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

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.

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

Outside my window

including screen

Inside my window

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

Rick Santelli - Revolutionary?

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

The Extent of My Practicality

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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!

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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?

Another Etsy Discovery: D. Prizzi

I've been downhearted baby
Ever since the day we met
Our love is nothin' but the blues
Baby how blue can you get...

My new favorite artist at etsy is D. Prizzi. While it may have been her blues that first attracted me, it was her skill as an artist that made me fall in love.


Do you not want to gobble up this delectable tart? Is your mouth watering? Look at the light reflected in the berries, that hint of gold around the rim of the plate. Just beautiful.


This painting makes me want to be British and drink more tea.


I love the juxtaposition of colors here. The Granny Smith green with the turquoise of the plate. And that warmth of red beneath. There's a great deal to be said about the composition, too, if I really knew anything about composition. I only know that it looks exactly right.

The artist appears to be quite beautiful, herself. You may see more of her work on her lovely blog.

On My Toes

I just hopped over to etsy to see what people are selling these days, and one of the featured items comes from genepierson's shop.



I've always had a secret thing for ballet dancers, probably since the time I was five years old and tried to discover a way to dance on my toes.

Anyway, there's something I love about this photo, and the others that can be found at the link above.

Movies That Almost Slipped Through the Cracks

In between all the stuff I didn't do this weekend, I managed to squeeze in one book and two movies.

The thing about being a Netflix subscriber is that you feel compelled to return movies as quickly as possible so you feel you're getting your money's worth, which means more movies coming back to you, which means you really have to stay on top of your queue and not let it get empty like I did once, leaving me drumming my fingers wondering what the hell was wrong with Netflix that they weren't getting my movies out to me. Until I pulled up their website and saw that, oops, my queue was empty.

However, when you're watching as many movies in a month as I am, while trying to choose what will please the men in the household, it can start to be a bit of a crap shoot. Sometimes I don't have the knack for picking good films, and sometimes I let good ones get away entirely.

I hit the jackpot this weekend, though. Two films I would give five out of five stars:



The Brave One, 2007

Jodie Foster brilliantly portrays a New York radio personality who loses her fiance when they are both beaten in a brutal attack. The film explores the astonishing (and almost gratifying) way her character deals with the feelings of fear and victimization that are left behind, culminating in revenge on the thugs responsible for the attack. It's vigilante justice at its finest. Last line: There is no going back, to that other person, that other place. This thing, this stranger, she is all you are now.



Eagle Eye, 2008

Shia LaBeouf (Transformers and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull) is Jerry Shaw, the unmotivated and underachieving twin of an Air Force officer who dies suddenly in a car accident. Jerry's life shifts suddenly into high gear when, shortly after burying his brother, he discovers a checking account balance of $571,000, and subsequently goes to his apartment to discover an arsenal has been shipped to him box by box. A phone call from a mysterious woman unleashes a series of events that will keep YOU away from the bathroom and glued to the screen, because "you have been activated. Your compliance is vital."

A Novel Idea

This morning on the way home from buying my Saturday morning cup of coffee, two characters found their way into my head as if they had just arrived by train and I was meeting them at the station. This happened to me about ten years ago (before The Internet took over my life), and the story of those two characters burned inside of me until I had to write it halfway down. Then, like ignored guests, they hopped back on the train and went somewhere else.

I've never really discussed story ideas with anyone, ever since I read that it interrupts the flow of creative energy to do so. But I will say that this will be a love story, set in Oklahoma during the Dust Bowl Era.



And guess what? Just as a survivor of the Great Depression was distrustful of banks, I'll be writing my story on paper. I have no faith in electronics.

Kate Winslet: A Photographic Tribute

Kate Winslet. Is it weird that I love her so much? Is it odd that I have watched Sense and Sensibility 500 times? She was 19 when she played the role of Marianne Dashwood in that film. Nineteen. I can't even recall what I was doing when I was nineteen, and, thankfully, it wasn't filmed.



I like that she doesn't consider herself a movie star. "Please don't call me [a movie star]. I don’t feel like a movie star in my life at all, and I don’t particularly think I behave like one."



With her son, Joe. I never look that good when going to Wal-Mart. Or, well, anywhere, for that matter.



Ah, the fair skin. If I had known how beautiful fair skin is, I never would have tanned like everyone else I knew.



One for the guys.



I don't know. From the set of Revolutionary Road, maybe? I love the dress. And the gloves. It would be worth it to be an actress, just to play dress-up.

By the way, I used to HATE Leonardo DiCaprio. Hate, hate, hate. Like, Tom Cruise hate. But I find I like him quite a lot now that he's a man. It's like someone took sandpaper and roughed up his edges.

What the Doctor said.

After work, I went to my "primary care physician" for the second time in two years. I'd forgotten what a great guy he is, easy to talk to, relaxed (I want to be on whatever he's on). My reason for going was that my prescription for blood pressure medicine had run out, and even though my BP isn't horrible without it, it's high enough to do some long-term damage to those little red hoses running through my body.

I've always loved going to doctors, which is ironic, since I hardly ever go, and it was especially fun to be going to a professional who wasn't going to stick horrible things in my mouth. Back when I was a young mother - high-strung, under-pampered, and most likely depressed - I would cry the moment a doctor asked me how I was. I think it was because no one else ever asked and really cared what the answer was. It's a miracle I wasn't subsequently doped up with anti-depressants.

But today, I got to connect with someone who likes to talk about all the same things I like to talk about, including me. (ha!) He (a licensed medical doctor!) agreed with me about high fructose corn syrup, and was very interested when I told him the significant effect that giving up soda had on my blood pressure. He was impressed that I'm eating more fresh, natural foods, that I'm trying to avoid manmade processed crap, that I know I need to exercise more and that I'm aware of the effects of sodium on my body. After writing my scripts, he told me to come back in 6 months, or sooner if I wanted to. I said that it was probably time for me to have a physician other than my self. When he asked if I "go online," I wanted to say, "Of course! Where do you think I got my medical degree?" But I didn't, and he passed along a couple of websites about natural health that he thought would interest me.

It kinda made that whole dentist ordeal go away for a while.

I'm so cool today.

I got a pingback and a trackback on a post I did at Journalspace: my attempt at debunking the myth about crop circles after my youngest son was awake all night worrying about them, and the year 2012.

It doesn't matter that I'm probably about to get slammed by a bunch of weirdos who actually believe in extraterrestrials. I'm up for the challenge, because I'm so uber cool.

I'm also not concerned that no one has followed the links yet.

I'm Teething.

I figured out why my mouth is still hurting. There appears to be a sliver of bone of unknown size making a magical journey through my gums. This little alien has a name - a sequestrum - something that happens as a result of a difficult or traumatic tooth extraction. Not sure if I mentioned it before, but the tooth extraction was pretty difficult and traumatic. I had enough adrenaline rushing through my body to take out the entire offensive line of a professional football team. Or at least to jump up and punch my dentist in the face.

But that's all over with now, and my memories of the pain are receding. Now all I'm left with is a constant cutting sensation which has suddenly made me sympathetic toward babies. So if you have a baby who is teething and slightly cranky, just remember that your baby doesn't have a cache of Vicodin in its purse.

all alone

I'm alone in the house for the second night in a row.

Solitude used to be one of my favorite things, but tonight I find myself feeling pretty unsettled. Last night I simply slept through two movies. Tonight, with plenty of things to do, no Sandman in sight, and a glass of wine in my hand, I'm just...well...lonely.

Maybe I'll drive 10 miles to McDonald's for some coffee, then 10 miles back.

That should kill enough time to enable me to fall asleep with another movie.

In the Valley of Elah

Since re-subscribing to Netflix with the “three at a time” option, we’ve been watching a lot of movies. And because I have to severely limit the chick flicks, I find myself leaning toward two genres: war movies, and thrillers. The interesting thing is that films about war now make my husband very uncomfortable; in fact, he refused to watch one film centered around the war in Iraq. I have to admit that I find myself viewing these films from a more emotional or empathic place. Even World War II films have the power to evoke some kind of cinematic bond between me and the mothers of celluloid soldiers.

So it was with some uncertainty that I popped in a DVD last night of the film In the Valley of Elah, which stars Tommy Lee Jones as the father of a modern day soldier just back from Iraq, and Charlize Theron as a policewoman who helps investigate the son’s disappearance and death.

One of the critical reviews of the movie at Netflix stated that the movie “centers around Tommy Lee Jones’ persona, and that’s why it works.” I found that to be very true, because Tommy Lee Jones appears to me to be someone who has suffered greatly. His face looks like it should belong to a farmer from Nebraska instead of an actor…or even to a man who sacrificed himself and the lives of his two sons in service to his Country.

It’s easy to see the anti-Iraq war sentiment. But what is really remarkable about the film is the very true portrayal of the effect of the war on young men. The attitudes, the words, the laughter over things I would consider sickeningly morbid are things I’ve witnessed myself when visiting with my son and his Army buddies. It’s their way of coping with the reality of the things they have seen and the friends they have lost.

Anyway, great film, and if you’re a Tommy Lee Jones fan, a must-see. It made getting this new photo from my son tonight, very poignant.

the tooth fairy and me

In early Europe, there was a tradition to bury baby teeth that fell out. Some believe that the Tooth Fairy evolved from the tooth mouse depicted in an 18th century French language fairy tale. In "La Bonne Petite Souris," a mouse changes into a fairy to help a good queen defeat an evil king by hiding under his pillow to torture him and knocking out all his teeth. (Source: Wikipedia.)

So in the interest of continuing the tooth fairy tradition, I asked my dentist on Wednesday if I could have the tooth he decided it was necessary to extract. He assured me I didn't want it. But what if I had put it under my pillow, and the tooth fairy (i.e. my husband) decided to leave a twenty there? We will never know.

After the dentist's toilsome job of pulling my tooth, I decided to tell my favorite tooth fairy story. When my middle son was 5 or 6, I happened to remember my role as fairy (which sometimes wasn't the case, and I would have to "find" money under the bed or behind the headboard to cover for the lapse), and tiptoed into his room to perform my duties. The next morning he came to me and said, "Mom, I saw the tooth fairy last night."

"Did you?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, his bright blue eyes sparkling up at me. "She looked like an angel."

Today on the JS Homepage

Recent Comments
(because I couldn't accept not having them anymore.)

You know how I know you're gay?
You dress your kids in matching jackets.
That's punishable by swirlies and wedgies here in the US, you know.
- TOBP-Steve in dickbar's journal


I can only imagine when you say WORK you are messing around. Well maybe you are "messing around" but that kind of messing around is actually hard work in my mind. HAve fun!!! Love, Bobby
- Fijufic in dirtyshadeofgray's journal


Dinner, drinks, and bed - no fair that a 5-year-old gets that and I don't.
- SamanthaBaker in StupidWorkGirl's journal


And I was wrong, you're not Lermontov....he would've met up with the guy, nailed him in the alley, and then went out drinking with friends.
- TOBP-Steve in Lizardo's journal


Yep – the Welshman was the right advice to give. If you want her to be sexually dissatisfied and to turn to you for solace that is. You have sheep in Australia I believe? That’s all that’s necessary.
- Simon in lermontov-lives's journal

Falling Again for Snow

I used to love it, the quiet fall of crystals, the muted crunch and a squeek underfoot, back in the days when I didn't wear a coat until Old Man Winter demanded it in January. Snow fell deeper then, and warmer, in huge downy blankets that insulated us from the world.

I also wasn't a driver then.

But I had a sled, and I wasn't afraid to use it. I knew how to make igloos and snowmen and snow angels. My feet flew on ice skates along the creek in the woods, and, later, glided over the top of snow drifts on snowshoes like a web-footed bird.

It wasn't difficult to love snow, because I lived in it. I even babysat for a family who would transport me to and from their home on a snowmobile. Now there's a ride, especially after dark.

Somewhere amid 20 years of long drives to and from work, however, I've learned to despise snow. Until a random program on television brought back to me all of its beauty, in microscopic detail.



Snowflakes were first photographed by Wilson A. Bentley in 1885, using an adapted microscope and mutated bellows camera.

If these were diamonds, only Kings could afford them. To us, they are free.

In the 1993 film Groundhog Day, Bill Murray's character, finally getting it right on his umpteenth repeat of February 2nd, reports Punxsutawney Phil's shadow sighting this way:

"When Chekov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak and dark and bereft of hope. Yet, we know that winter is just another step in the cycle of life. But standing here amongst the people of Punxsutawney and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn’t imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter."

Everyone's a Comedian

I don't mind telling you that an abscessed tooth makes for a crappy week.

On Thursday and Friday, I went to work with a swollen cheek. The first thing I said to my co-worker, Russ, when I arrived at work on Thursday was "I brought extra acorns for lunch if you want any," then pointed at my cheek.

My friend John said it looked like something alien was growing on the side of my face. "It's a fetus," I replied. Then on Friday, he said it seemed to be growing legs. "But not fast enough," I said. He suggested I sprinkle fertilizer on it.

I kept asking my co-workers if they had an ice skate I could use to extract my own tooth. Would you believe no one at FedEx has one?

And finally, Russ is one of the kindest and most gentle men I've ever known, which made the following comments even funnier to me. He suggested that I go home and ask my husband to punch the other side of my face to even things out. He said (in an aside to someone else), "They're just like a bad screen door. You have to slam 'em a few times to straighten 'em out."

I laughed, of course. Then hurt even more.

Vicodin Dreams

I stayed home from work all day yesterday, because my face felt like a used punching bag. I've never experienced anything like this, and wonder how my tooth got so bad. It's not like there is a visible cavity or anything; in fact, I think it's a tooth that my dentist worked on a couple of months ago, trying to save me from a root canal.

I tried to use the Vicodin sparingly. But pain can be a compelling reason to use it. And while I slept in the afternoon, I had a couple of very strange dreams.

In the first one, my husband brought to my attention what he believed was a dead chicken. The chicken was small and brown, and limp when I picked it up to carry it toward the house. As I stepped inside, it made a noise. I stuck my head out the door and said, "Would a chicken go "eep, eep, eep" if it was dead?

My husband answered, "It's just a reaction." I assumed he meant a reaction of the nervous system that can occur after death, like a muscle twitching. I didn't believe him, of course.

So I put the chicken in a cardboard box. It stood up and began to walk around.

I stuck my head out the door again and said (in a tone laced with a little disgust), "Would a chicken WALK if it was dead?"

Then the dream switched to twin tornadoes. Tornadoes in dreams are a recurring event for me, and I'm never frightened of them. Just fascinated. This time, the tornadoes ran nearly parallel to each other, offset enough that I could see them both. The detail was amazing.

I was just ready to jump in the truck to go survey the damage when I woke up.

Then I remembered the chicken dream, and went to give hubby hell about it. I'm still not sure I've forgiven him.

Of Toothaches and True Love

I have an infected tooth, even though my dentist didn't exactly say so. He didn't say so even though the right side of my face feels as if it's on fire, and my upper and lower jaws ache, and my throat hurts when I swallow, and it feels like someone is shoving a fist through my head when I bite down on a french fry. Taking into consideration all of these facts, I decided to ask my dentist for an antibiotic this afternoon since he didn't offer me one. And, well, Vicodin for the pain. That he offered. And that I accepted willingly and with so much grace it would embarrass you.

Something very odd happens to me when I suffer from excruciating pain. I become really pleasant. It doesn't matter that I can't really focus my eyes on anything. Or that I can't do my job very well. What matters is that I'll be extremely pleasant while not functioning as a human being. And I think that counts for something.

Being in pain also makes me love my husband very much. Here's a photo and some words to prove it.



I took this photo of My Mater the day I took the fog photos in an earlier post. Just look at how strong and tough he looks. Don't you wish you had a man who could wrangle all that firewood with only his bare hands and a hydraulic wood splitter? Okay, maybe you do have a man like that. If you're a woman, I mean.

But maybe you don't have a man like this. Last night I was in bed, and he said, "You look so beautiful lying there." He said I was glowing. I resisted the urge to ask if I was running a fever, and instead I smiled and my soul opened up like a flower.

One Wild Oat

When I started this blog back in 2006, I gave it some random title I can't remember. After a long absence (during which I entirely forgot about its existence), I came back to begin writing again. But I wanted a different title. And as usual, like trying to name a pet, it became a huge, agonizing issue.

I wanted something unique, of course. Something mysterious. Maybe even glamorous. A title that fit me somehow, even if I couldn't even figure out how it fit.

I asked myself, who is glamorous and mysterious? and the first woman I thought of was Audrey Hepburn. I don't know why I thought of her, because I've never really been a fan of anything but portraits of her.



So I IMDb'd Audrey. And discovered that before she was famous, she was an extra in a 1951 film titled One Wild Oat. For whatever reason, I liked it. I identified with "one." I identified with "wild." And I certainly identified with Oat, being a farmer's wife and a horse lover.

As for the more common definition of "wild oat," well...

Okay, I admit it. I sowed a wild oat before I was married, and that's why my oldest son is here. But there was just the one. I mean it. And it sprouted nicely in the field of marriage and became a soldier and a gentleman, which makes it all okay I suppose.

Lassitude

I twice posted this elsewhere, in journals long ago and far away.

I.

The angels gathered me with silver wingtips. Their breath was white as winter, drifting across my collarbone then far away into my heart. It was dark, but their light illuminated me, slanting across my wounds and making shadows of them. The shadows were shaped like dark demons laughing at me ha ha ha, making light of my pain, running to and fro outside the circle of luminaries, trying to penetrate the holy, wanting to defeat it. I bowed backwards, pulling strength from my soul and from the purified breath of angels, and after one long defiant scream the demons ate my silence and were destroyed.

II.

The story was written long ago in a giant book, broken-spined and bound in kidskin. It does not end the way we think.

III.

Once there was a room full of silent gestures. The gestures could not be seen or felt or understood in any way. There was no way out.

Favorite Writers: Richard Brautigan

My first encounter with Richard Brautigan was in a used bookstore in Lebanon, Indiana. I was on a run to pick up tractor parts for my husband, and had seen the bookstore's huge sign painted on the side of an old brick building. This kind of detour was a necessary part of my existence: living far from everything as I do, with a practical husband, I've learned that "there's no reason to make a special trip."

I was browsing the shelves when the owner, an obvious refugee of the 1960's, asked if he could help me find something. I asked if he knew of any other writers from the "Beat Generation," besides Jack Kerouac or Allen Ginsberg. While I liked Kerouac's early writings, some of his later stuff was too much for me, and I couldn't stomach Allen Ginsberg at all. (No, I will not apologize.)

He reached up and pulled from the shelf a copy of Trout Fishing in America. "It has nothing to do with trout fishing." he said. "Richard Brautigan is one of my favorites. I think you'll like him."

So I took Richard home, and proceeded to fall in love.



He's such a hippie.

But he was a hippie with a unique way of seeing things, and I love that in a writer. I can't type here my absolute very favorite line of his until I get home and pull it out of a book. So until then, here's a poem:

Boo, Forever

Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.

Richard Brautigan

It's cold in Baghdad

Thirty-nine degrees, to be exact. It's about the same where I am. But when it gets below freezing here, the way it has since a cold front began making its way through Iraq three days ago, we don't have camels trying to drink through ice in the pond. To even things out, they don't have Santa Claus or Carson Daly.

More About the Moleskine

What could be more endearing to the budding writer or artist than an item used by Van Gogh, Picasso, and Hemingway?

Yes, that's what I thought, the moment I saw my first Moleskine® notebook. Though I love art and have dabbled in oil paints, it was Hemingway who drew me to the Moleskine®. It gave me visions of sitting in a sidewalk cafe in Paris, jotting notes or sketching the Eiffel Tower from afar. Or sitting in an apartment lit by one window, at a table with only a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. Complete and total Romance.

In the secret little back pocket of every Moleskine®, you'll find a booklet about this marvel. There you'll find its history written in six languages:

Moleskine is the legendary notebook used by European artists and thinkers for the past two centuries, from Van Gogh to Picasso, from Ernest Hemingway to Bruce Chatwin. This trusty, pocket-size travel companion held skketches, notes, stories and ideas before they were turned into famous images or pages of beloved books.

Originally produced by small French bookbinders who supplied the Parisian stationery shops frequented by the international avant-garde, by the end of the twentieth century the Moleskine notebook was no longer available. In 1986, the last manufacturer of Moleskine, a family operation in Tours, closed its shutters forever. "le vrai Moleskine n'est plus" were the lapidary words of the owner of the stationery shop in Rue de l'Ancienne Comedie where Chatwin stocked up on the notebooks. The English writer had ordered a hundred of them before leaving for Australia: he bought up all the Moleskine that he could find, but they were not enough.

In 1998, a small Milanese publisher brought Moleskine back again. As the self-effacing keeper of an extraordinary tradition, Moleskine once again began to travel the globe. To capture reality on the move, pin down details, impress upon paper unique aspects of experience: Moleskine is a reservoir of ideas and feelings, a battery that stores discoveries and perceptions, and whose energy can be tapped over time.

The legendary black notebook is once again being passed from one pocket to the next; with its various different page styles it accompanies the creative professions and the imagination of our time. The adventure of Moleskine continues, and its still-blank pages will tell the rest.

With such a rich history behind it, don't you think you deserve one, too? Even if you don't think of yourself as a writer or artist (who among us isn't?), you won't regret having a Moleskine. If nothing else, it will give you a place to gather autographs, like the genuine signature I got from Country artist Josh Turner before he made it big. I think he really liked me. Or maybe he just wanted my Moleskine.

2009: Year of Reinvention

Is there something about your "personality" that you don't like? Are you stuck in a rut? Do you take the easy way out, slipping back into old patterns? Would you like to WOW everyone you know and take The World by storm? Well, you're in luck, because 2009 is the Year of Reinvention. And do you know why? Because 2009 is not divisible by 3. That makes this year a magical one for everybody. Your dreams are going to come true. Just follow these five easy steps:

1. Forget who you think you are. You aren't lazy, shy, a coward, or any other label that your family stuck on you with super glue. Really, you aren't. You are a spirit designed with infinite possibility. You can do anything. You can be anyone you want at any given moment, as long as you remain true to your core values and beliefs.

I figured this out at my father's funeral, when I stood up in front of everyone to read a note I had written to him. For years I had convinced myself I wasn't a public speaker. That I was shy. That I didn't have the guts or the skill to speak publicly. But I heard my dad's voice in my ear, saying "Get on up there; you can do it," and his hand on the small of my back pushing me forward. It doesn't matter that I had taken a Xanax twenty minutes earlier. I would have done it anyway. All I'm saying is that if you need to take drugs to reinvent yourself, go ahead. Okay, I'm kidding. Really. Don't take drugs. Drugs are bad.

2. Be enthusiastic. Pick one thing to be enthused about, even if it's small. Even if it's your job. Be a dork about it if you must (see #3), but I promise you that your enthusiasm will spread to others, and to other areas of your life. If you've ever seen enthusiasm at play in someone else, you know what I mean.

3. Stop worrying about what other people think. Guess what? They aren't thinking at all. And usually, when people of limited growth gossip, what they're really saying is I have so many personal flaws that I can't do anything but talk about other people.

4. Write your goals on paper. If you want to do one nice thing for someone else each day, write it down. If you want to write a screenplay, pencil it in. If you want to rid the world (or just the cabinet over your left shoulder) of cobwebs, write it down. Can I suggest a Moleskine? You can find these little beauties at Barnes and Noble (and elsewhere) and they are now available in a variety of colors and sizes, making them very convenient to carry. I've been buying them for years, but this time I chose red.



5. Small things can be successes, too. Every time you do something right, or get a little closer to one of your big goals, you gain confidence. Find something you're good at, and become better. Find something you've never tried but would like to, and learn everything you can about it. Invest in yourself.

Remember when you were a child, and you wanted to be a ballerina, or a fire fighter, or an astronaut? Figure out how to finally do it. There are ways. If you can't find a way, make one.

At least 3 of anything is a collection.

I'm not really a collector. Not in the sense that I will go hog wild over something if I see it in a store or flea market, or in a shop-on-eBay kind of way. But I have accidentally gathered some things in groups of three or more.

Cats. Boys. Little sheep in various forms. Feathers. I did have three horses, but I'm down to one. And that's about it, since long ago I stopped going to auctions and flea markets.

However, I now seem to be working on a collection of bird plates.

I never understood the idea of collecting plates. If you can't eat off of them, what good are they? They're hard to display. And really, bird plates? Does anyone else in the world care about birds as much as I do? Probably not. But I'm going to show some to you anyway.

Johnson Brothers of England, Game Birds, "Quail"




I also have "Woodcock"


and "Ruffed Grouse." The Collectors Weekly had this to say about the Johnson Brothers:

Brothers Henry, Alfred, and Frederick Johnson purchased a bankrupt pottery works in the Staffordshire area of England in 1882, and began producing a material known as 'semi-porcelain,' which looked like china, but was durable like ironstone. Their most famous patterns, 'Old Britain Castles' and 'Historic America' were immensely popular in England and America. After WWII, the company struggled, but managed to modernize, and in 1968 joined the Wedgwood Group.

Since I already had three bird plates (a collection), it only made sense that I would want some small dessert plates I found while shopping at Marshalls with my sister before Christmas. I didn't go absolutely crazy over them. Really. Except maybe when my sister picked them up and put them in her shopping cart and said she was buying them for me for Christmas. And maybe I was a little excited when I opened the box on Christmas day, and saw that there were four, which I didn't remember.


It says on the back that they are fine bone china. Whatever that is. I hope no actual bones were used in the making of them.

So I guess I'm a Collector now. And someday I'm going to eat actual food off of these plates instead of letting them collect dust.

New Flower, New Desk, New Blog, New Year

My husband gave me a computer desk for Christmas. This desk has produced a whole set of challenges for me:

1. It's black. My 100-year-old farmhouse is dusty. I don't think I need to say more.
2. I want to keep the desk and the area around it organized. So, yesterday, I bought the silk African daisy (above) and a small glass vase to keep it in. Nothing encourages me to stay organized and clean more than one pretty thing.
3. Now that I have a clean, organized place to write, there is no reason I can't finish my 300-page novel. And, well, get our taxes filed early.

I like bringing in a New Year with new things. The important thing is to get rid of some of the old stuff, too. Old things, old attitudes, old habits, old excuses. They weigh us down and cause us to look back. The only way is forward.

Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any one thing. Abraham Lincoln