the family think the red has to go. I think it's okay, and frankly, don't feel like painting again. So, be honest. Is my decorating sense really THAT whacked?

Oh. And the other reason I wanted a black and white floor? To match my cat.

Is there any felicity in the world superior to this?

2009-03-25T17:20:00.005-04:00

Have I mentioned Sense and Sensibility lately? If not, forgive me for the lapse.

I just wanted to show off my autographed copy of the screenplay, which was written by the brilliant Emma Thompson. I haven't taken very good care of it. In fact, it's been thumbed through like a pay telephone book. There's even a small, cigarette scorch mark. Ack. Let's just say I believe in using things.

At the top left, we have Tom Wilkinson, who played the father of the Dashwood girls (for about 30 seconds at the beginning of the film); just above the title, my beloved Kate Winslet (Marianne Dashwood); in the center, Gemma Jones (Mrs. Dashwood); below that, the talented Alan Rickman (Col. Brandon); and then from left to right - James Fleet (John Dashwood), Hugh Grant (Edward Ferrars), and Emma Thompson (Elinor Dashwood).

If my house were on fire, I do believe I'd run back in for this.

Apparently my doctor thinks I'm a street dealer.

2009-03-23T16:51:00.002-04:00

I could see it in his eyes while he talked about the street value of Xanax, about why he didn't like to prescribe it, and why he was only giving me 30 of them.

And the only argument I could make was "but it makes me feel better."

What it boils down to is that the doctor believes my blood pressure fluctuates so much (yesterday it was 115/78; today in his office it was 160/100) because I suffer from "situational stress," a condition that would probably go away if I would just agree to take a Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor. In other words, an anti-depressant, which I swore I would never take again.

What I really need is to not have a job, but money, and lots of chickens and horses and time for art. And then I wouldn't need a doctor or Xanax at all.

That's how life was meant to be. I feel as if I've spent half of mine doing all the things I don't want to do.

Cowgirl Up!

2009-03-21T09:00:00.003-04:00

Last night when hubby got home, he mentioned that our new 21-year-old was going to a place called The 8 Seconds Saloon. He thought it would be humorous if we showed up and crashed the party.

So the cowgirl in me rose up and hollered "YES!"

I also warned him that I planned to ride the mechanical bull. In return, he tried to warn me that, well, I'm not as young as I used to be, and I could break a hip or something.

But I ain't skeered. I even rode before my 21-year-old did, presumably because he wanted me to wear the bull out before he got on.

I rode that bull, yessiree. For at least 8 seconds, but it's hard to count seconds when adrenaline is rushing through your body, you can't breathe, and you are focused on not falling off of a moving object. Determined not to be thrown, I was also focused on my dismount, and during a quiet moment from the bull, I seized my opportunity, dismounting on the right the way you're supposed to, so your left hand won't get caught up in the rigging. I stuck that dismount without even a bobble. Almost threw my hands up like a 13-year-old gymnast, but figured I'd already made enough of a fool of myself.

Fortunately for you, there are no photos. I did a search on youtube for "old lady riding mechanical bull" and I wasn't there. But through the magic that is youtube, I give you what I would have looked like if I had ridden a mechanical bull 29 years ago:

Benny Hill: Alive and Well and Living in Iraq

2009-03-17T08:00:00.004-04:00

Chatted with my soldier on Yahoo Messenger yesterday. As usual, I asked him how things were going, and he answered, "Same as usual, just being an extra on the Benny Hill Show."

I laughed out loud.

He told me to go to youtube and search for the Benny Hill theme song to get a mental picture of what life is like for him in Iraq, serving under a bunch of alleged idiots. I told him I didn't have to, because the song was already playing in my head. Apparently he plays the theme song repeatedly for his buddies to remind them of their roles.

For those of you who don't know it, here is the new theme song for my son's battallion:

Just wanted you to know.

2009-03-13T12:40:00.003-04:00

Last night, in that quiet, dreamy place between wakefulness and sleep, I came up with the phrase "Chinese Nipples." It just flashed before my eyes like a neon sign. I'm willing to give it up, pro bono, to whoever can use it.

Sorta makes me wonder if I'm getting Tourette's, though.

Thought for the day

2009-03-10T07:21:00.001-04:00

It's possible that President Obama signed his Stimulus Package at the same desk where President Clinton had his package stimulated.

Discuss...

US Government: Still Bending the Truth

2009-03-08T10:11:00.004-04:00

Just because George W. Bush is out of Washington, doesn't mean the government isn't still bending the truth to make themselves look good. According to Yahoo News, the US military announced today that 12,000 US troops will leave Iraq by September.

I could have told you that. Most of them are called the 4th Infantry Division, and their one-year tour of duty will be finished by then. Whether they'll be replaced or not is the part of the story we can't be certain about.

In other news:

I will again be staging a tax revolt, and will start buying Russian cigarettes online. Until I can stop smoking, that is. Because the representatives in our State government, who no longer represent me, have decided that it's necessary to raise the tax on cigarettes again, and I feel it my duty as an American to be a revolutionary. It's also my duty as an American to be revolting. And if I can get cigarettes for one-third the cost, isn't it fiscally responsible for me to do so?

In keeping with a theme

2009-03-07T18:42:00.003-05:00

Johnny Depp is starring in a film about John Dillinger (one of my lifelong anti-heroes). The film is scheduled to open in theaters on July 1, 2009, and is called Public Enemies.

For those of you who don't know, I live very near John Dillinger's old stomping grounds. Unfortunately, Johnny Depp has never stomped anywhere near me.

My son got hammered on his 21st birthday.

2009-03-05T08:36:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was J-Dub's 21st birthday. I called him on my way home from work to see if I could drop off a cake and a card (with cash), thinking he may have left work early. I asked if he was at home. He said, "No, I'm at the hospital."

Those of you who followed me at Journalspace may remember that I have a phobia of March. March is when all the bad things happen. Last year, my youngest son had emergency surgery to have a blood clot removed from his spine at midnight on February 29th. The year before, my father passed away in March, and in years before that we lost my father-in-law and my husband's favorite uncle.

So it wasn't really unexpected that somebody I know would end up in the hospital. The cause couldn't really be predicted, though - while at work, my son was banging on a piece of equipment with a hammer when the hammer shattered, embedding a piece of steel into his thumb.

I didn't go to the hospital to hold his other hand, because I had the youngest son's sectional basketball game to go to (they lost), and J-Dub wouldn't have wanted me there anyway. When I called later to check on him, he said, "I'm in surgery right now."

Words every mother secretly wishes to hear from her son, but only if he's a doctor.

It's true. I'm 10 percent white trash.

2009-03-01T15:58:00.005-05:00

I'm just guessing at the 10 percent. It could be more or less, but somehow I'm just not as elegant and cultured as I'd like to be. And it isn't just because at this very moment I have a cow leg complete with hoof lying in my front yard.

Yesterday it was planned that I would meet my mom, sister-in-law and niece for lunch and then shopping at a big discount/decorating store called Old Time Pottery. I still wasn't feeling well, so I lollygagged, which sounds not attractive at all and is pretty much my worst trait. I think. Please don't tell me I have a worse one.

To make a long story short, I missed my shopping date entirely. But I shopped anyway, finding myself attracted on this particular day to blue things, which reflected my mood. I loved the bluish-lavender Thomas O'Brien plates, but they were $2.49 each. That didn't seem discounted enough for me. I loved the goblets shot through with streaks of blue glass, and some wreaths with silk violets. I could have left the store empty-handed...if I hadn't been in the mood for summer. And, well, for summertime rednecky things to clutter up the outdoors. So I bought a chicken and a birdhouse.

But I didn't buy just any chicken. No, I bought faux copper SuperChicken, with action wings. Seriously. His wings are attached to little metal springs, which make them flap a little. And he has big googly eyes.

Tell me YOU could have passed him up. Really? You could have? Then what is WRONG with me???

Then I picked up this birdhouse. I don't know. I really don't. It was something about the red, white and blue. Something about the fake '58 license plate. Something about birds.

Is it kind of cute? A little fitting for the side of my garage which needs to be painted? No birds will ever nest there, of course. It's just for show. I'm so pretentious.

Laura is the face in the misty light. Footsteps that you hear down the hall.

2009-02-28T12:08:00.003-05:00

I just read Simon's latest post, which is a listing of definitions of his name from Urban Dictionary.

Since Maurita hasn't been defined yet, I'll share some definitions of my real name.

1. Laura
-Sex on legs
-Tiger in the bedroom
-Waiscoast is TEH SEX
-Adorable
-Possibly the rudest person you will EVER meet
-Cute. END OF.

Michelle: "Did you meet up with Laura last night?"
Hannah: "Yeh, she was a tiger in the bedroom!"
(Laura walks past...)
Michelle: "Aye up, sex on legs.."

2. Laura
meaning 'from the laurel flower'
a beautiful name, in fact one of the best names ever.

hey laura, you're soo fly

3. Laura
a young woman, typically associated with romantic themes. Though the name originally came from the Roman tradition of placing a wreath of laurels on victors' heads, it has developed more emotional ties in recent years.

The most famous Laura is from Dr. Zhivago in which she is a star-crossed lover who leaves her true love to marry another man.

4. Laura
A really really cool person;
guys want her and girls want to be her.
Has many friends.
Everyone likes her,
they dont only pretend to like her.

Guy 1: Why can we never get a Laura?
Guy 2: They all already have great boyfriends.

Girl 1: Lauras so cool, I want to be her.
Girl 2: Your just lucky your her friend.

5. Laura
The person with this name is the most amazing person you will ever meet. After you say hi to her, magic fairy dust will sprinkle on your head and then you'll be able to FLY! OMG! Who WOULDN'T want to fly?

That girl is so cool. Her name must be Laura! *begins to fly*

6. Laura
a laura is a being, typically female, with an overall good personality
-lauras generally listen to good music and lack their own form of transportation
-one major flaw some lauras possess is their failure to watch donnie darko as often as they should
-although lauras have some faults, they are typically above average intelligence and liked by most

"dude, did you just see that laura over there?"

"i so did man, i so didddddddd"

7. laura
A really great girl either in the bed or on the floor. Also one of the kindest most beautiful chicks you'll ever meet. The kind you never let go of.

Man, I met a laura last night. I'm not gonna let this one get away!

8. Laura
A girl who is awesome in every way, can be shy at times and crazy (especially when she is sugar high) the next, but is always a fun person to be around. She likes to make lists and keep everything in order. She loves to be creative with her stories she writes, and takes too many photos on her camera. She loves to hang out with a group of friends at all times. Reading is her favorite pastime, and she barely ever misses a tv show. You will never regret ever meeting a Laura. She likes to keep everything in order, and makes sure everythings in its place, except not really :). She loves to make up one syllable words and languages out of these words. Her favorite number is 4 and she is really good at remembering numbers. Best Traits: can keep secrets when she wants to, can always cheer people and friends up, knows the right moment when a friends in need.

You cant live life without a Laura there to cheer you up.

9. Laura
-sex on a stick
-at times quiet
-doesn't talk to people she thinks aren't worth her time
-loves photography
-one of the most BEAUTIFUL girls you will ever meet!
-friendly
-classy
-gentle
-elegant
-the most intelligent person ever!
-artistic
-great taste in music
-f*&%ing great! the end.

"dude, do you see that laura over there?"

"totally dude, she is one suga' I'd open my bakery to"

10. laura
A beautiful sexy woman that should be treated like a princess at all times.

Dammmnn what a laura, I'd do anything for her

Human guinea pig is unwell and slightly paranoid.

2009-02-27T07:52:00.004-05:00

Since first developing allergies at the age of 12, and because of my inherited hypochondriac tendencies, I've always thought of myself as a human guinea pig. I prefer this term over "laboratory rat."

Let me see if I can lay this out for you without sounding totally crazy.

Here is a list of chemicals/food ingredients I've learned that my body can't handle:

1. Food dye Red No. 40 - turns me (and my oldest son) into the Incredible Hulk.

2. Monosodium glutamate - gives me (and my 1st and 3rd sons) migraine headaches. These are true migraines which include visual disturbances, headache, vomiting, sensitivity to light, and damage to brain cells (a scientific fact).

3. Aspartame, Splenda, sucralose, and any other artificial sweetener - make the skin on my face go numb. When I've had enough of one of these sugar substitutes, I can run a sharp fingernail down my cheek and not feel it.

4. High Fructose Corn Syrup - extended use or overingestion makes my heart feel like it's going to explode out of my chest. (Coincidentally, a study among actual laboratory rats resulted in female rats having their hearts enlarge until they exploded, and male rats not developing testicles.) So, yeah...you could also say it makes me feel like I have no balls. Just kidding!! And I notice a feeling of numbness around the joints in my fingers, wrists and knees.

5. Sulfites - found in every bottle of wine sold in America (unless someone can tell me otherwise). Again with the heart pounding and elevated blood pressure.

6. Common table salt and pure cane sugar - not sure about these, but I seem to be finding out that when I have too much of either, my blood pressure numbers skyrocket. It's well known that sodium levels affect blood pressure, but I wasn't sure about the effect of high blood sugar levels on blood pressure. Last night I found some info on the internet (yay) which may support that. And while I really don't eat a lot of sweets, I do occasionally have a lemonade, or make my own barbecue sauce out of catsup and brown sugar, or any number of other things that allow sugar to sneak its way into my body...

including chewing gum. And guess what ALL chewing gums on the market contain now, including Wrigley's? Aspartame. Which has probably been unleashing all kinds of weird chemical reactions in my body every time I pop a piece of gum in my mouth, all day long at work. Which may be why I can't get my blood pressure under control, despite my doctor having doubled the strength of my prescription. (In case you're wondering, two nights this week, the numbers were 140/100.)

So now I won't even chew gum. I hope someone steals all of it out of my desk this weekend.

And white bread? Pfft. Fuggeddaboutit. Not after what I read last night. In fact, I may just stop eating altogether. Because guess what? After not eating at all, my blood pressure is perfectly normal.

Songs That Make Me Uncomfortable

2009-02-26T12:00:00.004-05:00

It first happened when I was a teenager. I was on a road trip with my dad and my sister, presumably to take her back to college in Iowa, when we walked into a truck stop to eat. The song that was playing rather loudly when we entered the restaurant was Bad Company's Feel Like Making Love. It might not have been so bad if my dad wasn't there. I might not have been uncomfortable at all if it didn't feel like I was a place for 50,000 truckers to park their eyes.

The same thing has happened a few times over the years, usually when I'm eating alone in a restaurant, or when I'm the only woman in a gas station, etc.

I also have a slight phobia of police officers. It might have something to do with them always being assholes when I'm speeding, which of course I have never done. What I mean is they were assholes in the past when I was allegedly speeding and they erroneously gave me tickets.

So imagine my discomfort today when I was peacefully sitting at Long John Silver's, eating some possibly fake grilled tilapia, when Donna Summer's Love to Love You Baby started moaning and writhing out of the speakers like a cat in heat, and one of the two police officers sharing the restaurant was getting catsup about 2 feet away from me, whistling the love to love you baby part. Officer, please don't love to love me. Don't even love me. Don't even think about loving to love me. And then some other guy (perhaps a construction worker) came over to refill his drink, and kept positioning his body sideways so he could stare at me. I would have bent over a little to allow my hair to fall in my face, but I was afraid that might give the guy an unimpeded view down my top. Instead, I just kept shoveling food in my face. I ate my breadstick so that it would in no way resemble a sex act of any kind, hoping that I could either finish eating before Donna Summer ran out of breathlessness, or that the song would end along with the crawly feeling moving up and down my back.

As it turns out, Donna finished before I did, but my relief was short-lived. Because whoever created this 70's strip club playlist moved right into I Was Made for Loving You by KISS.

The Temperature of Hell

2009-02-26T09:11:00.000-05:00

This was forwarded to me by a co-worker:

HELL EXPLAINED BY CHEMISTRY STUDENT

The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington chemistry mid term. The answer by one student was so 'profound' that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of course, why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well.

Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed)or some variant. One student, however, wrote the following:

First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today. Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls
are added.

This gives two possibilities:

1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, 'It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you,' and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.

The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct......leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting 'Oh my God.'

THIS STUDENT RECEIVED AN A+.

Quotes by Maurita

2009-02-25T16:39:00.003-05:00

Quotes I would like to have attributed to me:

"Arguing with a New Yorker is like spitting into a hurricane."

"I've never been surprised by the similarity between the words marital and martial."

"Old people don't think stuff's funny."

Slips of the tongue that can fade away into oblivion:

Thirty minutes after telling a guy that I would like to kick his ass, I said, "You're just standing around waiting for an ass kissing, aren't you?"

Upon losing it when my kids refused to take no for an answer:
"From now on, when I say No, I MEAN YES!"

I'm sure there are more, because I'm quite brilliant, you know.

*eye roll*

Back to the Dark Ages!

2009-02-23T07:57:00.003-05:00

Astounding, is what it is. Perhaps embarrassing. Certainly a health hazard. But the sight of one little sign this morning caused me to cackle.

Due to the current company trend of cost cutting, my employer is no longer buying bottled water for its employees. Instead, they've installed a few reverse osmosis water dispensers throughout the hangar. And this morning, on my walk to the office, I did a double-take when I saw these words (printed on paper) on the side of one of them:

Please wash hands
before using and do not
tongue ladle!

And a white plastic ladle was lying there in the trough that catches water. It's true. We've gone back in time 200 years.

And I really want to know who's been tonguing the ladle.

T-Mobile Subway Event

2009-02-22T21:52:00.003-05:00

No doubt my (three?) British readers have already been inundated with this video, but it's possible the rest of you haven't.

What follows is a commercial shot for T-Mobile, in Liverpool Street Station on January 15, 2009. I'm not sure anyone who was there could've had a bad day after seeing this.

quivering with each moment like a drop of mercury

2009-02-22T13:45:00.005-05:00

On days like this, when the sun taunts us with a warm but faraway smile, I like to dust off my garden books and look at the pictures.

These (rephotographed and cropped) photos are by Richard W. Brown, from the book Tasha Tudor's Garden:

I love the striped, red parrot tulips.

Peach ruffles.

I'm wishing I'd planted tulips in the Fall!

I've always thought peonies were underrated. Fortunately, there's a cemetery full of them just down the road from me.

Ahhh, peaches. But I won't wish the summer away by looking at them too long, or too longingly.

Outside In

2009-02-21T12:07:00.004-05:00

Outside my window

including screen

Inside my window

a little bird - a gift to me from my niece.

Rick Santelli - Revolutionary?

2009-02-20T17:25:00.004-05:00

I love this guy! Make sure you pay attention to the comment about the '54 Chevy.

The Extent of My Practicality

2009-02-20T12:25:00.005-05:00

Because of the current economy, I've been told precisely fifteen times in the last month to "buy only what is necessary." This would be pretty straightforward for most people, but I have something wrong with my brain. I may even have a mental illness.

Case in point: the first full year I had a job. I was only 19, single, and still living with my parents. But that doesn't excuse how I spent my $1000 Christmas bonus. Actually, I can't tell you how I spent all of it. But I remember buying my brother a Jackalope. I bought my oldest brother something equally useless and expensive, and snowshoes for my dad. (The snowshoes are mine now, just to stir up some jealousy among those in my family who read me.)

Not practical. At all.

On my lunch hour, I went to Dollar General to buy laundry soap. While there, I was forced to decide whether some disposable window cleaners were "necessary" or not. I really need to clean the inside of the windshield in the truck, so, practical = check. Having paper towels and Windex at home already = not necessary. So I didn't buy this $2 freaking item. I was kind of proud of myself. Then I went to McDonald's, which I hate, and spent only $3 for lunch. Very conflicting, since I know how unhealthy that kind of food makes me. But spending only $3 meant I could drive over to the bookstore and browse -- and maybe even buy a book since I saved so much money on lunch and not buying window cleaner.

You may be wondering, Dear Reader, if I was able to escape the clutches of Barnes and Noble unscathed. Of course not. As soon as I hit the entryway, a book caught my eye. The Knitting Directory. Have I ever mentioned that I don't know how to knit? That's why I needed the book. Have I mentioned that I don't have knitting needles? Have I mentioned that I don't have yarn? These are minor hurdles along my path to learning how to knit. I prefer to think of these stumbling blocks as opportunities - because now that I have a book about how to knit, it becomes necessary for me to have knitting needles and yarn.

Do you see how it works?

And how could I pass up a piece of literature like the one titled When the Duke Returns? Of course I want the Duke to return. Maybe he's coming back from Waterloo, having single-handedly defeated Napoleon. Maybe he went to America to escape a huge gambling debt, leaving a younger brother to clean up the mess he made of his entire Estate. It was simply necessary for me to know why the Duke is returning, and what will happen to him when he gets here. There.

But I promise I won't spend any more money. Today.

Farm Wife Blues

2009-02-20T09:12:00.002-05:00

When I was a 7-year-old horse crazy girl, the quickest way to get me in the car when my parents were going to visit another set of boring old friends was to tell me that they had horses. Invariably, the boring old friends would have sold their horses five or ten years before that, which rendered them extra boring.

But my dad knew a couple of people with real farms - his cousin Mary in Missouri, and a church member who had moved out of the city to settle on a place he called Storybook Farm, where the wide variety of animals were named after characters from books. We visited the Missouri place only once while it was still a working farm with a milk cow, two mules, chickens, and probably cats and a dog, though I can't remember for sure. I was more impressed by the mules and cow, and that trip was the first and last time I milked a cow. I loved that place, and I still have dreams about (of all things) the house's attic.

It's probably no surprise, then, that I grew up dreaming that I would have a farm of my own someday. And the only way my feeble mind could imagine accomplishing this was to marry a farmer. If I married a farmer, I could have ALL the animals I wanted!

Wrong.

I think my husband hates animals. It's possible he does, since he's made it pretty clear that any animals I've had since we've been married were/are incredible, expensive nuisances. He may have privately rejoiced when two of my horses died in December. Just last night I finally figured out that he has been secretly live-trapping my cats, as part of a kitty relocation program.

My dream of having all the animals I ever wanted is now dead. Rest in Peace, dream.

Could it be Karma that the last thing caught in the live trap was a skunk?

What Strikes My Fancy Today

2009-02-19T13:28:00.005-05:00

Staying indoors

Am I the only one who can hear this cat making a raspberry sound?

A bearskin rug

Destructive to the environment, good for the soul.

A fireplace

Get one now, before your infrastructure fails.

A russian hat and coat

I don't know why I don't have one of these hats. I've always loved them, and apparently you can buy them from Russia in fox, sable, rabbit, or possum for $100 or less.

Playing dress up

What can I say. I love feathers. I must have been a burlesque dancer in a former life.

Author Bio

2009-02-17T07:50:00.009-05:00

Maurita Mason was born in 1962 in Indianapolis, the daughter of an Aquarian with a million hobbies and an accomplished artist. She is a graduate of the School of Hard Knocks, where she earned degrees in non-classical "literature," baby raising, and poultry. Maurita is the author of one-half a novel titled Untitled in which the reader is expected to finish the story and give the book a title. She is a complete and utter fake, as illustrated here by this poorly airbrushed photo. Blah blah blah, filler filler, blah blah blah, so I can get the text to wrap around the picture like it's supposed to.

Happy Birthday, Daddy

2009-02-15T20:23:00.004-05:00

Today would have been my dad's 81st birthday. I thought about him all day, of course, and decided it would be a good day to go visit my mom, since I rarely take the time to do that.

My son and I also seized the opportunity to bring home my dad's '93 Chevy truck, which my mom graciously said CW could have, since he turned 16 last August and we aren't rich enough to buy him a vehicle of his own.

My mom handed over the title and a "bill of sale," and after starting the truck with jumper cables, cleaning it out, and removing the abandoned mouse nest from under the seat, we began the 30 mile trip back home, with me in the lead. I thought about how happy it would make my dad to know that one of his grandkids would enjoy his truck and take care of it.

And all the way home, I got little jolts of bittersweetness every time I looked in the rear view mirror, because it was almost like seeing my dad back there, following me home.

Thanks for everything, Dad, and Happy Birthday.

Bad Housekeeping

2009-02-15T11:04:00.005-05:00

All working mothers know what it's like to be short on time and energy. Over the past two decades, I've discovered a few tricks to save on money, time and effort.

Are there any clean towels?

After a bath or shower, it's possible to towel off with only a small, dry wash cloth. This will eliminate larger loads of laundry, and perhaps save the environment!

Under the Rug

Buy only reversible throw rugs. Simply flip the rug over when one side gets dirty.

Write On!

Allowing dust to accumulate on furniture surfaces will provide a handy place to write notes to yourself or the family. Encourage everyone to have fun by playing hangman or tic-tac-toe!

This Really Sucks!

Do you own a Dyson or any other canister type vacuum? Letting dirt gather for up to 3 weeks in your carpets will make your sweeper seem even more powerful as you watch the canister fill up!

Go Green!

Leaving leftovers in the refrigerator for an extended period of time will speed up the decomposition process when moldy food items are added to compost. Also, isn't it possible your garden will be healthier if it has been on antibiotics?

The New Tie Dye

Boring white shirt? Leave it in the bottom of a damp clothes hamper for at least a week to give the shirt a permanent, speckled effect.

Community Sock Basket

Tired of matching socks? Just throw all the clean socks in one laundry basket, and let the family hunt for their own socks. Your children and possibly your husband will feel as if they are doing their share to help around the house.

I may add to this list over time. Feel free to share your own hints in the comment section!

Save Joaquin!! Or not...

2009-02-12T16:19:00.005-05:00

Joaquin Phoenix appeared on David Letterman last night. Did you see it? Have you seen the clip? There are five possible explanations for this humorous/sad/painful interview:

a) Joaquin has gone completely batshit;
b) Joaquin is painfully shy and was forced to be on the show by his publicist;
c) Joaquin is on something bad;
d) Joaquin became possessed by the ghost of Johnny Cash during the filming of Walk the Line, thus opening a portal for other dead celebrities to enter his body, including Anna Nicole Smith and perhaps Kurt Cobain;
e) Joaquin is embracing his bad press and exploiting it.

I tend to believe the explanation is e, because the guy is just too brilliant for it to be anything else. What do you think?

Vacation Day!

2009-02-10T09:02:00.002-05:00

Son #3 has a dental appointment shortly after noon, so I'm taking this opportunity to use one of my 13 vacation days left before June 1st. (I'm saving the rest for when my soldier is home on mid-tour leave in May.) It's windy out there, but warmer (about 53 degrees F, moving up to 64 in the afternoon), with a chance for thunderstorms and tornadoes tonight! In case I haven't mentioned it, I embrace bad weather, but only if it's warm.

I'm biorhythmically moving into one of my introspective periods, which means fewer posts and comments. At least I understand my own patterns and can predict them, even if I haven't yet managed to figure out prevention. I may be on to something, though: a co-worker invited me yesterday to walk the six flights of stairs that flank the interior of the hangar and lead to a catwalk at the ceiling. If I lead up to doing this every day, five days a week, I'll be well on my way to restructuring my bird legs, having thighs and calves, and maybe preventing a fluctuation in mood. And if I end up looking like the lower half of Beyonce, who am I to complain?

One of the things I've been thinking about lately is how painful self-restraint is for me. And not just self-restraint, but being forced by other people or by circumstances to refrain from doing something - especially spending money. It's bad enough that I live with a tightwad at home, but now I'm faced with a tightwad employer. Since I started my current job, I've been in charge of ordering office supplies for my department. Because of the current economy, the only thing I can order is paper, and even that has to go through the approval of four managers. This means no Post-It notes! No pens! No multi-colored miniature legal notepads! Do you know how much that hurts me? It's a good thing I have my purple, refillable Dr. Grip gel pen, with the dozen-or-so black ink refills I ordered a while back just in case. I may have stumbled upon an entrepeneurial opportunity, though. While I still have staples, I'm going to take discarded printer paper, cut it into quarters, and staple it (blank side up) into small note pads and sell them to my co-workers.
(Note: While I understand that if you "take care of the pennies, the dollars will take care of themselves," it seems a bit laughable when you consider that the top five executives of my company are pulling in a total of 44 million dollars. I say slice from the top of the cake first. I'll bet the top of the cake has Post-It notes!)

So that's it. I'm spoiled rotten, and never would have survived The Great Depression. Especially since Post-It Notes weren't invented yet.

Without a Trace

2009-02-08T11:28:00.004-05:00

It really shouldn't come as a shock to me that I've lost nearly all of my Journalspace posts. Google got tired of holding them for me. The important ones, I mean. I also failed to download the zip file that was sent to me, before the new owners took over the Journalspace domain. (Stupid, stupid stupid!!)

I'm trying to remember one very short poem I placed there. It isn't even a good poem, but I liked it because it reminded me of my human frailty. It said very loudly that I'm not a saint, and that being married doesn't make me immune to the appeal of men.

It went something like this:

I know the way my eyes glide over you
like a pair of ice dancers.
If they linger in one spot too long
(your lower lip)
I'll burn.

these boots aren't made for walking

2009-02-06T09:47:00.010-05:00

If I had known what a stir my new boots would cause, I would have photographed them before I left home this morning so I could show them to you. I guess it isn't saying much to write that the heads of a few aircraft mechanics were turned by one pair of off-white boots with jeans tucked into them, but allow me my illusions. Apparently they "look good all the way across the hangar." I could air traffic control with these boots, or I could perhaps cause a disaster the likes of which haven't been seen since the movie Airplane.

But seriously. These boots are so hot that I almost can't stand my own hotness. It's like when you were a kid, and somebody had a woodburning stove, and you couldn't stop yourself from touching it, so you licked your finger and touched the stove. And it really was hot and your finger made a sizzling sound. That kind of hot.

The downside is that the boots weren't made for snow. In snow, I take one step forward and three steps back. It's like I'm doing the moon walk, but in white boots, and in the snow. And without a glove, because I left mine in the truck.

So, anyway, please tell me how much you like my boots. Because all the cool people are doing it.

That fuzzy stuff along the bottom of the photo is smoke, of course.

Wow, more smoke!

Shut it off at the thingie/keep it somewhere warm.

2009-02-03T17:06:00.003-05:00

I'm such a mom. Really. I always considered myself very hands-off where the lives of other people are concerned - especially when those other people are my children. But, apparently not.

My almost-21-year-old son moved out for the second time on Sunday, into an old house which is, presumably, in need of repair. The owner has agreed to trade work on the house for rent, and J-dub is naturally gung-ho about that. So just now he came home to check his Facebook and Myspace, and asked where I'd stored a gallon of wall primer he knew I had. I found the paint and handed it over, because God knows my lazy ass won't be using it any time in the near future, then I began asking him if he needed dishwasher soap, toilet paper, floor cleaner, carpet shampoo.

"No, Mom, we're going to the store to get all that, and a ceiling light, because the living room has no lights in it." He said something about an exhaust fan in the middle of the ceiling (???), and he was going to put a light there.

I said, "Do you know how to do wiring? Do you know you have to shut it off at the thingie?"

He laughed, of course. Silly me; he might still be a little bit blonde, but he'll never be as blonde as his mother.

After I filled his arms with a baggie full of dishwasher soap, a bottle of Dawn dish detergent, and assorted other necessities, I said, "Don't forget your paint can." As he leaned over to pick it up I added, "Keep it somewhere warm!"

The only reason I could see him smiling as he walked out the door was because he was shaking his head from side to side.

Beer for My Soldiers

2009-02-02T13:43:00.004-05:00

I chatted on instant messenger with my son briefly today. He said that his entire base got beer for the Superbowl -- except for the infantry platoons, because they're required to drive. I call bullshit, and so did my son's buddies. They stole some and took it back their rooms. I'm pretty sure the stolen beer amounted to about one each, so there's no danger of camels being struck by Humvees or anything.

*edit - I just realized that allowing soldiers in a war zone to have only one or two beers is akin to taking Anna Kournikova to Iraq to entertain the troops, but dressing her in a burkah.

Ready, Set, Action

2009-02-01T11:17:00.009-05:00

It seems to me that the more popular blogs on the internet are the ones that deal with doing. They are the action verbs of the blog world - more powerful, efficient, exciting. This blog, like its owner, is a passive verb. It doesn't accelerate, leap, flutter, grind, or even splash. It is told, not shown.

And here's why.

On the evening of my birthday, I grabbed my camera on the way out as we were leaving for dinner. I was going to blog about my birthday dinner.

It was a beautiful late January evening, about 6 p.m. Almost dusk, with snow flurries and a hushed blanket of snow over everything. We took the most scenic route to the restaurant - a winding, paved road through the woods, past hills and creeks and a river.

As I was admiring the black and white landscape, I suddenly exclaimed, "I should be taking pictures!"

This photo was taken from the moving vehicle, because my cry of "I should be taking pictures" didn't slow my husband down a bit. I love this little farmstead, that has probably been on this hillside for over a hundred years. I don't even know if anyone lives there anymore.

Hubby may have nearly stopped for this photo, but only because he had just rounded a 90-degree curve.

And here we are, flying over a bridge which crosses the White River. Definitely no stopping here, with traffic in front of and behind us. This is when hubby said, "It really makes me nervous when you do that," meaning, take a photo from a moving vehicle with the camera hanging precariously outside the window with just my two clumsy hands holding it.

After we arrived at the restaurant, and keeping in mind that I hadn't eaten for 24 hours because of my illness, I chose to drink a strawberry daquiri. It was a deliberate decision to have something with rum in it, because sailors drank rum, and it couldn't be too awful on an iffy stomach. I forgot to photograph the daquiri. And the next one.

But I remembered to shoot the first course of the meal: the restaurant's signature beef and onion soup, complete with a bit of french bread and some mozzarella cheese in the bottom.

Looks delicious, doesn't it? DOESN'T IT? Maybe it's just me, but it seems their bowls are getting smaller. Damn the American economy!

I only remembered to get a pic of my salad when I was halfway done. This just looks gross.

I swear the french dressing is amazing, though. But again with the smaller portions.

Then the main course - a 10 ounce New York Strip, grilled medium well, with a baked potato rubbed with butter and sea salt. Yes, it's out of focus. The rum made me not care.

Simple fare, to be sure, but the best, most flavorful steaks anywhere close to home.

And that, my darlings, is why I don't show you where I go and what I do.

Why I'm not Brilliant

2009-01-31T13:38:00.002-05:00

Too many details clutter my brain. If I'm out getting Subway sandwiches for everyone, I know that hubby wants a six inch Philly Cheese Steak on white bread, with American cheese, lettuce and mayonnaise. CW (#3 son) wants his Philly Cheese Steak on twelve inches of Italian herbs and cheese bread, toasted, with American cheese, lettuce, onions, and yellow and green peppers. Then slathered with mayo. And J-dub (#2 son) will eat whatever I get for him...if he is even around to eat. And no one but me and J-dub will eat tomatoes.

Then we have everyone's social security numbers, account numbers, cell phone numbers, Army Brigade designation, and clothing sizes. With the exception of J-dub, the men in my family rarely buy clothing for themselves. Soldier buys the occasional t-shirt, but each time I see him, you can bet he's going to be wearing something I bought for him 4 or 5 Christmases ago. I don't know what he's going to do when he comes home for mid-tour leave in May, since all of his civilian clothes are in storage somewhere in Colorado Springs. Shoe sizes? From hubby to youngest son - 10 1/2, 10, 11, and 13. (Each time I grew a baby in my tummy, I figured out how to make it larger.)

On top of all that, I have to know that a #2 Engine Boroscope goes in the 2-4 hour block of an MD-10 B-check, and about a thousand other things.

So is it any wonder that I don't have room for Shakespeare, or Nietzche, or HTML?

Please acknowledge me.

2009-01-29T16:06:00.003-05:00

I think it's human nature to want to be noticed. Acknowledged. To matter, somehow.

So today, on my birthday, please notice me. Please acknowledge that I survived not only birth, but another 47 years on top of that horrible experience, which I barely remember. In fact, I don't remember a lot of the 47 years that followed the horrid birth experience, but I remember that today is my birthday.

I had big plans for today! I took a vacation day so I could accomplish a huge list of things. Like, I don't know...really, I didn't write any of it down...but I was going to do, you know, stuff. A painting, maybe. Some photography. A little writing. Shopping. But then, precisely at sometime in the afternoon yesterday, a virus entered my bowels, and the virus has left me feeling weak, empty, and unaccomplished.

I did get to chat with my son in Iraq for quite a while, though, and that's a pretty good birthday gift.

When's YOUR birthday, so I can acknowledge your survival too?