I came across this magical photo and decided to share it in my Sunday post. It is called “Narcissism” by Cynthia Decker. The crow is gazing at his own reflection. The dreamlike composition evokes all sorts of desires. It is faerie-like and very much a fairy tale…..woodland sprites out on the water, small beings with wings, angel babies on an adventure. I can see The Owl and the Pussycat in this boat…..
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar….
in station to get my mother a card. In memories that are filtered through the echoed chambers of childhood, I recall it was a card for Valentine’s Day, but that might be because it had hearts on it – in reality it could have been a Mother’s Day card, as I had picked it out just for her.
ails to someone I thought was a like-minded friend, only to one day get a response back from her saying she “didn’t like my edge”. I guess my edge was a little too raw. Getting this reaction was like the Valentine Card Incident sting, to a lesser extent. Needless to say, that was the end of that correspondence.
punctuated with many “Thanks!!!!!”, embellished with lots of happy, upbeat exclamation marks and further punctuated with smiley faces to insure they get it and can envision me as a perky ray of sunshine. Which I am not. I have been adding emoticons to many things I write now and I seriously hate emoticons, I really do. If this is what it takes….(I pause here to sigh for a moment)…..
od thing, so after work I dutifully stopped in at the Urgent Care place, got a check up, an x-ray and an arm sling, told I had calcium deposits and a bone spur in my shoulder, told to make an appointment with an orthopedic doc and was sent home to rest up with steroids and some pain meds. A calcium deposit? I am picturing images of vast salt mines.
was willing to listen to me, although it’s now after the fact. So she hits me where I tell her and bingo, they get the IV in.
breathing slowly and steadily….. it’s like having labor pains in your arm. I was really good at natural labor, “Good Peasant Stock” as the OB had jokingly put it back then. But with this, none of my good peasant stock is helping. I end up just crying during that last hour when the pain gets away from me. They tell me they can’t get the machine to unlock and dispense my meds any closer than every six hours without doctors orders. But the doctor is not available.
then something that says “status”. Under status, someone has drawn a Smiley Face. I am assuming that was the last patient’s status, or maybe it is wishful thinking on their part for me. I stare at that Smiley Face mocking me and wish I had a dry erase marker, because if I did I would haul myself out of bed and draw a screaming Mr. Bill Face with its hair standing up and flames coming out. Who are they trying to kid?
left the Octopus lying on the chair. It was a couple of hours after doing that when someone came rushing in my room to see if 207A was dead, as there was a flat reading on their screen. I was scolded, and they hooked it up again, despite my protests that the doctor said my heart is fine and I don’t need these things, and that it had only been half hooked up for hours before, and that, you know, theoretically the patient in 207A had died anyway…..
that decisions can be made that are not necessarily in your best interests, or beliefs, for the sake of saving time, or because “that’s how we do it”, and while going through the medical system people can be treated like sheep. While you will not be popular for questioning, it is imperative to advocate for yourself, or anyone else you care about who may be undergoing medical treatment, or admitted.
and as explained in previous posts, I’m kind of a nature geek). But since it was large and had hairy legs, I told him it might be a Wolf Spider. Actually, I cheat in this department, because the only ones I really know (and call by their nicknames mostly) are the gangly “Daddy Long-Legs”, the little black Jumping Spider, the Black and Yellow Argiope (my personal favorite!) and the distinctive Black Widow. After that, anything big and brown I call a Wolf Spider, regardless of what it really is. Nobody seems to challenge that suggestion.
coffin.
anyone who might enter the premises in a truck could hit it. And now, if we want to move it, we have to pay them to do it. Not only that, but it looks incredibly low-rent and cheesy. It seems all we really need to complete the ensemble now is to put a broken toilet in the front yard and turn it into a planter. Maybe we should add some plastic flamingos too. Needless to say, I am upset.
earthquake or a subway train, accompanied by a grinding/pounding noise – nothing that tape was going to remedy. We finally had to cave and get a new one. You would think this would have been one smooth credit card transaction and easy delivery, but….no.
will. If you look closely, they really don’t look very related. Every once in a while someone will see it and ask “Who are those people?” They have been dubbed “The Fake Relatives”. In our further disconnection from this phone line, we also have not bothered to put in a voice greeting, so you get the standard Robot Voice. Every few days I remember to check the messages. The S.O. usually does not answer it or check it at all.
on top of our patio table, where he will toss an insulted look before springing off and disappearing under the foliage in the garden. A large, bedraggled looking tom lurks beneath the scrap metal that the S.O. has stashed under the portico. I could not figure out why they have suddenly all shown up at our place, until one morning as I was pulling out of the driveway I noticed that someone had placed water bowls, a dish and a can of cat food against our fence.
nd not any larger. I have been dismayed that the Outback and the Forester both have gotten progressively larger (and more aggressive looking) over recent years.
This also includes a body type that is not too angular and looks like a plastic model of a molecule from a high school chemistry class. However, this does not mean that the car should resemble a kaiser roll on wheels, or have a weak, silly, or clown-like look to it either.
Tires. The car should come equipped with excellent, all-season tires that hold the road. We don’t need those massive, wide tires on this car. They are expensive to replace and the truth is, they really don’t give you any better traction. My Brighton Legacy with the smaller tires held the road better than my Outback with those giant ones ever has.
o be traversing any tundras or scaling the sides of a volcano, let’s be real here.
(like me) who do not need or want a Warm Ivory or cream color interior. Because the dark interior is the logical choice, why should we then be forced to have to choose the Paprika Red exterior? I want an Ice Blue car with a charcoal gray interior, but you can’t get one from column A and one from B it seems. One of the major factors in deciding which model and color of Subaru I chose last time included the fact that I needed darker seats and floor carpet that would not instantly look stained and ruined. That should not have been a contributing factor. More flexibility on interior color choices! While you are at it, how about some more classy exterior colors too?
even 100? Then you can make the mileage markings on the gauge farther apart (since you will now have more room on the gauge) with precise and easy to see lines, so that you can actually tell that you are driving 62 instead of guestimating somewhere in the 60’s.
spring and autumn.
Famous Weight Loss Plan I am paying for, which has successfully removed about fourteen pounds so far, I have turned to carrots as the healthful alternative snack. The Famous Weight Loss Plan says you can have all the vegetables you want, so I keep turning to them, and I turn to them all day long. Because they do not really squash my hunger (which is clearly not “real” hunger, but more habit), I tend to eat a whole lot more than I need to.
total opposite – stressful, disheartening, sometimes tear-provoking. This is supposed to be relaxing? Not. I tried switching to some basic crochet, which seemed slightly easier (one hook vs. two needles) but it proved non-productive, with the same horrifying results. I have three disaster projects sitting in a basket at this moment that are now years old.
phase of life right then. The intention was to hopefully expand my child’s horizons beyond the stagnant local townies she was running with at the time. With fantasies of having a mother/daughter bonding concurrently, we arrived at the location, registered, and within five minutes she was off and running with new-found peers. I was not to see much of her for five days. A glimpse here and there, like a puff of faerie dust, and not much more.
needed to be rewound into a workable ball to knit from. I had no idea this had to occur, being the “knit-iot” that I am. Given this discovery, I am not sure if it came that way or if I did something to it, but the unwinding and rewinding of the skein became a major ordeal because the skein had somehow come undone on both ends and was snarled full of knots. It was an incredible mess. Ivy and I spent hours trying to unwind it. And so The Unravelling began.
th the knitters about heft and gauge and stitches and all sorts of crafty stuff. Meanwhile, I would tune it all out and wander around aimlessly, touching the gorgeous yarns and pretending I was going to create something epic. Then I would pick out a skein, roll it into a workable ball of yarn, and a few months later Ivy would send me a hand-knit pair of socks, which I treasure.
television. No internet. Reading by the window. Playing instruments. Cooking on the gas stove. Taking a nap. Staying home. Having a real conversation. Being still.
In the past month we have now experienced an earthquake, a hurricane, and witnessed a fatal house fire just three doors down from us. I told the Significant Other that we can probably expect plague and pestilence next. Gypsy moths? Bedbugs? A new strain of flu? If one is inclined to wax biblical, there is probably some material here.
Hippie Haj – to the Museum at Bethel Woods. Although I have a few friends who were at the original Woodstock concert, each with a unique story, I did not attend the festival at White Lake in 1969. I was just a little too young on that particular weekend, and there was no way my parents were going to let me out of the house to venture into that. So I didn’t have any sort of burning need for a return migration to the scene of the event.
In the office where Daughter #2 is employed, there is a woman – actually the assistant to the CEO, which you would think would rate a bit on the intelligence scale – who keeps three or four fish in a very small plastic fish tank. Perhaps the close proximity to a sunny window, or the fact that there are so many fish in such a confined space is the cause for the greenish tinge of the water and the slime that accumulates on the side of the tank, leaving it rather disgusting. D2 and another coworker were in the office kitchenette area when the owner of the fish came in to clean out her fish habitat. She promptly dumped the slimy water out of the tank and right on top of a few community office dishes that were sitting in the sink, which she did not bother to move. Then she took the dish sponge and proceeded to scrub the slime from the inside of the tank with it. Then she put the sponge back in its place by the sink.
s the Imelda Marcos Shoe Museum, as the person in the family holding that title. What was more remarkable was that she wears a woman’s size 5 or 6 – what for years was the “display” size (all shoes look very inviting on the shelf when you see them that small) and has closets, plastic storage bins and original boxes filled with little shoes! We would look into her closet, roll our eyes and laugh. So while we mocked her habits, my addiction seemed to fly under the radar, until one of my other sisters-in-law, a more out-of-the-closet shoe addict, introduced me to buying online from Zappos, which was the fatal nail. My first purchase from Zappos, made while she sat right next to me, with a few glasses of wine under our belts, was a pair of comfortable, practical red sandals. After that it was all downhill.
ey are usually not worn on a regular basis and experience very little wear, so they last and last. There are Utility Shoes, for hiking or weather. There are a few pairs of black stand-by heels, both open and closed toe, saved for Special Events, like weddings. There are the I Paid A Whole Lot of Money For These shoes, which have a guilt factor built into them. And at the very back of the closet are those shoes and boots that are Not Being Worn. These are the shoes that I eventually decided I didn’t like the look of on me, or whose style I have outgrown, or that re-emerged after having (I am ashamed to say) just disappeared from view for so long that I forgot I had them. It is the last few categories that I am referring to in this saga. I paid a full price for them, they were not being worn, and I had totally lost track of them until now.
oked at the photos. It’s true that I don’t have a very graphic representation of the side view, but there are three photos in there from varying angles and you can see the heels. Also, she didn’t ask any questions, like many buyers do. If she didn’t see something, why didn’t she ask? I could have provided her with any other information or photos she wanted. In addition, I found another pair just like them someone has for sale (for more money!) that has clear side view pictures and you can see that this is the style of the shoe, there is no “defect”. Her correspondence was really unpleasant.
mountains who likes adorable shoes, has cats and bakes. Based on her email though, and in my current frame of mind, my suspicions lean towards thinking she is just a miserable pit bull. Curious about these gut feelings, I did a further search into the forums (which up until now was a world I was unaware existed) and discovered this is a person with a major attitude problem – someone who makes snarky comments and accusations against other members and gets into arguments on these boards. Based on what I read, it even appears the eBay mods have had to silence her before. I have to wonder how many other sellers she has threatened and bullied into returns because she doesn’t like the style or the way the items fit or looks on her when she gets them. And there she is with her perfect 100% rating. Very misleading.
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they say to the Old Ladies), and at one point he did tell me I was going to hear a whirring noise. That, I believe, is the point where they blast out and remove your old lens. First he “got some of it”, and the “got the rest of it” (Ewww, ewww, ewww). The bright white square suddenly turned into a black square, which was a bit unnerving, as this was where I understood there was no lens in the eye at all.
gradual. With the new lens, everything has changed. I feel like a living Tide commercial – Blues are brighter! Whites are whiter! My bathroom vanity is not bone white – I have discovered it is actually an arctic white. The turquoise designs on my brown shirt now appear to be sky blue. The fluorescent light in my office is way more horrible than I had thought. The cool looking purple pants I have been wearing to work……..well, this now explains some of the looks I have been getting.
instantly came to mind. With that picture burned in my brain, I finally took the plunge and decided something better be done about it. Suddenly not wanting to wait another moment, and assuming that slow and easy summertime would make this as good a time as any, I decided now is best to get it over with.
g to myth, the twin founders of Rome, Romulus and Remus, rested under a fig tree.
pedigrees and personalities. I could spend hours engrossed in the fantasies of my little horsey world. One of these horses was a jointed model whose legs would “walk” when you scooted him along the carpet. If you pushed on his withers, his head would drop down as if he was grazing. His body was made of chestnut-colored plastic, with a flax mane and tail that you could comb. He came with a saddle and bridle and a little horse blanket. I had made bandages for his legs out of toilet paper and tape so he looked like a polo pony. I named him Buck.
middle for the turtle to bask on, some gravel on the bottom, and a little green plastic palm tree. What she had named it now escapes me, but she kept it in our shared bedroom, which had taken on that reptilian smell that turtle bowls tend to get when they are not too clean. The turtle itself had started to get some kind of moldy green fungus all over it. Because of this, my sister had decided to wash the turtle and scrub the slime off it’s back with a toothbrush.
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