Christmas Is Coming

Christmas is coming
The goose is getting fat
Everywhere I go I wear my santa hat
If you haven’t got a santa hat a stocking cap will do
If you havent’ got a stocking cap you’ll say ker-choo!

Christmas is coming
Have you bought your wine?
Better do it soon because I won’t share mine
If you haven’t got a bottle your Christmas will be lame
And you won't have anyone except yourself to blame

Christmas is coming
With presents on the tree
How the hell they got up there, don’t ask me
If you didn’t get a present, consider this advice:
Santa will skip over you if you’re not nice

Christmas is coming
Have you extra lives?
You’ll need all of them if you should hear Burl Ives
If you don’t run screaming from the room you’ll wanna stab yourself
Then dial 9-1-1 and give a call for help

Christmas is coming
Light a penny candle
Bring me all the peanut brittle I can handle
If you haven't got a peanut, some toffee will be fine
And a little box of chocolates and some deep red wine
Deep red wine,
Deep red wine,
Merlot is fine,
La la la!

Mom's Banana Bread

I just baked up some banana bread. I got this recipe from Mom years ago and I think it's a great and easy recipe.

Mix together:
1/2 cup butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs

Add: 3 bananas, mashed
Then add:
2 cups flour
1 tsp soda

Then add: about 1/2 cup nuts, ground to a fine meal

Bake at 350 in loaf pan for 1 hour.
This recipe is so easy, there's no reason to ever buy a banana bread mix!

yuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Kegeling

Kegel, kegel, kegel, kegel, kegel
Kegel, kegel, kegel, kegel, kegel
Kegel, kegel, kegel, kegel, kegel

If I type 3 sets is it the same as doing them?

Kegeling sounds like the olympic sport where you push those little pots down the ice and sweep frantically in front of them.

It sounds like an old Norwegian custom involving singing, throwing fish, and eating krumkake. Or a really big bump on a ski slope. Or a beer measurement: "that guy can drink 15 metric kegels of beer!" Or the act of rolling around on the floor in an aimless pattern.

Sounds innocuous enough. 

Oh, but it isn't.

Supposedly, both women and men can benefit from doing kegels. They are an integral part of strengthening exercises for the core muscle group that supports the lower back. So they tell me.

That doesn't mean they are fun to do. Not as much fun as throwing fish and eating krumkake.

Exploding Heads - Addendum

My head exploded in a burst of glory on Saturday, December 4, spraying the walls, ceiling and racks of clothing at Maurice's.

I didn’t want to go anywhere. I was bloated and cranky. But I needed to check out a certain brand of jeans that is supposed to look good on fat asses, so I went out. (I stayed all night, the next night too. I’d be there still, no doubt. But I had to do an errand, so the next night, I went out. **)

I had tried on about 10 pairs without having to engage in much conversation with anyone, when a sales clerk spied me and said, “Has anyone been helping you? Have they told you about these jeans?” I mumbled something like, “Oh, not really, but I found what I wanted.” WHAT WAS I THINKING? Please see above: I wasn’t.

And then it was like someone flipped a switch! She said, “blah blah blah 20% off of any sweater if you buy blah blah blah Maurices credit card blah blah blah blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” And I said “well, thank you but no thank you and I don’t want a Maurice’s card.” Ah, but she was not so easily denied. And she said, “Oh, but blah blah blah blah blah blah!!”

I left her standing there, by the rack of fleece-lined sweatshirts, and escaped to the check out counter. And the girl said, “CanIpleasehaveyourphone numberDowehaveyouremailaddresstoreceivespecialoffersAreyouawareofourspecialtodayifyoubuyapairofjeansyoucanget20%offanysweater….”

It took every bit of my strength not to scream at her and say, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN! JUST LET ME PAY FOR MY PANTS AND GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!!” Oh, but I was screaming it inside, I tell you!!

Yeesh. Then my head exploded. 

**taken from What Was I Scared Of by Dr. Seuss

Current Address: The State of Self-Denial

It occurs to me that the older we get, the more we deny ourselves. This seems somehow the opposite of the way things ought to be. We should get license to allow ourselves more, the longer we're here --  why isn't it working that way?

I deny myself so many things: donuts, chocolate, potato chips, staying up late, relaxing instead of exercising, movie popcorn, new underwear……….I’m forever telling myself no.

Why am I thusly compelled? What is behind this perpetual state of self-denial? I’ll tell you: It’s GUILT. Self-Denial is driven by Guilt. Self-Denial and Guilt pull up in front of my house in an old, rusted-out Chevy van, and just sit there. If I don’t open the door to Self-Denial, then Guilt will leave the van, come INto my house and just follow me around through every room  --  an unwanted, unwelcome guest.  Saying no to things I want is the only way to keep Guilt out at the curb.

Well, I’m tired of it, really. I want to relish and revel. Why can’t I relish things? Why can’t I revel?  A life of self-denial is a boring life indeed. Give me that cheeseburger with bacon and fries, I tell you, and leave the cottage cheese in the kitchen!! Do I really want my potentially last moments on this Earth to be ones of restraint and longing??

Guilt, you fiend, release me from your hellish grasp!! Loose me among the grocery aisles and lingerie departments of this world to run free and unfettered, gathering as I go, till from my arms spill forth a wealth of foodstuffs, panties, and sundries! Oh Life, is it too late? Am I too weak? Can I win the battle? And if I do - what will become of me?  

Mediocrity

A fun little poem for your Friday

I’m swimming in a sea of mediocrity
I am fighting the battle of the bland
Where it rears its ugly head
I will strive to strike it dead
Upon the rock of excellence I stand

“Mediocrity!!” I give a noble shout
I must set my standards high and hold on fast
Raise my fist up to the sky:
“I must care, lest I die!”
And I’ll do it with distinction to the last

Though the way is fraught with trouble, I press on
For ‘tis hard to always choose the better course
Some my works commend
Others I’ll offend
For these casualties I cannot feel remorse

“Mediocrity!! I scream - Mediocrity!!”
Am I the only one who cares at all????
If you can’t do something well
Do you say ‘oh what the hell?’
I must be the only one whom this appalls!

I’m swimming in a sea of mediocrity
Above the briny tomb of apathy and doom
Though I’m tossed upon its waves
I will never grace its grave
For mediocrity I say there is no room!!

Exploding Heads - Another Rant

Warning: this is just a bitchy rant. There are no graphic images of exploding heads. Sorry to disappoint you.

My head is about to explode. I can only take so much I tell you  - only so much! Because all I want, really is to be left alone. Is that such a bad thing? Is that bad karma, Karma Chameleon? Why must I be accosted daily by members of the madding crowd? All I’m asking for is a little space.

Rare is the occasion when I can make it through a check out stand these days without being bombarded:

“How are you today?”

“Would you like to save 10% today by signing up for our charge card?”

“Do we have your email address?”

“Are you sure?? – You know you can receive valuable coupons in the mail.”

“My name is Thelma. If you go on line and fill out this survey, be sure to tell them what great customer service I gave you today.”  

“You saved $2.21 today!”

“Here’s a little smiley face I put on every receipt, so that you get at least one smile from someone today.”

“Do you have your Rewards card with you today?”

“Have a good evening.”

“Have a great day.”

“Have a good weekend.”

“You folks have a great weekend.”

I resent being put on the spot -- when I am tired and just want to go home -- about donating to a cause: “Would you like to spend an extra $1 today to help spay or neuter a poor, homeless kitty?” It’s only a buck, so I feel like a jerk if I say, “uh, not today.” But that’s not the point! Why must I even be made to consider whether I would rather be pressured into paying an extra dollar, or look like a schmuck? Why must I be forced to do the mental gymnastics?? Why must I deal with it??

And here’s another thing that really gets me, “Did you find everything okay today?” I’m thinking, “Look, lady, I am here at the CHECKOUT, would I be paying if I hadn’t found everything???” Does she think I just abandoned my shopping halfway through, due to frustration or a possible mental impairment and ended up at the checkout? Does she think I happened to wander into the checkout line, accidental-like, and might not actually realize where I am? Is she really concerned about whether I found everything? What’s she gonna do about it if I say no? Does she expect me to believe that she is going to just up and abandon her post to assist me in the completion of my shopping list??  Or did she just say it to make stupid, meaningless conversation.

Meaningless conversation exhausts me.

Yeah, yeah, I understand exchanging pleasantries and all that. But it's a gauntlet out there - between supermarkets, retails stores, and restaurants - everybody's gotta have their schtick these days. And it's not doing so much for me.  What would be so wrong about just a nice, nod and a sweet, closed-mouth smile at the checkout between both parties? Or even maybe just an acknowledging nod that says, “Gotcha. I’m doin’ what I need to do, and you’re doin’ what you need to do.” And then………blissful, ear-shattering SILENCE. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Things That Don't Go Well With Cold Weather

Cold Suppers
Pumping gas
Watermelon
Falling down on the ground
Ice cold beer
Patio sitting
Sun bathing
Ponytails
Linen
Ceiling fans
Driving with your windows down
Aluminum bleachers
Walking into the wind
A stiff breeze
Early mornings
Shopping
Children in car seats
Kite flying
Snorkeling
Nachos at an outdoor event

Things that do:

muk luks
whale blubber
woolen underwear

A Walk In the Park In Late Autumn

Saturday morning in late Autumn

I take a walk in the park

Trees on fire

Cerulean blue sky

Sunlight streaming down like halleluia through the treetops

This is what all the fuss is about

Oh it’s lovely to be out with all of the

dogs and people, people and dogs

babies and strollers

walkers, runners and riders

Leaves, the size of dinner plates, lay down their worries next to the path where I power-walk

If I was a woodland fairy, I could find a lot of uses for those leaves

Coffee Cups of My Week

My coffee cup stable houses a motley herd of cups. Some, I like better than others. I have favorites. Not only do I have favorites , I have certain cups I prefer to use on certain days.

Let me expound here upon the architecture of a good coffee cup  -- which I will admit is totally subjective. Join me as I explain ad nauseum why I feel that there are 4 design components that are required for a positive experience. If you find all four in one cup, you’ve got yourself a keeper there, by god.  In order of importance they are:

The Rim

The Handle

The Base

The Composition

1.  The rim: nothing ruins my coffee-drinking experience more than when I have to flop my gums over a big, fat rim. Coffee cups with fat rims are like neanderthals with big fat fingers. Who invited this clumsy oaf to my morning coffee meditation? Not me!  No, the perfect rim is thin and smooth, glossy, providing some refinement for my delicate pie-hole.  A secondary choice would be a rim with an interesting, slight “lip” to it – as long as it isn’t too thick. I can also tolerate some kinds of pottery.

2.  The handle:  it should be easy to hold. Interesting curves or notches are fine, as long as they aren’t painful to grasp. The handle doesn’t have to be as thin as the rim, but again, I eschew giant, fat handles that cause me to use two hands to lift the cup. Who are these made for --- ogres? I don’t think ogres even use a handle so I guess they are made for NO ONE. If the handle has a smooth interior surface – one that makes your hands happy – it’s a bonus.

3.  The base: okay, again I admit it may be weird, it may be OCD, but I like to be able to run my finger around and around on the bottom of the cup, if I want to. If the base is all rough or has (HORRORS!) craggy bumps on the bottom, I’d don’t wanna hold this cup.

4.  Be it pottery, porcelain, or ceramic  – I need to be able to put it in the microwave and heat it, without it getting so hot that it might explode into a million pieces. If the pottery or ceramic or whatever material is such that it can’t take a good microwavin’ – I am not going to use this cup at all – ever.  Some cups do really well and others are very unstable in this regard.  I also refuse to drink from a coffee cup made of GLASS, and I don’t enjoy drinking from plastic travel mugs. Yes, I do it, but it’s not the same experience.

With these parameters in mind, I bring you my week of coffee cups.

MONDAY: I like this cup for a Monday morning. I like the prosthetic arm picture on the side. In addition, the lip has a nice little curve to it and the overall size is just right.

TUESDAY:  I usually grab this cup on a Tuesday. I have two of these, so I will probably grab the other one on Thursday morning.  This cup really isn’t that visually pleasing to me in design. But it’s small and the rim is thin. So I dig it.






WEDNESDAY: Hump day requires a special cup to get a body over it. I choose this cup because it pleases me. I actually got it at a restaurant. I was drinking coffee and just really liking it. So they sold it to me for a couple of bucks. This one has a thin lip but also with a rim that makes things more interesting.

THURSDAY: See Tuesday

FRIDAY: by Friday, I tend to go with a cup that was in Tim’s cupboard when I met him. (I have some weird, weird mental processes that often preclude me from drinking out of cups that I didn’t bring into my life on my own). This cup barely passes my requirements --the rim is borderline. But, I like the plainness of it. It’s a well-made cup but completely unassuming and vanilla. So it doesn’t interfere with my weird mental processes too much.

SATURDAY: Ahhh…… I save my favorites for the weekend, when my coffee-drinking is relaxed and extended. For Saturday, I choose this cup. This cup has EVERYTHING I love in a cup – thin rim, smooth handle, nice glossy area around the bottom. Just the right heft and balance.  I didn’t really go into that, but if you pick a cup up by the handle and it’s so unbalanced that you can’t keep it level with one hand…um…could be disastrous.  So this little baby gives me everything I need to perform my coffee ritual. Oh yeah.

SUNDAY: For Sunday, I reserve this cup that was given to me by Aunt V. I think Simone has one too. I used to have 2 of these but I lost the mate in my divorce, somehow. I only got out with this one. It has a little vignette on the side of cats and quilts. It’s glossy and smooth where it ought to be. I have a little problem with this cup, however. I HAVE to use it on Sundays. HAVE TO.  To make Sunday the way it needs to be, I must drink coffee from this cup and this cup only. To keep the delicate balance of the Universe, it must come from this cup and no other. Do you hear me?? So don’t come to my house and try to wrest this cup away from me on a Sunday morning!!!! DON’T TRY IT, BUSTER, UNLESS YOU WANT THE WORLD TO IMPLODE OR SOMETHING!!! Okay, good. I think I explained that sufficiently.

This one is an alternate Saturday cup. As you can see, it's pretty tall - but look at the rim - paper thin!

Finally - the undesirables. They only get used by unsuspecting guests who come over and grab them out of the cupboard.



To Ward Off Evil

To ward off evil
You must travel
Seven miles beyond
the place where the ground is level

Walk in circles for 10 feet

Ignoring every one you meet

To ward off evil, this you must complete

Listen near
Till you hear
A painted bird singing words
plain and clear


Take its place and sing its song
Getting every word wrong
Then evil is not long for this world


Cast your spell
Work it well
Every skeptic you must thoroughly compel


Then go home and go to sleep
knowing all of this will keep
and evil can only sit and weep

Words I Like

unawares
magma
sashay
baloney
insouciant
acquiesce
rapscallion
blithe
mettle
balderdash


fisticuffs, especially as used by John Wayne's character, Captain Nathan Brittles,  in the 1949 movie, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon:

Captain Nathan Brittles: Mr. Cohill, it is a bitter thing, indeed, to learn that an officer who has had nine years experience in the cavalry - the officer to whom I am surrendering command of this troop in two more days - should have so little grasp of leadership as to allow himself to be shivvied into a go at "fisticuffs" while 'Taps' still sounds over a brave man's grave! God help this troop when I'm gone.

Dont' Get Caught With Your Product Down

I used to work with this girl named Alex, who had the shiniest hair around. Other people would comment to her about her soft, shiny hair. She said, “It’s because I don’t use any product on my hair.”

No product??!!? How can one live without product? How could she go out the door every day practically naked? “All I ever use is a little hairspray, if even that,” she said. I marveled at her bold, minimalist approach. Because, as we all know, product is the thing that separates US from ….the apes, for example…..Vikings, for another. I spend top dollar for my product. I know others don’t. But even those who don’t still have to have the gel, the goo, the mousse, the lifter, the thickener, the après shower-body-building-show-stopping-root-bending product!!

When I travel, I have to be careful to make sure that all product containers are nestled safely next to a roll of socks or some other cushiony item. I seal it in Ziplocs and I hope for the best. I especially hope that my aerosol cans don’t explode during the flight, ripping a gaping hole in the fuselage and causing everyone’s bags to be sucked out as an emergency landing is attempted on some remote corn field. But still I am willing to risk it, because I need my damn product!

I Am The Rain Goddess!!!

i bought a new umbrella-ella-ella yesterday and THEN IT RAINED!!!!!!!!

The Ass-Clown Revue

Every workday morning I’m forced to fight my way through a herd of caffeine-injected ass-clowns, just so that I can get to work and perform my required 8 hours of mindless drudgery. These velocity-loving morons put on quite a show as they literally dive in and out of traffic with their cars.

To some extent, I can tolerate it until it interferes with my forward motion, because when some ASS-CLOWN jumps in front of me and then proceeds to brake, brake, brake…I can feel my head getting ready to explode.

I didn’t invent the term “ass-clown” (check out the movie Office Space), but it’s appropriate and useful at times, and it can bring unexpected peace to your soul to say it aloud. Just this morning, some idiot cut me off and I thought, “Asshole!” but then I thought, “NO! he’s beyond asshole – he’s an ASS-CLOWN.”

Of course, then what happens is, while I’m watching the Ass-Clown Revue unfolding before my very eyes, I am thinking of all the other ass-terms, like “ass-wipe, ass-noogle, ass-nuts,  ass-ifer, ass-nard, jackass, dumbass, fatass, shitass (which I rarely use, almost archaic at this point), ass-in-boots, ass-face, and ass-of-all-trades.  

But nothing says it quite like ass-clown.

Morning Child

I want it noted that I’m not a morning person.

Put it on my tombstone and hold my funeral at night.

Rope me off until noon.

Don’t speak to me at some ungodly hour and expect an intelligent response.

For I am not a morning child.

I walk the midnight floors.

I troll the moonlit hours.

If you ask my mamma, she’ll tell you I was born around supper time.

Life began for me at the end of the day, not the start.

The Big Lasagna of Life

Last night we watched one of my favorite shows – Dog The Bounty Hunter. I don’t know why I get such a kick out of it but I just do. These people fascinate me – not just “The Dog” and his family but also the ones they are chasing. People in general fascinate me, anyway. But these people on DTBH, they just seem to operate on a completely different plane. Their world – and the world of the people they are after - is not our world. It’s not my world, anyway.

I think I was in my early 20s when I realized that there are layers of lifestyles and life choices and life philosophies out there. Like a giant lasagna, these layers are all sort of separate but connected planes – parallel universes where the inhabitants carry out the day to day minutiae of their little lives. While some layers of the lasagna touch each other, even blend a little, others can remain wholly intact: unadulterated and somewhat unaffected. For example, if you are on the cheese layer, separated by noodle, you might not ever have anything to do with the bottom meat layer – unless an external force – such as a spoon – intervenes.

I suppose it has to do with the comfort zone and familiarity. You go with what you know. If you’re a noodle, and you like it, why should you look around? Why make things harder? Why rock the lasagna? I don’t have any answers at all. I just find it remarkable. Meanwhile, it makes for some riveting television.

Peach Pie Pix

Just wanted to post pix of the aforementioned peach pie.

Igual Mente

Strange, this phenomenon of “igual mente” that seems to be occurring between Mony and me. I was all set to write about peach pie yesterday but got too busy. Today I open her blog and she is writing about pastries. Coincidence? I think not!

When I worked at MAPI, one of the Hispanic employees said “igual mente” to me one day. He said it means, “we think alike.”

Yes, there is a stupefying parallel that is happening between two sisters. Now, if she should start writing about pasties instead of pastries, then I don’t know what is going to pop into my head but it could be alarming.

I mean, WHICH one of us is leading the thoughts of the other – or do we switch off? Does it take the both of us to create the one thought? And what if she starts thinking about something for days on end – will my mind go there too? Do we drag each other around through various “thought gardens?” Am I at times an unwilling “thought tourist” in the holiday of her mind?

And conversely – can I begin to affect her thoughts by concentrating hard enough? Can I make her think about Republicans and red meat if I want? And of course, the question we really need to ask is – was she REALLY born 3 yrs and 8 months after me, or was she born at the same time and is my twin? Was her existence kept secret at birth, to be revealed at a later date? Is she REALLY already 50 years old????

Squirrels of Mass Destruction

Squirrels love the hang out in the tiny “woods” behind our house. I’ve seen these squirrels do some cool things: I have watched a squirrel bury a nut and pat the dirt around it with his little “hands” until you can’t even tell the ground was disturbed. Well, actually, it wasn’t the ground, it was the mulch in our flower beds in the back yard. Another thing I saw a squirrel do this summer was to pull the tops off of the toadstools that had sprung up, and eat them! How cute is that?

Lately, these squirrels are out of control. They’re tearing the hell out of those mulch beds, leaving big holes. The other day, two of them were digging and playing in what was left of a pot of impatiens. On Sunday, we were sitting on the patio WHEN I NOTICED THAT MR & MRS TOAD WERE MISSING. What diabolical fiends had removed or dislodged my beloved toad couple? Damn squirrels!! I found Mr & Mrs lying face down at the bottom of the little mulch “hill,” no doubt knocked over during some extreme squirrel rumpus session.

Well I have had it! This means war!! I’m thinking about hooking up an electrical charge to Mr & Mrs Toad. Tha-aa-t’s right. Mess with the toads – circuit overload, baby!!

Magic Bean

Warning: This blog is inappropriate. If you are uncomfortable with a departure from Propriety, this blog may not be for you. This blog has been rated BM for.......well, you'll figure it out.

Glorioski, Pilgrim! It’s been so long since I’ve had a fully-caffeinated cup of Joe, I had forgotten! I had forgotten the magical, medicinal properties of the bean!

I drink coffee every day, but I had taken to mixing mine half-caffeine/half-decaf, because I drink so much of it, after a while it can make me nauseous. The other day I was out of coffee and I had to hit the Caribou Coffee drive-thru. Well! Katie bar the door! The difference was quite astounding.

You might think me indelicate (I am) but can we talk? Because I have been PLAGUED by a digestive tract only slightly slower than the Earth’s orbit around the sun. I have tried various and sundry remedies. My pantry has enough fiber in it to weave a sturdy rope and swing safely over a pit of alligators without fear of falling. But I get no results. I get nuthin. I get gas.

The truth is, it’s probably a short-lived remedy. It’s probably only a matter of time until the “Ol’ Stagnant” figures out what this stuff is and steels its girders or girds its steel sides against the onslaught. But for now…

I’m light as a feather! A new woman! I have vim! Vigor! Pep! There’s a twinkle in my eye and a spring in my step – and I owe it all to the Magic Bean.

Morning Rant

I didn’t come to work to listen to the never ending soap opera of your life, your child, your baby daddy, and your other baby daddy. I didn’t come to work to tell you to hang in there, to listen to how hard your life is, what a jerk your ex is, about your latest diet, about your latest medical ailment, your latest family drama. I don’t feel like hearing about your latest on-line college class – in which you had to do all the work because you volunteered to be the team leader and now the others aren’t pulling their weight, so you will have to sit up till the wee hours writing everyone else’s stuff (again), and you will be sooo tired tomorrow morning you will probably show up looking like hell so that everyone will ask you what is wrong.   

Believe it or not, I come to work to do my job. I don’t come here for the social benefit.  It's just not classy to share every detail of your sordid life with whomever will give you the attention you so obviously crave. I don’t need to get involved in your personal life and I don’t expect you to get involved in mine. In fact, I would prefer to keep you out of my personal life. It’s none of your damn business.

Why do you assume that everyone wants to hear the minutiae of your child’s every moment? Do I really wanna know that he eats the foam from your throw pillows (and you do nothing to stop him)? Does anyone? Do I NEED to know that he “gave you a poopy when you got home,” or that his nose runs because it’s allergy season, or what his teacher told you on the phone yesterday about what he did and didn’t eat for lunch??

Don’t get me wrong. I consider myself a caring and supportive person. I love kids. I have two of my own. I feel that when circumstances call for it, I can be very understanding of your absences. I don’t even comment when you can’t come to work because your live-in loser didn’t come home all night and you have been crying and frantic and haven’t had any sleep.


But let’s be clear here: don’t assume that I care, because I don’t. Leave your personal life at home. We’ll all be better off.

Places You've Been

Has this ever happened to you: you revisit a place, and as your eyes roam the physical structures of that place, your mind is reviewing the unique memories you have had there before? Whether or not there was someone with you or not when it happened, they didn’t experience it the way you did; their minds’ eye cannot see what you see; they will never feel what you feel.

This happens to me a lot.

I might be riding in a car with someone, and we drive past a building, a park, a fountain. I’ve been there before.

But I say nothing.

I keep these memories close. I ponder them in my heart. I let the little vignettes play on in my head. I bask in their afterglow.

For some reason, it gives me a weird satisfaction. “I was here before. I remember these stairs attached to the outside of the building, and how I felt as I climbed them, three stories high. I can still hear the ringing of my steps on the metal. I remember dropping a penny and hearing it fall to the pavement below.” 

You can’t possibly record every memory, or share them all with another person. But you can go back to these places sometimes…all by yourself.

Madonna Moon Face

The Body wants to construct a wall of fat 3 inches thick that circumvents my midsection. It plots and maneuvers. It’s pretty hard to keep vigilance against this while I am sleeping. This is when The Body makes some of its biggest plays.

The Body has recently completed one of its pet projects, entitled (I suspect) “Madonna Moon Face.” When I looked in the mirror the other morning, I saw a cross between a kitchen Madonna and parade balloon. Chalk one up for The Body.

On a mostly unrelated vein, the term “Moon Face” has recalled to my brain one of my favorite Dr. Seuss poems, “Two Many Daves,” from the book "Sneetches and Other Stories."
Enjoy..............


TOO MANY DAVES

Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave
Had twenty-three sons, and she named them all Dave?


Well, she did. And that wasn't a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one, and calls out "Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!" she doesn't get one.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!

This makes things quite difficult at the McCaves'
As you can imagine, with so many Daves.
And often she wishes that, when they were born,
She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn.
And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.
And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.
And one of them Shadrack. And one of them Blinkey.
And one of them Stuffy. And one of them Stinkey.
Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.
Another one Marvin O'Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Ziggy. And one Soggy Muff.
One Buffalo Bill. And one Biffalo Buff.
And one of them Sneepy. And one Weepy Weed.
And one Paris Garters. And one Harris Tweed.
And one of them Sir Michael Carmichael Zutt.
And one of them Oliver Boliver Butt.
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate . . . .


But she didn't do it. And now it's too late

funkbelly blues..........vs 1

I’m in a giant funk
And that’s no bunk
PB& jelly
Down in the whale’s belly
And that ain’t steak
Don’t your heart just break
Don’t your wheels just spin
Well it’s another fine mess
Someone's got me in

little balloons i'm sending up to the universe

i would like some clarification on your answer to my fat problem

i smell good today………but i’m at work – so who cares?

if a person wants a hamburger pizza, a person should just say so. i may be intuitive but i ain’t psychic

please move the clock faster on m-f, then slow it down sat-sun – that is all. thank you

why did you impose that peanut-butter granola bar on me?

there was a cat hair on my windshield this morning

my favorite pair of shorts….are jorts…….and i am not ashamed of it

i’m still waiting, but no reply, to this request for an explanation of why all the fat. Nothin.

i am also having a good hair day. i’m 0 for 2

i like red licorice

mr and mrs toad

mr. and mrs. toad
sit under a tree in my back yard
her knees are together, her hands in her lap
and his knees are apart.
i know that he is he and she is she
because of this.
i learned this from the book “Huckleberry Finn,” by Mark Twain.
there isn’t really much else about mr. and mrs. toad to tip you off.
i have to wonder:
is there much of anything about ANY toad to tell you at a glance his or her sexual identity.
all I can say is, thank god we don’t have toad transvestites.
at least………….
i don’t think we do.

In the Now

A friend once gave me a CD that she thought would be helpful. It was called “In the Meantime” and it had a slick R&B groove, with women singing, “in the meantime…..what do ya doo…….” Then, a soulful, hip woman would start out each spoken piece by saying, “In the meantime....” She gave reassurance, encouragement, inspiration, all about what to do with yourself “in the meantime”-- when you are not in a relationship. I’m not saying I did a good job of living it, but I liked the idea. I confess that just recently at dinner with 2 of my girlfriends, one of them was bemoaning the fact that she was still single. We encouraged her to go on a build a happy life for herself “in the meantime” -- which is not really bad advice. But now I see that it missed the real point. 

Yesterday, I had a mini-epiphany. It happened in the bathroom while I was blow-drying my hair. (I get a fair number of epiphanies this way……when the mind is free to wander, I guess).

WHY should we ever live our lives AS IF they are incomplete – as if we are waiting, waiting, for change and just coping and dealing with in the meantime. Why waste one second of life – beautiful life – by thinking it is the next best thing to being there. What an injustice to the hour at hand.

The truth is, we are in the now whether we want to acknowledge it or not.

In the now…. I will choose to be happy.

In the now…..I will appreciate the beauty and the balance of nature.

In the now….I will love.

A Little Bag of Sugar

Have you checked the weight on a small bag of sugar these days? The day of the 5lb bag of sugar has come and gone, my friends. It’s probably the same with flour. Why was I surprised? Why shouldn’t the sugar people follow the lead of the canned vegetable people, the spaghetti sauce people, and the pie filling people. If the milk people join in on this, I tell you I am done. DONE.

All I want to lose is 5 little pounds – the near-equivalent of a small bag of sugar. I need to lose my sugar, Sugar. One little ol’ bag of sugar ought to be easy to let go. But the mysterious code of the ancients that would, once deciphered, allow me to perform the proper spell to banish these pounds forever – it eludes me.

So I’m carrying this damn bag of sugar around my midsection like a freaking badge of middle-agedness. You can fool some-a da people some-a da time, but once you get that bag of sugar going on, you can’t fool nobody.

Redemption

it’s raining, baby
coming down on the roof
like pieces of stone, pieces of gravel
but it’s only water
leaving no proof of the sound
when the sun breaks through
rain
comes and goes again
like a sometimes friend
leave you clean within
it’s redemption

 
          excerpt from the song "Redemption" by Laura Lisbeth

Coffee Days/Daze

Saturday mornings in the Summer are so precious. If you don’t get up early, you miss them altogether. On these mornings, we must always make a trip to City Market – where there is a huge farmer’s market - plus all of the regular stores there ply their wares out on the sidewalk. Tim likes to go because he is embracing fresh produce with a passion, which is fine by me. I likes me a good fresh tomato.



It began in early spring, when the market was only offering lettuces, spinach, asparagus, peas, and flowers - tons of flowers. Nowadays, it is bursting with tomatoes, potatoes, onions, corn, and berries. And always the Amish are there, with their delicious breads. I asked two Amish girls today, “do you just eat the bread as soon as it comes out of the oven?” They laughed and said they are kind of over it, since they see it so much.


If you don’t get to the market early, parking is a challenge, and Tim is a warrior. But most Saturdays this isn’t a problem because before I have finished one single cup of life-giving coffee, Tim comes in and is ready to go. He’s very kind... he never presses me. But I am aware of the fact that the parking will be horrible, the sun will be blazing and the crowd will be crowdier if I fool around too long. So usually, I am in a sleepy fog when we go.


Even though I love fresh vegetables, it’s not the reason I forsake coffee and couch and go to the City Market. It is because it’s a feast for the eyes, the nose and the soul. People, people, people, of all kinds. Musicians with their flutes, or trumpets or violins. An occasional clown. A balloon guy. The smell of fresh onions, melons. Families working the booths. The enticing, exotic spices being sold outside of Al-Habashi House, where you can get a scoop of just about any kind of spice imaginable for a dollar, or freshly baked pita bread. They also sell loose-leaf teas. Or you can go into the Italian grocery and look at the barrel of (disgusting) octopus salad! Or buy a grilled Italian sausage and sit outside and eat it. We always talk about doing this but we haven’t yet. Tim says he just would feel too guilty – they are huge and fattening.


After we have checked out everything, we head back to our car and home, where I can continue my weekend morning coffee ritual. As we were driving home this morning, we were talking about the teas and spices. They had hibiscus flowers and Tim said he had seen something on Food Network about making tea from them. All of the teas fascinated me, but I’m just not ready for them yet. I said, “I should start drinking tea, I guess. But I’m just not ready. I’m still in my coffee days.” And so I am.

The Importance of Books

hidden under cover of cloth and board
secreted away within the paper and text
a man can have his say
a man can speak his mind
and time stands still
between the covers
unopened for centuries though they may be
the story will wait
for one determined reader

Monday Monday

Monday
You ain’t no fun day
You’re the one day
I’d like to lose
But if I did
Then I’d hate Tuesday
and Tuesday morning
I’d sing the blues  
boppa-da-be-bop- da-be-bop da-wotta-wottayy

Tylenol, the Red-Headed Stepchild

hello there old friend

I’m back after lo, these many years
I said goodbye a long time ago
and never looked back
I didn’t miss you
you won’t hear me singing “nobody does It better”
because in my opinion, many can do it better
but here we are
you and I
forced together, more or less, so...
I will try to make the best of it
you should be grateful

The Real Burl

 

Asleep At the Wheel

I am suddenly exhausted. In addition to actually being tired, I’m overwhelmed. OVERWHELMED. By what? -- you may ask. By the sheer magnitude of life as it teems all around me: the people, the lives, the daily dailies, the routines, the ruts, the successes, the failures, the joys, the heartbreak, the drama, the hubbub, the hullabaloo. It plays in my head, all day. I can’t keep these all these balls in the air. I can’t keep my hands on the wheel. I am falling asleep at the wheel. And the car of life is going to miss the curve.

The Tender Hour

Restaurants all over the country are serving breakfast right now. Waitresses who have already been up for hours are pouring gallons of coffee into plain white ceramic cups. The tinkle of spoon against cup and cup against saucer is the music of the hour. In the kitchen, dozens of eggs are being cracked and fried, along with rashers of bacon and mountains of toast. The air is infused with the smells of coffee and syrup. And somewhere, everywhere, people are actually eating pancakes at the Tender Hour – people with stronger constitutions than mine.

The Tender Hour - I like that. I am going to start calling it that. "Honey please -- a little consideration during the Tender Hour."

Other people must feel it too. It’s a little quiet at breakfast. For the most part, you won’t find the din of conversation layered over conversation at breakfast. People are still waking up, for chrissakes. Take it easy. Go gently into the light of day. For soon enough, they will have to leave the cocoon of the Tender Hour and face the tough, cruel world.

Blargish Thots

Blargomatic
Key blargo
Blog in a blender
A blarg for all seasons
Nathaniel Blogthorn
Yo Ho, Blog the Man Down
Blargometer
Raining like cats and blogs
A bloggy day... in London town
You're blarging my view
My blog's better than yer blog...lalalaa
Blogma
It's a blargh, blargh, blargh, blargh world
BLARGH!!
STELLAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!