Nancy and the Kitties

Cactus: A Love Story

2011-02-14T06:26:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday morning I was talking by phone to my father. It was the weekend before Valentine's day, and I had called to thank him for the lovely card he sent to me. We were both missing my mom, historical sender of valentines, this first Day of Love since she left us.

As I hung up, I heard a beep, signaling an incoming message. It was from my dear friend, mentor and one-time high school science teacher, Judy. There was no text, just the photo above. Well, I got a little teary; Judy's Christmas cactus has been a topic of conversation between us for forty years. You see, my mom gave Judy a piece of her own Christmas cactus somewhere around 1971...and it is now this beautiful plant.

I emailed Judy, to thank her for forwarding the pic at exactly the right time. And she sent me, in Paul Harvey fashion, the rest of the story.

It seems the normally cheery Christmas cactus was depressed this past holiday; the generally prolific bloomer had only one bud. Now, Judy is a biology teacher; so, of course, she had a little heart-to-heart with the sorrowful succulent:

"...I know you must be sad that Nancy's mom has passed away but I know she would like for you to continue to bloom as you have for the past 39 years..."

And, just in time for Valentine's Day, love blossomed.

Happy February 14th, family and friends. I love you. BLOOM!

Just Another New Year's Eve...

2011-01-05T17:07:00.000-08:00

My newest design. And its tortured path to production.

So, I didn't sleep too well New Year's Eve night. My Muse, as some of you know, has a bit of a problem with margaritas. Did she show up for my birthday, or Christmas? Of course not. But the neighbors had a New Year's Eve party, with firecrackers and a margarita machine...so she rang in the New Year with them; and came over here to crash afterward.

Being a Muse, however, she couldn't just sleep it off. No, she kept bothering - I mean, trying to inspire - me. And in her altered state, that involved wandering around the house, shouting "Boom! Boom! Boom!" I finally convinced her that I was indeed inspired, and I would make some firecracker jewelry in the morning. Fifteen minutes later, she was passed out on the sofa; with a cat asleep on her head.

I woke early on New Year's Day; and got right to work, twisting copper, brass and multicolored wire into "Firecrackers". Hammering chain. Crimping, clamping, and occasionally spewing colorful language when I smashed a finger. Muse just snored on the sofa. I finished this loud-n-cheery 7 1/2" adornment with the most gorgeous brass clasp...it is exactly the right size for an average 6" to 6 1/2" wrist. Poured myself another cup of coffee, and regarded my creation with pride.

And just then, a groan from the sofa. My Muse regarded me with one open eye - the one that didn't have a cat over it. I held up "Firecracker, Firecracker" and smiled. "Look, you really inspired me! Isn't this AWESOME?" She winced in pain; and said, "What are you talking about?"

"You know...Boom! Boom! Boom! I did just what you suggested!" I really wanted to start off the New Year right, and being in my Muse's good graces seemed important.

"You're talking crazy." She adjusted the cat over the open eye; and was snoring away again in less than a minute.

Can I get a Muse Do-Over?

"Firecracker, Firecracker" is here: http://www.etsy.com/listing/65312633/firecracker-firecracker

Happy Birthday to Me

2010-11-16T04:53:00.000-08:00

People who know me know that I hate my birthday. Not that I'm-another-year-older-look-at-those-wrinkles kind of hate; but rather a deep and abiding hatred for the physical date. I could change my name, I could lie about my age...but I can't change the fact that I was born on November 12th.

Born, in fact, on the day my grandfather died. Growing up, I was frequently reminded that I was "the only good thing" to come of that terrible time. And I know the family meant that as an affirmation...but occasionally my eight-year-old self or my ten-year-old self felt, well, marked. And, perhaps, a little guilty.

As I got older, my family began to share my dread of the day. If the dog was past her expiration date, you could pretty much mark her demise ahead of time on the calendar. A family member would need emergency gallbladder surgery, IV antibiotics for pneumonia, or a colon resection the first week of the eleventh month...and we would "celebrate" my birthday in a hospital room. Or the unhospitalized family members would gather at the Fancy Sushi Restaurant after our hospital visit, to choke down some California roll and pretend it was a party.

People who didn't know me well would hear my tales and brand me a Cry Baby Drama Queen. I didn't blame them.

One year I decided to hide from the dark date, and fled to the other side of the world. I was sitting on the balcony of my hotel room in Ubud, Bali, Indonesia - trying not to exert any negative influence over anyone in my immediate vicinity - when the desk clerk came to find me.

"Miss Nancy, Miss Nancy! Telephone for you!" Clearly not good news...in fact, my cousin had passed away. There was no hiding.

As I approached the Big Five-O, I decided to change my mindset. Rather than dreading the day, I would embrace it. Yes! I would greet it with joy!! I rallied the troops around me, made reservations for a fabulous family getaway in New York City; and, for the first time in a very long time, truly anticipated the date.

Until my uncle's passing, just three days before my birthday. Trip canceled, I was sad for our whole family, sad for me...then I learned that a friend's father had also just passed away. More sad.

And then, horror of absolute horrors, on the eve of my fiftieth birthday...my beloved friend Tina committed suicide. Tina, who could talk me off of any ledge; who could make me laugh until I cried.

I spent my fiftieth at my uncle's funeral, talking to the folks at my friend's dad's funeral via cellphone; and writing a eulogy for Tina's memorial service.

That was five years ago.

Four November 12ths passed. I begged friends and family to ignore them. Mercifully, they weren't devastating; nor were they remarkable. I tried to stifle it, but the remnants of my optimistic nature peeked through; and I promised myself that if I got through those four unscathed, I would plan a do-over for my 55th...a REAL celebration of November 12th. A trip? A party?

Couldn't decide, couldn't commit...

And then it was upon me. I spent November 12th by myself, Christmas shopping and making jewelry. Quiet; until Son Two called...

To wish me "Happy Birthday". And to share this story. When my daughter-in-law and precious, precious granddaughter returned home the night before, they found the house full of gas...and the pilot light still lit on the heater. They got the pets out and fled...the gas company emergency tech pronounced it "a miracle" that there had not been an explosion. The plumber who replaced all the pipe work the morning of my birthday said the same thing.

And the moral of the story is:

Sometimes it is not what happens on your birthday that matters. It is what doesn't happen. My 55th birthday was my best birthday, ever.

How to Go For A Flu Shot And Land in the ER

2010-10-29T04:41:00.000-07:00

I have always had a gift for making life more exciting than it needs to be. Call it "embellishing", "embroidering", or just plain coloring outside of the lines. Everything has to be an adventure.

Take getting a flu shot for example:

Through a fluke of nature - a weather pattern deemed an "inland hurricane", full of tornadoes and hail and other nastiness that prevented my usual Wednesday drive from Alabama to Georgia - I found myself in Birmingham rather than Atlanta on Thursday, the day I had planned to get my flu shot. In Georgia, you can walk into a Walgreens or CVS at your whim, and a friendly nurse practitioner will dispense wit and wisdom along with your vaccination. How conveeeeeenient.

But Alabama has a different medical model. Here, we have no in-store clinics. Instead, we have mini-emergency facilities, designed to serve a walk-in population; and to reduce the strain on the major hospitals. They also offer flu shots.

I had this mundane list of chores for the morning: buy leaf blower, get cat litter, buy groceries, and get flu shot.

I also had one less-than-mundane chore: Pick up urn containing remains of dear Violet, which had been delivered to the animal emergency clinic where our sweet old kitty was euthanized. That was my first stop. I knew it would be difficult, and I wanted to get it off my plate.

Of course, as I drove up to the horrible, horrible building, all of the horrible, horrible emotions of the horrible, horrible day returned...and I felt just horrible. The young lady behind the counter retrieved the pretty little white urn, bearing Violet's name; and I felt even more horrible. I took it to the car, where I opened the beautiful sympathy card from the pet crematory; and I cried for Violet, and I cried for my mother, and I cried because I missed both of them...and I am crying as I type.

I couldn't stop. I sat in front of the clinic blubbering; then I tried to drive away but had to pull into a shopping center lot to blubber some more.

Finally, the sobs receded to sniffles. And I drove, puffy-eyed, to get my flu shot.

I arrived at the medical center during a lull, and I was the only person in the waiting room. (Good thing, too...since I looked like I had just escaped The Nice Young Men in Their Clean White Coats.) Hmmm...since there was no one else there and there wasn't a wait, I asked Kay, the receptionist, if the doctor could see me for the pesky sinus infection that had been plaguing me for weeks. She agreed, probably thinking that would be a good way to have this mad woman re-committed. She handed me four forms to fill out.

Even though I was wearing my reading glasses, my eyes were still pretty squinty. I filled out just about everything wrong. Kay spent a good ten minutes fixing my mistakes. She also asked me some hard questions, like "Do you have a co-pay?" I dunno. "Does your insurance pay for your flu shot?" I dunno. This woman was doing absolutely nothing for my self esteem.

I heard my name called, and was directed to the vital statistics station, where a tech took my pulse, and then my blood pressure, and then looked panic-stricken, grabbed my hand and shouted, "Come with me!!!" Not very professional. But I followed her...

Around the corner, to where the doctor was sipping coffee in a break room. The tech shouted, "Two forty over one twenty!" and the doc spit her coffee; someone else grabbed me and stuffed me into a room, shoved some pills and a cup of water in my face and shouted, "Take these, RIGHT NOW!"

At this point, I was wondering which of us really belonged on the Funny Farm...these people had clearly ingested too much caffeine, and I was at their mercy. I had no idea what I had just swallowed, or why. Just then, Ashlee the Nurse Practitioner stepped in. She asked, "Has your blood pressure ever been this high before?" Huh? Wait...240/120...that was my BLOOD PRESSURE? I eat right, I exercise, and I take my blood pressure medicine. Surely, someone has made a big mistake.

Ashlee took a reading again. Still high, but lower...and then she made a grave error, because she is Alabamian. She asked, "Are you OK, honey?" and I erupted again into tears and blubbering. Ashlee handed me tissues and listened (while intermittently checking my pressure) as I recounted losing Violet and retrieving the urn and missing my mother and having a sinus infection. Ashlee listened to my chest, which was pronounced "clear", said "bless your heart..." which is the required Alabamian response to any outpouring of ills, and stepped out of the room.

She returned with orders and some very strange explanations for them. First, they were going to run some blood work, to see "what kind of bug" I had. The results would take about 20 minutes. Although I am not a doctor, I have spent a lot of time in the medical community. I didn't protest, but I wanted to tell her that a culture would not be back in 20 minutes; it would take a couple of days to grow. Then she said they wanted to take a chest X-ray. Clearly a plan to make money at my expense, she had just pronounced my chest "clear"; and I knew I didn't have any chest congestion. Finally, they were going to run an EKG...just because it, um, "comes with the X-ray". Whatever. I really didn't feel like shopping for a leaf blower anyway. So I was poked, prodded, photographed, and wired up. Did you know that now they can run an EKG on a laptop?

And then I waited. Eventually, the lovely young doctor who spewed her coffee and was ultimately responsible for all of this intervention, joined me in my cubicle. Dr. B., also Alabamian, had been filled in on my tribulations by the nurse practitioner. The first words out of her mouth were, "Bless your heart..." and then she told me that - although they didn't want to tell me while my BP was so high - the tests were all to see if I was having a stroke or heart attack. Fortunately, my results were "as normal as normal can be". Then she asked, "Do you hurt anywhere?" Geez, these people asked weird questions. I explained that I had head and neck pain from the sinus infection; and that I have fibromyalgia. Dr. B. explained that chronic pain can raise blood pressure significantly. Hmmm. So I mentioned that I also have a ruptured hamstring; my orthopedist recommended surgery because physical therapy hasn't worked. And I have a Baker's cyst behind my knee, but I have an appointment to have it evaluated in two weeks.

Dr. B. was starting to look very strange. Her jaw was slack, her eyes were big. She swallowed. She spoke..."So you recently lost your mom, today you picked up your kitty's urn, you've been fighting a sinus infection for weeks, you have fibromyalgia and you are limping around on a leg with a torn hamstring and a Baker's cyst?" Yeah; and your point would be??? "Nancy, it's time for you to take care of yourself." Do you have any idea how busy I've been lately? Really busy. Super busy...busy, busy, busy...but, hey you kinda have a point...I said, "You're right. I think that's why I'm here today." And I meant it. Dr. B. asked me to make an appointment for a re-check in two weeks, gave me a hug and another "Bless your heart..." and left.

Ashlee returned, checked my blood pressure one last time (it was finally low enough that they could "legally release" me) handed me an assortment of medications to take home, injected me with a megadose of antibiotics; oh, and...gave me a flu shot.

Then I went home - with a stop at Lowe's, to buy a leaf blower.

From the Ridiculous, to The Sublime

2010-06-30T17:42:00.000-07:00

It's difficult to see the "Funny" in life when you've just lost your mom. Forget finding the "Ridiculous", which often inspires me to write. It's kind of like eating when you have a cold. You know the flavor is there, but it is masked by rivers of snot. Or, in my case now, rivers of tears.

Still, Ridiculous is all around me. I hear it. I feel it. And, if I could just rip these teary scales from my eyes...

I could see that I have been blessed with a legacy of Ridiculous.

You had to know my mother. But you didn't, so I will fill you in. "Meem", as she was known to the grandkids, and eventually many others who loved her, entertained early, entertained often, and entertained with a purpose. Every event had a THEME.

There were By-the-Sea dinners, preceded by By-the-Sea hors d'oeuvres served on real scallop shells, and wine served in antique nautilus goblets. Thanksgiving feasts for thirty with hand-carved turkey napkin rings. Swedish meatballs and glogg presented in Orrefors crystal on glorious antique Swedish tablecloths. And. She saved. Every. Single. Prop. Just in case, I guess, that theme rolled around again in the Theme Rotation.

Meem was the Queen of an ordered and orderly household. The dogs got their heartworm pills on the same day each month, and dinner was always ready at 6:30. There were no piles of "stuff" around the house. Every room was decorated in its own color scheme, and one room flowed to another. But no one knew Meem's secret. She was unwilling to part with a themey find, and she was damn good at finding someplace to store it.

The kitchen cabinets were time capsules of a life well-lived. Meem, in her later years, discovered the joys of plastic cutlery and paper plates, verboten in the days of china and polished silver. These items, in every hue and design, populated the outermost regions of the cabinets. Behind the paper and plastic were layers of exotic spices in exotic jars - vestiges of culinary adventures prompted by The Food Channel and many Junior League cookbooks; and Party City banners proclaiming congratulations to my dad's tennis team. In the very back of the cabinets I discovered boxes of Knox Gelatin Powder. My mother had the most beautiful hands...she could have been a hand model for Palmolive...and here was her secret.

The china cabinets were rife with cups and saucers, collected from here and there, near and far; dozens and dozens of designs that rarely saw the light of day at the same time. My father thought that they would be lovely keepsakes for her closest friends. We started handing them out, and I got nervous around Friend 48 that we would run out. We did not. Like Manna From Heaven, we would open another drawer, another cabinet. And find exactly enough cups and saucers for the friends we just remembered.

Eventually, we will have the Yard Sale of The Millennium...perhaps The Yard Sale To End All Yard Sales. The sheer volume of interesting stuff is ridiculous. The 30 custom-carved turkey napkin rings will find new life at a church serving Thanksgiving supper to 30 recent immigrants to the United States who have never had a turkey dinner. The Authentic Scallop Shells will grace a dorm room dinner, where the main course will be shrimp-flavored Ramen noodles. A newlywed will rejoice in the Junior League cookbooks...and I will know that Meem touched so many more than the folks who attended her theme dinners...sublime...

Everybody In The Bathtub!

2010-06-11T08:26:00.000-07:00

Nancy and the Kitties are making gin!

A weird thing has happened to me since I moved to the country. OK, a lot of weird things have happened since then, but the one that's applicable here is, to quote Son One in the throes of the Terrible Twos, "I do it MYself!"

Perhaps it's because we are 10 miles from the nearest grocery store, unless you count the convenience store across from the Barber Motorsports complex, where you can buy Red Hots, fried pies, pork rinds and cheap beer at expensive prices. Maybe I've been inspired by my Super-Woman-Farm-Girl friend, Rachel, who grows her own wheat and hollowed out her own mushroom cave. Perhaps it's just because I CAN. Whatever the case, I find myself eschewing "storeboughten" in favor of in-house productions.

A polk plant caused The Great Polk Revolution, and two months of home-grown weed consumption in place of spinach. That led directly to growing vegetables in straw bales, and a devotion to the Dervaes family, and their urban homestead. (Thanks, Valerie!) At that point it was, of course, only a matter of time before I started making gin.

Well, I had all those herbs laying around...

And Megan over at Not Martha posted a link to this story at Gourmet.

The husband drinks gin, I make martinis. I am happiest making martinis when we have that very fancy, very French, very expensive gin in the house. It is made with "19 spices from all over the world". It smells divine, and the bottle is beautiful. Only the price tag is in poor taste.

Imagine my delight! A experiment with homegrown ingredients, and no real fear that I might kill someone (the original Polk Salad Experiment was a bit nerve-wracking until we both woke up the next morning.) I DID have to make a run to Whole Foods, fifteen miles away, for juniper berries - they don't carry them at the convenience store by the racetrack. But they probably have Juniper Berry Chewing Tobacco in a cute pouch. Then I pulled out that bottle of vodka that we keep around just in case someone who drinks vodka decides to stop by unexpectedly. (Since my sister is the only person I know who drinks vodka, and to my knowledge she has never been in the state of Alabama, that bottle has remained intact...for years. I sniffed it, though, and it smelled OK; so I proceeded.)

So here is how I made gin. First I put a bunch of juniper berries in the vodka. Some of them sank, and some floated. I let the bottle sit overnight on the counter, with an army of countertop appliances around it so the cats couldn't knock it over. The next morning I sniffed it (oh, OK...I tasted a tiny little bit!) and then added - in no particular order - a few peppercorns, a star anise, a spoonful of fennel seeds, a couple of cloves, a broken bay leaf, too much cracked cardamom (because it is my favorite spice), a sprig from each of my two rosemary plants, two purple basil leaves, the last shoot from my cilantro plant, a twist of grapefruit rind and another of lemon rind. And a cranberry. That was not in the recipe, but I had one, so what the hell. Now, that comes to 13 additives. The very fancy, very French, very expensive gin has 6 more ingredients, but maybe some more things will grow in the straw garden before I make the next batch. And I THOUGHT I had cinnamon sticks, so I really intended to add one of those this time.

By midday, I sniffed again...and yes, I tasted (just a tiny bit, though!) And, like magic, it smelled (and tasted, although I don't LIKE gin) like gin! With too much cardamom! Coffee filter in the funnel, decanted into another bottle. It had a bit of a golden color - true gin would go through another distillation to make it clear - but it looked like sunshine!

So, around 5 PM I chilled the shaker, crushed the ice, poured my homebrew, dribbled in the dry vermouth, and set my creation gently in the freezer to await The Moment of Truth...

Thumbs up! High Five! Passed muster with flying colors! And I'm thinking...Nancy's Herb World and Designer Gins! You Pick 'Em, We Pickle 'Em! Anyone know how to grow star anise?

Down and Dirty in Alabama

2010-06-01T05:32:00.000-07:00

Blood sport is nothing new around here; we have cock fighting, for example. And Alabama-Auburn football. But today is the Superbowl of Blood Sport; the Nirvana of Nastiness...beyond the Extreme Rugby Championship, or no-holds barred cage fighting...it's...The Alabama Primaries!

This is a primer for anyone who wishes to run for office in the Yellowhammer State. First, you will need some funds to play ads every seven minutes on every radio station and every reality TV show broadcast throughout the state. For a solid month. Clearly, that requires a lot of funds; so you might need to meet people who are engaged in illegal activity. They generally have more funds than people who are not engaged in illegal activity. Some recommendations include, but are not limited to, gambling cartels, friends of ex-CEOs and politicians who are currently incarcerated, and teachers' unions. These funds will then need to be properly "washed", because talk show hosts on those radio stations where you are advertising have no gratitude; they insist on "following the money" that you have given them. Bank insiders, PACs with confusing names, and fake websites make the "washing process" a bit easier.

Then you need some name recognition. It's helpful if you already have a moniker like "Young Boozer" or "Twinkle". (These are actual names of actual Alabama candidates, and this writer has no earthly idea if they have followed the recommendations outlined here.) If you are not lucky enough to have a fancy name, but you are a doctor, you can change your name - legally - to "Doctor"; which will instill trust in your constituents when they see it on the ballot. Or you can make billboard-sized signs and put them up on public property, especially along interstate highways. (Notes: Do NOT remove these interstate signs when the election is over. They will be useful when you run again in the future. And while you are "off-roading" in the Ford 150 posting your own signs, you can mow down those of your opponent. Just be sure you don't have one of them stuck in your truck grill when you show up at your next fundraiser.)

Next, you will need a commercial. Here is the text, suitable for radio, along with the action, for your TV ad. " __________________ is YOUR candidate for _________________. (Candidate, smiling, holding important-looking book.) _________________ is just like you. S/he is TIRED of career politicians. _________________ is a small business owner/farmer/hard-working American. (Candidate, smiling, filing/driving tractor/wearing hardhat.) S/he is proud of his/her Alabama values (Candidate pushing child on swing and smiling at spouse.) ___________________ is a conservative Christian (Candidate holds Bible and walks up to church) and has been a Sunday school teacher/lay pastor/acolyte for _____ years. (Candidate shakes hands with folk in front of church.) Vote for ___________________ for _______________. (Closeup of billboard-sized sign with candidate's name and website info. Unless you are running for Agricultural Commissioner. Then it is best to point a rifle at the camera.)

And you will need a "Don't Vote for My Opponent" commercial. If you are creative, this is your opportunity to shine! This is no time to burden yourself with the truth - it is not required under Alabama law. Compare your opponent to livestock! Insist that s/he does not believe in God! Note that his/her money came from illegal sources! (Yes, I realize this miiiiiight be bordering on the truth...) It is also fun - if you are, for example, a Democrat - to make up an uber-Republican PAC name and buy a bunch of air time to accuse your most likely Republican opponent of being a "Liberal". The sky's the limit!

One final strategy: Identify the jurisdictions that typically have 120-130% voter turnout. If they're in your pocket, you're ahead of the game. Go for the Bonus Points!

That should get you through the Primaries. Stay Tuned for "How to Win a Runoff!"

'Round, 'Round, GetARound, I Get Around!

2010-05-16T05:18:00.000-07:00

When I travel, I spend exactly nine hours a day in my hotel. Eight are for sleeping, and the other hour is for getting ready to go out and getting ready to sleep. The rest of the time I am pounding the pavement. Literally. I walk.

On Friday, I was in New York City. It was a buying trip; I needed supplies on 83rd Street, W. That was close to the hotel...got the goods, stuck them in the purse and headed off to the next stop at 57th Street. On foot.

I realized at 57th Street that I had the address of my favorite metal supply house confused with the address of my favorite breakfast restaurant (Norma's at LeParker Meridien) for the zillionth time - oh, well - and hiked the 10 blocks to 47th street. Bought some jump rings and ear wires; suffered verbal abuse at the pleasure of the proprietor, who assumes that because I have a southern accent I am stupid, how else to explain my request for pre-soldered bezel rings when I could easily solder them myself?; dished out my own sweet southern verbal abuse by telling him that his competitor sells them and I would just get them there; and

Hoofed over to the 30's, and the Garment District.

Which borders the Bead District.

Oh, Sweet Heaven.

Four hours, two shopping bags, and a tuna salad on rye later, I walked back to the hotel on 81st Street. Please note, I had a fully-funded MetroCard, valid for travel on any bus or subway, in my front pocket.

This behavior does not endear me to friends and family. In fact, it causes great hand-wringing. People love to travel with me because I know where (almost) everything is. People HATE to travel with me because I NEVER take a cab. What? And miss all the action on the street? My dear girlfriends, who have journeyed with me the world over, always stash rolls and cheese from breakfast in their purses, because it is likely I will have them exploring a cathedral in Lisbon well past lunch time. And I will want them to see Belem before we stop to eat...who wants to miss Belem? For years after they will talk about that nice old man who escorted us "safely" back to the hotel because women - even a dozen of them together - should not be walking the streets "alone". Those moments don't occur in cabs.

The husband has been known to ask, "On this trip, could we just sit one day? And read a book?"

(The truth is, I am glad for my traveling companions to sit in the hotel and read a book. But they don't really want to miss an adventure...they always choose to come along.)

I was on my own this trip. No one with aching feet, no begging for potty breaks, no "I'm hungry!". Just me. To get to my hotel in New York City, I drove from home to the airport. Walked to my gate. Flew to Newark, walked/rode the moving sidewalk/took an elevator/took an escalator to the Air Train. Which took me to the New Jersey Transit train that would get me to Penn Station. Where I took the C Train to the 81st Street station, and walked to the hotel. Oh, the humanity.

But my return flight was out of La Guardia. I could take a cab...or...I could take the subway to Harlem and transfer to the M60 local bus! Which goes all the way to the airport! For $2.25!!! And absolutely no one would tell me I'm crazy.

(Strange, but true. The reason Nancy knows so many places so well is that she adores local buses. Sometimes she will ride a local bus its entire route, just to "see what's out there." She thinks this is probably odd, much as speaking about herself in the third person is odd. But she does it anyway.)

So I needed to get to 125th Street in Harlem to catch the bus. That would be the good old C Train again...but the C Train was out of commission for the weekend for "enhancement of services". And the B Train doesn't run on weekends. Which meant that the D Train was running as a "local" (although it is normally an express.) All of this was explained clearly, to my mind, on the notices plastered all over the station. As it turns out, I was the only person at the 81st Street station who read the signs. And, I guess, I was emitting Ask-Me-How-To-Get-Where-You-Want-To-Go Vibes, because everyone did; until (Hallelujah!) my D Train arrived.

A lovely ride to Harlem, and up on the streets to meander over to the M60 stop. (I had built a lot of meandering time into my itinerary - I love Harlem. Although this six-foot tall redhead dragging the lime green roller bag through the throngs of women in gorgeous African garb was about as incongruous as Annie making an appearance in "The Number One Ladies' Detective Agency" series...) The bus was packed beyond the gills, and all the way to the eyeballs; and still had about four dozen stops to make. I put my my roller bag on the luggage rack, and sat on top of it; a seat I later relinquished to a travel-worn woman who was terrified she'd miss the stop for her airline. (She didn't.) Gave my almost-full MetroCard to a young lady who was shocked that someone would do that. And scored two priceless slices of life:

1) An Adopt-A-Mile sign that read, "Beautification provided by the New York Department of Corrections Hispanic Association" - who knew? And,

2) A church with a wedding in the front - ribbons, balloons and a limousine...and crime scene tape roping off the back door.

A good day.

Yes, if you're looking for adventure, come along with me. But be sure to bring a sandwich.

Polk Salad Nancy

2010-05-12T05:45:00.000-07:00

This city girl would like to imagine I have an Inner Thoreau; but the truth is, I'm just plain cheap, and I love greens. So when I noticed a polk plant (at least it looked like polk to me) growing in the gully on the other side of the fence, I had no choice but to put it on the menu for dinner.

Confident in my botanic expertise, I pointed to the leaves, and asked The Husband if he had any idea how to reach them. My thought was to use that Grabber Thing that gets the light bulbs out of those vaulted-ceiling fixtures. His idea was to scale the fence, shimmy down the gully and manhandle the polk. I deferred to him, of course. And fetched the Bactine for his skinned knees.

Now, there is just one problem with eating polk. It is poisonous. (The other problem, was that I didn't have any real proof that it was, in fact, polk. No botanist, no avant garde chef, no pistol-totin' granny. Just a few Internet pics...but I chose not to dwell in the negative.) So it has to be carefully prepared to remove the toxins.. The Official Recipe is:

Wash, boil, rinse, reboil, rinse, reboil, rinse, drain, throw into pan with bacon grease and eggs, scramble.

There is just one problem with this recipe. Bacon grease is disgusting. And the other problem is that The Husband doesn't like eggs for dinner, unless they are deviled eggs at a cookout.

I made up my own recipe:
wash, boil, rinse, reboil, rinse, reboil with a veggie bullion cube, drain, throw in a pan with some olive oil, vinegar and pepper flakes, heat through.

And I really, really hoped that the bacon grease and the eggs weren't necessary to counteract toxins.

Sampled, tasty, waited, didn't die. Put the greens in a bowl, put the bowl on the table. The Husband looked wary. Served himself some potato gratin. Reached for the spoon in the polk. Or whatever it was. Asked, "Am I going to die?" I assured him that it had been at least 15 minutes since my sample, and I wasn't dead. He tasted. Liked. Served himself some more.

My friend, Rachel, who really DOES have an Inner Thoreau, makes her own sauerkraut, and gave me the Official Polk Salad Recipe (with two caveats; she said it "smells" and "it tastes like yuck", but she is wrong), had warned me not to eat too much because it can cause diarrhea. Which is somewhat better than death, but I practiced serious portion control anyway. There was a tiny bit left...the dogs loved it.

This morning I woke up early. Dogs woke up, too. That made three of us who didn't die. No evidence of diarrhea anywhere. I was feeling pretty proud of myself, living off the land, saving the $1.99 for that bag of collards. Wondering how to cultivate polk in a more convenient place. Then I realized, The Husband didn't wake up at 4:30 as usual. He didn't wake at 5:00. By 6:00, I had to face the possibilities. He overslept? He never oversleeps. He was taking the day off? Surely he would have mentioned it. OMG, he died. Of polk poisoning. OMG, I'm a murderer. No, I'm sure it would be reduced to involuntary manslaughter...can't prove intent...oh, I hear the shower! I'm freeeeee!!!!!

And making the grocery list for dinner. What is that Japanese blowfish? The one that you have to fillet so carefully, because its organs are toxic?

City Kitties in the Kountry

2010-04-28T05:42:00.000-07:00

(Warning: mouse dies.)

Every now and then, an unfortunate field mouse notes that the mud room door of the farmhouse has the tiniest gap at the bottom. Just large enough for an itty-bitty field mouse, if it holds its breath, to wiggle through. And just inside that door is a bowl of cat food.

So Mr. Mousie awaits the cover of darkness, sucks it in, belly-crawls toward the Manna From Heaven, and startles Bes the Doublewide Kitty, mid Midnight Snack # 3. Bes' howl brings her five siblings running.

The Staff does not mean this unkindly, but these Kitties are...um...not good mousers. They spent their formative years in a cluster home in the city. A cluster home with the Gold Standard of Pest Control. The closest thing to a mouse in their lives pre-farm was a dying cockroach. (Although some of the older Kitties remember the day the wren flew into the house. They watched as The Staff used a broom to swat it out an upstairs window.) The very first Field Mouse Incident, in fact, took place while the Mother-in-Law and her little dog were visiting...guess who caught the rodent?

Since the Great Humiliation at the paws of the pesky pup, The Kitties have developed a strategy. The Staff has cursed loudly, and often, especially in the face of impending tornadoes, about "herding cats". While The Kitties found this vastly amusing (and, by the way, they think The Staff grossly overreacts to twisters) they also noted the opportunity in their numbers. They developed drills. Foster chases Veronika down the hall. Veronika chases Foster up the hall. Dewi chases Bes around the kitchen island. Bes.....gets a snack. Violet times their runs. Mona hides under the sofa. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Ad nauseam.

And, last night, finally, the payoff. Alas, Poor Mousie...herded to death. But The Staff is going to have to handle things around the farm for a while. The Kitties have some recovering to do.

In Praise of Older Kitties

2010-04-09T17:37:00.000-07:00

If life passes in a blink, our fuzzy companions are with us for a mere nanosecond. They are our first "children", our birth children's best friends, our confidants, keepers of secrets and volunteer tasters of new recipes; our favorite necks to hug, and occasionally the bane of our existence...gone in a flash...although we remember the days of string chasing and shoe chewing like it was yesterday.

I have the softest spot for the Old Kitties; who still take a roll in the catnip, and gum their Kitty Treats. But I am especially soft on Violet...sweet, sweet Violet. The daughter of a feral mom, captured in an abandoned building in Gainesville, GA. Who had no idea that humans came with caresses; no idea that her white self with the black nose, looking for all the world like some kiddie scribbled on her proboscis with a Magic Marker, is remarkably beautiful. Who howled in disbelief when handed over to us from our vet, her Savior...as he whispered, "Stop complaining! You're on the way to Kitty Heaven!" Who can cancel out evil in the world with a "meow".

Violet is 16, and in kidney failure; every day I give her fluids (which involves a big needle) and a potassium tablet. She forgives me, if I also give her Seafood Medley Temptation Treats. And, if I let her drink water out of the dirty dishes in the sink...and if I give her a little scratch on the butt every now and then. And access to the empty yogurt containers. Today, she upped the ante...Violet wanted a taste of the violets I gathered from the horse pasture.

I tried to change the subject. Picked her up, clipped her nails, put her down...Violet returned to the bouquet. Handed out treats, Violet headed back to the violets for dessert. Moved the flowers to the safety of the master bath. Violet looked wounded.

Then I remembered that birthday cake with candied violets years ago. I have no idea who was feted, just that beautiful cake. People eat violets. Maybe cats can eat them, too. A quick check with poison control indicated that violets pose no harm to the Kitties; and, in fact, Violet is not the only cat with a taste for violets! I returned the bouquet to the window sill, and looked the other way while Violet had a nibble. (Followed by her little brother, Foster, who can't stand to miss out on any adventure...)

The violets in the pasture are fading, now. I hope - with all my heart - that Violet is here to enjoy the first delicious, purple, taste of spring, next year.

There should be a Law!

2010-04-04T18:14:00.000-07:00

I am all about Economies of Scale, and Multitasking, and Consolidating and Maximizing. I plan my errands during smog alerts, so I only make left-hand turns. No retracing steps for me! No wasted motions or carbon-squandering...and my vehicle has rounded edges, so it slips oh-so-easily through the air. With nearly 40 miles to the gallon, the Audi tt and I are practically energy-invisible. And we are proud of our practicality.

I am so practical, in fact, that I had my children on the same day...two years apart. One giant party! One date to remember! And what two-year old doesn't want his very own baby brother for a birthday present? (Silly me, I also believed that the brothers would never forget each others' birthdays...yeah, well...)

This practicality would have played well in, say, August. When there is really not a lot going on except Back-to-School Sales and the occasional Tax-Free Holiday for Appliances. Or February, with the exception of Valentine's Day. But I chose April. And this year, I ended up with

Two birthdays, Easter, AND World Rat Day on April 4th.

I couldn't decide whether to hide the birthday presents, wrap the Easter eggs or hoist the World Rat Day flag first.

What we did:

The Grand was experiencing her very first "I Get It" Easter, so we started with an egg hunt. The potted plants magically (thanks to Unka Drew) yielded colorful plastic orbs filled with jelly beans. Then Easter baskets all around, filled with - depending on who you are - a stuffed Easter Snake (it goes "ssssssssss") and a stuffed Easter Banana; some edible Easter grass and Easter Buffalo Jerky...and the obligatory Easter Burt's Bees hand cream for gardeners.

Followed by Easter banh mi - Vietnamese pork, chicken and tofu sandwiches.

And a platter of sweets from the local Korean bakery; alongside the traditional Birthday Rhubarb-Strawberry Pie.

Some origami cash...in the shape of kayaks; and a tarantula...as birthday gifts. And a Remote-Controlled plastic rat and Rat t-shirt for the Rat Aficionado in the group.

A mandatory Easter/Birthday/International Rat Day nap.

Then a FAB Chef Liu Chinese Dinner, featuring shredded tofu and lamb skewers and pork buns and veggie dumplings. And, the most delicious chocolate mint birthday cake.

Are you confused yet?

I want to sing songs..."He is Risen", "In Your Easter Bonnet", "Happy Birthday" and the National Rat Day Anthem - the theme from "Ben"? But I am too confused...Happy Easter, Happy Birthday, Happy National Rat Day! And to the Bosses of Holidays, could we spread them out a bit next year? I think it will help with candy and card sales...

Wha Dis Day, Ees-tur?

2010-03-28T05:41:00.000-07:00

Nono, not dress. Jus diaper. No dress. Itch, dress. Nooonoo! Not socks! I...take...off...(grunt)...socks... Nononono! No shoes! Socks stuck. Oh, shoes shiny! Oh shoes pretty! No, no, no hairbrush! Hairbrush hurt!!! Nono pigtails! I pull pigtails. Oh pigtail pull hurt. Nono bows I run away haha! You catch me. Bows. I pull bows out. Oh...

Go outside? OK! Outside! I see bug! I get bug I eat bug....egg? What egg you say, Daddy? Where egg? Oooh, in plant! I see egg! Look, Daddy, I see egg! I get egg. Pur-pul. Pur-pul egg. Egg no pur-pul!! Egg white! Haha! Ooh, egg shake! Thing in egg! Daddy open egg...beans in egg! Egg have beans? Ooh, bean taste like bu-Nana! Egg have beans taste like bu-Nana? noooo...oooh, bean taste like pi-nappel! Bean taste like pi-nappel? Nooo, bean taste like gween. Give to dog. No like gween bean. Oh, dis gween bean taste pear! Me like pear! I confused. I sit in grass take off shoe.

What say Mommy, more egg? What dat Big Purse, Mommy? Have big handle no top. Put egg in Big Purse? Okay, Mommy. Look, Mommy, I find egg. It lellow. Shake, have beans? put in Big Purse. Other egg! Gween! Shake, put in Big Purse.

I mix up...no egg here yesSirDay. Why egg, Daddy? Bunny? Bunny have egg? Silly Daddy! Bunny not got egg! Chicken got egg! No bunny, Daddy! Chicken got egg lellow inside! No beans! Daddy silly. Silly goose Daddy. I go neck-store. Pick up eggs. Put in Big Purse. What say Mommy? Bunny not put egg neck-store? Why Mommy Bunny put eggs my grass not neck-store?

Nooooo I not hold big purse, Mommy. I tired. I tired pick up egg shake put in big purse. Noooo not shiny box! Mommy got shiny little box. Put on Mommy eye. Say look here sweetie. Say cheese. I no got cheese? Got eggs. Beans inside egg. Bunny have egg. Egg put in Big Purse. Wear dress. Shoes. I so tired. I confused. Daddy, I no smile. I tired. Daddy, uppies me. Daddy shoulder. I tired, Daddy warm...I go nap...nigh-nigh...Mommy shiny box go click...nigh-nigh.

Home Curling, a How-to-Guide

2010-02-28T06:48:00.000-08:00

The Winter Olympics are in full swing, and in between criticizing the figure skaters' outfits and shivering, I have become obsessed with the sport of "curling". Probably because one of the Canadian Curlers, Kristie Moore, is pregnant. And, with decades of experience as a Maternity Educator under my belt, I have absolutely no idea how I would have reacted if one of my pregnant clients had asked what I thought about her participation in the Olympics. As a Curler. Although I am (technically) retired, I could be called off the bench at any time; and the issue could conceivably (ha! conceivably! Maternity Educator humor!) come up in the future...so I am getting prepared.

Now, curling, as far as I can tell, involves sweeping, and heaving a big rock down the ice. There is a "hog line" at each end, and a big target beyond each hog line. The participants wear Teflon shoes. They shout stuff while sliding around.

Let's break this down. Sweeping is probably not dangerous for pregnant women; who have been known to be at home, barefoot and pregnant, probably sweeping, for millennia. Targets pose no clear danger, either. They are the best places to find baby gates, and cheap-but-designer infant clothes. I just got my granddaughter a really cute navy and pink retro peasant top and leggings at Target, and they were 30% off. Also, although Teflon has been linked to Alzheimer's, I don't think Teflon is inherently dangerous during pregnancy. Target has a fine selection of Teflon cookware. So I would let this issue, um, slide.

Now, as far as heaving heavy stones. A little research turned up the fact that the stones are granite, as featured on the counter tops in The Kitchens of the Martha Stewart Home Collection. As long as the granite is well-sealed, experts agree there is no health threat. Most expectant mothers have had some experience with heaving before the 12th week of pregnancy, so that's a non-issue; however, hydration must be carefully monitored, and dehydration - should it occur - must be addressed immediately.

Shouting is benign, as it is common in pregnancy, and even more common in childbirth.

So I'm left to ponder the "hog line." I am not a fan of the "rare pork" en vogue at your finer restaurants. Especially for pregnant women. In fact, I am not in favor of pork at all; but I try not to impose my dietary views on others. And living in the country, we see some wild hogs that look pretty mean. I would not advise tangling with them, either.

But, clearly, I can't see the "Big Curling Picture" by examining all these little pieces. So I have constructed a Home Curling Course to get a real feel for the physical demands of the sport, and how they could affect pregnancy. You might want to give it a try, yourself. So, here's how:

First, if you have carpet in your living room, you must remove it and install hardwoods. Or bamboo, which is much more eco-friendly and renewable. Then get the Murphy's Oil Soap and dilute it 1:1...not that 1:16 as recommended on the label. You want the wood good and slippery. Then create Targets at either end of the room. I used the symbol from Target plastic bags. I like to recycle. You probably won't be able to tape them to the slick floor, so you'll need a few brads, or a heavy-duty staple gun.

Next, create your Hog Lines. I didn't have any hogs, or pork (again, I don't mean to impose my dietary views) so I used the dogs. They were, as usual, asleep. I shoved one in front of each Target. I don't think they even noticed, because the floor was so slippery.

You will need Teflon shoes. You can either strap an upside-down Teflon griddle to each foot, or use the old Irish trick of duct-taping your feet. (I am not making this up. I learned it on Wikipedia.)

Get a broom.

And then, a big granite rock. I have a granite mortar and pestle that I use to grind cardamom pods for Swedish coffee bread. I intended to use it for the rock, but decided against it for sanitary reasons...I didn't really want Murphy's Oil Soap in the next batch of coffee bread. I couldn't find any other flat-bottomed granite, so I had to improvise...

AHA! the Roomba! It looks just like that granite thing, and it is self-propelled. Which is a blessing when you don't have any teammates to heave the opening stone. (And you thought Roombas were just for amusing cats!)

Now, get a fanny pack, fill it with water balloons, and strap it around your stomach. If you don't feel suitably weighed down, you might need two fanny packs full of water balloons. (PLEASE NOTE! IF YOU ARE AUSTRALIAN, SKIP THIS STEP!!! AND I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR A WORD ABOUT IT!!!)

To play:

Starting at the far dog line, turn on the Roomba. Look disappointed when it flashes "replace batteries". Replace batteries. Look disappointed when nothing happens. Put on your reading glasses, notice that the batteries are backwards and re-install. Turn on the Roomba. Without tripping over first dog, gently sweep the gyrating Roomba back in line, in the direction of the far Target. Shout something. Sweep curious cats out of the way. Shout something. Sweep Roomba, shout something, sweep cats, shout something, sweep Roomba, shout something, sweep cats, shout something...face the Roomba while sliding backward toward second dog line, shout something colorful while tripping over the second dog and landing on the Target. Clean up mess from ruptured water balloons.

The International Olympic Committee has determined that curling is not dangerous for pregnant women. I concur, with a caveat. Dogs should be removed from the field before play begins.

DISCLAIMER: Although I am a Maternity Expert, and I think that curling during pregnancy is fine in moderation, other Maternity Experts disagree. Please consult your personal Health Care Team for their views on curling during pregnancy. Writer denies responsibility for any injuries sustained while tripping over dogs, wearing fanny packs backwards or heaving mortars and pestles; illness from consuming pork, or shock from improperly wired Roombas.

Down and Out in Oxford, Alabama

2010-02-08T18:11:00.000-08:00

I am a Road Warrior. The road I battle is I-20, between Atlanta, GA and Birmingham, AL. A lot of this road is national forest. A lot of it is what we called, when I pursued Urban Studies in college, "hinterland". Which means "void of cell phone towers, radio stations and clean restrooms; yet offering a variety of fireworks superstores".

I have driven this stretch of I-20, in one direction or another, on a daily basis for nearly five years. I am intimate with mile markers. Some of them bring back fond memories, like my friendly discussion with the state trooper who insisted I was going 81 mph at Mile Marker 195. In fact, I was going 74 mph. But I WAS D.I.S.C...(Driving In Sports Car) so I understand why he assumed that it was me, not the silver 1998 Honda Civic in front of me, kicking it around the semi. Billy the Trooper let me go with a warning. I am not sure whether that had anything to do with my snarling, teeth-baring canine co-pilot...but now I know where Billy camps out; and I always wave.

So last Friday was a routine trip in the making. I was to arrive in Atlanta in the early evening, in time to retrieve my mother from a doctor's appointment downtown. I left Birmingham around 2 PM, for my two-plus hour drive. It was raining, and cold. But I have heated seats, and the Audi tt has Quattro traction. Which means that by some kind of physics or magic, it sticks to the ground in the rain. It works - I've yet to go airborne.

Fifty miles out of Birmingham, I saw trouble ahead. Well, I kind of saw it...the aura of flashing lights way on up there; and brake lights for a mile or so. Let me just admit here, I got kicked out of Girl Scouts for scaring the Brownies on a camp out. It was by design. I was a lousy Girl Scout, and I didn't give a half a flip about badges. BUT I did learn a bit about that "be prepared" stuff...so I had a Reader's Digest AND my reading glasses in the front seat. I shut down the ignition, and the headlights; donned the glasses and read for an hour. And then...the traffic started to move.

Cranked up the tt, and....zzzzzzzz....blink...blink....zzzzz.

Nothing.

A. Complete. Electrical. Meltdown.

It was not the first time I had been through this with my Little German Friend. My Cute-But-Bratty transportation has always had "issues".

Called 911. Connected to the State Patrol. Alabama State Patrol. Where are you? Mile Marker 184 eastbound...just outside of Oxford, Alabama. Where is your car? In the left lane...GET OUT OF YOUR CAR! STAND IN THE CENTER OF THE MEDIAN! Help is on the way!

It was pouring rain. The median was a lake. I was wearing suede shoes. My mother was expecting me to pick her up...but help was on the way!

I think that every man, woman and child driving by this woman in suede shoes, shivering in the middle of a soggy median just outside of Oxford, Alabama, offered to help. But I informed them that "help is on the way"; and sent them on their way.

Until the truck full of Alabama Department of Transportation employees stopped by, blocked traffic, moved my bratty vehicle to the right shoulder, and compustered about getting it started again.

None of them had ever driven a stick shift. But they HAD heard that you could push a car with manual transmission real fast, and "throw" it into gear. So they decided to push it BACKWARDS until they could "throw" it in reverse...I was numb, physically and mentally at this point. They could have said they were bringing in a Chinook helicopter and lifting the damn thing 40 feet in the air; then dropping it to "jar" it into reality. And I would have said, "OK." But I still managed to think,

"What could possibly go wrong here?"

As the six Burly Men got into position to push the tt backwards on the right shoulder...this was now 2 hours after the initial "failure" and there was no Alabama State Patrol to speak of on the scene (even after 2 more phone calls) and I was soaked to the bone and my mother was surely wondering where I was (yes, I called, but my parents don't leave their cell phones on, they might lose their charge)...a TOW TRUCK appeared! Hallelujah, a tow truck! I was certain that a "jump" would restore the sanity of the tt. I could reset the electrical system, and be on my way! And no one would have to push my car backwards to get it "jumped" into reverse!

Oh, happy day, the tow truck guy, Travis, emerged.

But he didn't have jumper cables.

He could, however, tow me to Daddy's shop, a mile away. They could jump me there. Super duper...He loaded the tt on the wrecker, and told me to get in the truck. Which I did. But I had to remove his GUN from the passenger seat to sit down.

Hello, I had to move his

GUN.

Which I did...

And he towed me 1 mile to the shop, got the jumper cables, opened the hood, looked around, opened the TRUNK, looked around, at which point I asked him what he was looking for, told me that he "can't find the battery" and I told him it was under the thing that said "BATTERY COVER" in the front of the car, jumped the sporty-yet-petulant vehicle; sending it into "safe" mode, which allowed me to program it with the "secret code" that resets its bad self....and said that his daddy, who owned the shop, wanted $150 for their service.

I pulled out a credit card. They didn't take credit cards.

I pulled out a check book. They didn't take checks.

I had $105 in cash. The service provided, miraculously, now cost $105.

Called the parents at home, to leave a message about my inability to retrieve my mother; but they ANSWERED, because they got an earlier appointment. And they were home and done and eating crockpot pork tenderloin; and my services were not necessary after all.

Drove back to Birmingham. Thankful for my steam shower. And the fireplace, and fuzzy socks. And I will never view mile marker 184 quite the same way again.

Dear National Weather Service...

2010-01-04T17:54:00.000-08:00

Dear National Weather Service,

I am writing because I believe a terrible mistake has been made. I live in the Deep South. I say ma'am, and y'all. I eat grits, and fried okra. People like me do not have heating blocks for our car engines. We don't wear gloves, except for those cute fingerless ones that make us look like refugees from the Oliver Twist Orphanage. And our "winter coat" is a stylin' leather jacket, with a silk scarf around our neck for a Stacy and Clinton "pop of color". We close all non-essential businesses, government offices and Starbucks if we have snow flurries.

So imagine my surprise, when today it was so cold that the plastic cover on the very expensive electronic key to my German sports car cracked. Hello, they have Alps and stuff in Germany. They know cold. Those expensive electronic key covers are engineered to withstand Alp Cold, but couldn't handle the Arctic Blast clearly misdirected at we gloveless souls.

As The National Weather Service, I believe it is incumbent upon you to rectify this situation, and return our typical "sweater weather". Certainly, some jurisdiction that thrives on ice fishing and...umm...slalom stuff, wants its weather back.

(It has occurred to me that there could be a more sinister explanation for this unpleasantness. Like, perhaps, some terrorist types have developed Weapons of Mass Refrigeration. Binary compounds, benign on their own, but bone-chilling in combination. And possibly these FreezeMongers managed to worm their way into the country on a flight from Siberia to Atlanta; then released their horror somewhere above Villa Rica. In which case, I'm sure, an investigation is ongoing. I really don't want to compromise National Security. I just want to feel my fingers again.)

So, please, National Weather Service, look into the possible misdeployment of Jack Frost. He is not welcome here, among grits and okra eaters. And the people who love him - those people who strap two-by-fours to their feet and slide down mountains - must be mourning his absence. It's a new year, and a fresh start. Let's start by putting the weather back where it belongs.

Thanks (But No Thanks,) for the Memories, Cindy-Lou Who!

2009-12-20T07:30:00.000-08:00

I didn't watch Grinchy at all this season...
I missed it on TV; and the OTHER reason
Is that my copy's a tape, for an old television.
Not a big, fancy set that views tapes with derision.

Nonetheless, I'm remembering that old green meanie
Who swiped all the goodies from Cindy, so teeny.
The child stood up to him, Cindy was tough.
And calm, in a crisis - he was taking her stuff!
(Or possibly colorblind, I don't know...
She didn't note "Santa" had a sickly green glow.)

But Cindy was stylin' in her nightgown so pink,
And charmed our green goblin, when she asked for a drink.
Antennae bobbing atop her blond head,
She accepted the water and went back to bed.

My question right here is, where was her mother?
Didn't she hear them addressing each other?
I guess she was tired from stuffing that hen.
Or perhaps, she consumed too much Who Brew, again.
(Daddy was also not to be found.
But rumors of Daddy's "diversions" abound.)

Whatever the case, whatever the reason,
After the Grinching, Whos welcomed the season.
Their singing attracted the green guy himself,
Who returned all the presents, like a good Christmas elf.
(I admit here, I have some food poisoning fright...
Remember, the roast beast sat out all night.)

"The Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day!"
Which sounds kinda scary, in a heart attack way.

Hmmm.

I think I'll be getting a "Grinch" DVD.
I like it much better when it's not told by me.

Are you Simple-Minded? Take Our Simple Test!

2009-11-21T08:11:00.000-08:00

The Kitties and I have been on hiatus; moving all the Good Stuff from House A to House B, the Mediocre Stuff from House A to Goodwill, and the Not-So-Good Stuff (along with the I-Don't-Feel-Like-Dealing-With-This Stuff) to the curb. While simultaneously staging House A for sale and driving back and forth across two states from House A to House B looking for our stuff, because we can't remember if it is at House A or B; or whether we took it to Goodwill, or whether we just imagined that we ever had it.

So is it any surprise that I am currently simple-minded? That's the accusation, at any rate.

This morning, I was sharing a dream I had with a group of friends. I dreamed that I was with these same friends, at a zoo. Someone at the B&B where we were all staying had lost a banana python. We found the banana python at the zoo, under an alarm clock. It was coiled up, and one of us picked it up to take back to the B&B.

My interpretation of that dream was that I wanted our group of friends to go back to Bali (we traveled there together in 2001) and revisit the zoo where the giant banana python lives. I am very fond of that banana python. She is about 13 feet long, and beautiful. And she has her own display area, where people can pose with her draped around them, for photos. I swear, I have seen that banana python smile. And, although I have made many pilgrimages to Indonesia, it has been quite a while since the last one. Seemed like a pretty straight-forward dream to me.

That's when my dear friend, Professor and Certified Literary Critic, "G", informed me that there was much more to it. Snakes in dreams, said G, are always sexual representations. (She, being a Professor and Certified Literary Critic in possession of Colorful Vocabulary elaborated in detail that would shock The Kitties. So I'll let you use your imagination.) I protested, because I was sure I really want to go to Bali and see the real banana python. And G told me that I was being simple-minded; if I wrote a paper about my own interpretation of my own dream for her I would flat-out fail her class.

So I have decided to sharpen my skills in the realm of Real-But-Hidden-Meaning; and I developed this test, as a Public Service:

1. "This little piggy went to market" is

a) a story about piglets
b) a simple technique to count Baby's toes
c) a tale of lust (Piggy 1 used "market" as a euphemysm for brothel), repression (Piggy 2 was forced to stay home against her will), gluttony (the roast beef) anorexia (no roast beef) and Freudian toilet-training issues (wee, wee, wee all the way home.)

2. The Geiko Gecko is

a)cute
b)a clever marketing tool
c)small and green. He is obviously green with envy, and has a clear case of "little man" syndrome. So he talks with that funny accent to convince himself and those around him that he is more special than they are.

3. Popsicles are:

a)sugar water on a stick
b)a waste of money
c)come on, do I have to explain EVERYTHING to you?

If you answered mostly "a", you just want to go to Bali to see the banana python. Mostly "b", you don't care what your results are anyway. And mostly "c"...well you got that A+ in Lit Crit in the bag. And I can recommend a good therapist.

Almost Giddy...Up!

2009-08-31T18:54:00.000-07:00

I had a rocking horse. 1950's vintage, plastic with a nylon tail. My horse was well-loved; the springs needed to be replaced every six months. Daddy and I went together to Sears on a regular basis to buy rocking horse springs.

Our kids had a rocking horse. Circa 1980; springs, but no nylon tail. 100% palomino plastic...perhaps nylon tails posed some heretofore unknown risks to small children, and were discontinued between generations. When presented with this rocking horse, one memorable Christmas, we asked Son One if he liked it. His two-year-old response: "Be Fine." And BeFine, the horse, became a treasured family member.

BeFine also required lots of springs during his tenure. He went on to greener pastures with Nephew and Niece. Don't know exactly where BeFine is now...but I suspect he would not pass muster with today's parents or The Federal Government Rocking Horse Czar. Springs could pinch tiny fingers. Springs have probably been discontinued.

Fast forward to present: We have "real" horses. Living, breathing and slobbering equines in the back yard. Yet, I was determined that the Most Fabulous GrandBaby In The World should have a pretend rocking horse.

These days, when you shop for a rocking horse on line, you find yourself in the company of "Rocking Horse Experts" who ask a lot of questions (how tall is your granddaughter? Is she walking? Does she prefer blondes or brunettes?) and make Rocking Horse Recommendations based on your feedback. Said grandbaby is too big for "baby" rockers; but a bit young for "toddler" horses. Her height, however, throws her directly into the "toddler" camp. So, I bought a "toddler" horse.

It wasn't hard to assemble; aside from my little meltdown when it wouldn't whinny or gallop. A call to The Rocking Horse Experts assured me, correctly, that it needed only a Double A battery in the depths of its belly to resolve those issues.

Last evening I delivered the whinnying, galloping soft-n-fluffy spring-free toddler horse to The Most Fabulous GrandBaby in the World. She was semi-delighted; but confused. Horsey looked a lot like her two dogs, and she was not allowed to sit on top of them...yet people were clearly encouraging her to sit on this new arrival. And she has recently learned to "give kisses." She was strongly advised to "kiss the horsey"; which she did overandoverandoverandover again. Cute, but probably not a whole lot of fun. Eventually, she decided to walk around, dragging the rocking horse by a handle, and kissing it periodically. I'm not quite sure if she thought that was fun.

Ahh, artificial horses. They don't need apples or carrots or hay; and they don't smell. They are properly sized for users. They whinny and gallop at the touch of a button.

I hope no one ever invents artificial grandmas.

Blackberry? Pre? IPhone? nope...Peek

2009-08-05T17:53:00.000-07:00

I'm a Peekster! And until 5 days ago I didn't even know it.

You might recall that I was, at one time, the owner of the world's oldest cell phone. After being poked, and prodded, and cajoled and begged and laughed at, I finally got a new phone that FLIPS OPEN. I felt so 2000.

I had also recently upgraded to High Speed Internet. And then I installed a wireless router; and before you know it, I was some sort of techno junkie, checkin' my email on my (giant and very heavy and also beautifully purple) laptop by the pool. I could almost, almost understand my friends' lust for "apps" and "features" and "upgrades" and other (she casually bats the word around) tekkie stuff.

But the thought of pushing all those little buttons. And reading all the manuals to determine which buttons to push...well, I've had a migraine for a few days. I thought it might have been MSG in some Chinese food I ate, until just this minute. Now I'm not so sure.

Because the App Seed was planted. I don't need a phone to make videos, or map me a route to the vet or surf the web. I can't even read the text on my 17" laptop. I would have to enlarge it to one letter at a time on an IPhone. Don't need it to sing to me, or find Chinese restaurants. (Unless it could find the ones that don't use MSG...)

But, well, checking my email without powering up the aubergine (and fairly temperamental) laptop. Now, that would be an App! And as this silliness was running through my crowded head, I heard our Atlanta Consumer Guru, Clark Howard, explain something called "Peek". It looks like a Blackberry, so people think you are hip and cool and LinkedIn. But it just gets your email! No confusing cameras, or web-surfing, or Chinese Restaurant coordinates!

I was smitten. Went on the website, http://www.getpeek.com and it was so freakin' cute that I got a cherry red one. It arrived today.

Clark Howard said it took his 9-year-old 2 minutes to have it operational. Guess it's hard to teach us old dogs new tricks...it took at least 3 minutes for me to get it up and running.

It is charging now, on the kitchen counter. It works great. I am already in love. Just one little problem - when it gets an email it kinda, um, hiccups. Foster the Kitty views it as electronic prey; and I am pretty sure it will be "retrieved" and delivered to me during the night.

If it makes it through to morning, I'll shoot you an email.

(Wo)Man vs. Machine

2009-07-28T17:44:00.000-07:00

There have been stories, this past week, that Scientists are worried. That's pretty much what Scientists do. They worry that something collided with Jupiter. And that people in New York City are exposed to too many trans-fats. And that Jon Gosselin has too many girlfriends. No, wait, that's "US Magazine." And now The Scientists are worried that we are making machines too smart, and that they are going to become smarter than we are; and very bad things will happen.

Well, duh. I guess The Scientists finally went to the movies. We've all been worried about this exact thing since Karel Capek coined the word, "robot", in 1921. Terminators, Transformers and The Evil Hymie, built by K.A.O.S. to kill Maxwell Smart, have been having their way with us Mere Mortals for decades.

And I am here to tell you - not only are machines smarter than we are. They have twisted, wicked, sadistic and totally not nice ideas about what is funny. We are often the butt of their cold, blinking, binary senses of humor. And we don't even know it.

For instance, everyone in the state of Georgia, except yours truly, has an imprint of their fingerprint on the back of their driver's license. I have an imprint of my thumb. Because machines make fun of people like me, who have Reynaud's Syndrome.

That is a not-funny affliction, involving a lack of circulation in the fingers and toes and nose and other exposed parts of the body. People with Reynaud's Syndrome are, essentially, allergic to cold. Suppose I had a pierced navel, which I don't. And a really cute midsection, without stretch marks. Which I also don't. And a super-awesome belly-button ring, which I could make in my jewelry studio if I wanted to. And suppose I was going to a concert in Minneapolis in February, at the First Avenue Nightclub. I love the First Avenue Club, but I digress. And I wanted to show off my belly button and the super-awesome belly-button ring, so I wore a crop-top in minus 10 degree weather; and stood outside until the doors opened because there is no advanced seating. My brain would say to itself, "My goodness, it is cold!" (Well, my own personal brain would use much more colorful language.) "So I think I will shut down circulation to the fingers and toes and nose and teeth of this body. They can all fall off, as far as I am concerned; we have to sacrifice something for that midsection with the awesome belly-button ring!" And those cold circulation-impaired fingers would no longer trigger the heat reaction necessary to fire the photo app of the cell phone inside the First Avenue Nightclub. Where cameras are not allowed, but everyone sneaks them in.

This means that, if I am chilly anywhere, touch pads don't work. And, unless it is August, something is chilly...so the fingerprint sensor at the Department of Motor Vehicles thought it would be fun to confound the operator, and humiliate this writer. It refused to register Pointer Finger, Tall Man, Ring Man and Pinky. It finally caved at Thumbkin.

So, haha, all the machines got their jollies this evening. I needed a bag of lettuce.

Put the casserole in the oven, had 1/2 an hour to get lettuce and toss a salad.

First, I had to get some cash. Stood behind one person at the grocery store bank, which boasts two ATMs. The one on the right vacated. I stepped up to the plate, inserted my card, punched in magic numbers, and...it was out of money.

Stepped back into line for the machine on the left. Where a sweet Asian woman was, no kidding, sorting through a veritable deck of ATM cards. Removing $200, inserting another card, depositing $200...we went through 6 sets of removing/depositing.

I was not the only one marveling at the volume of ATM cards in the possession of one person. The line snaked to the front of the store.

Two tellers asked me if I needed help. That has never happened, in the 35 years I've deposited my money with that particular bank.

Finally, finallyfinally, the Asian lady stopped taking money out and re-depositing it. IT WAS MY TURN!!!!!! I pushed the "start" button and the instructions popped up...in Korean. Hit return, got a card left by the previous "resident." Saw her exiting the store, chased her into the parking lot, realized I had the bag of chopped lettuce just as it alerted the shoplifting alarm, flung it into a rogue shopping basket, raced to the parking lot, found the Korean lady, gave her the card, raced back in, grabbed the lettuce out of the rogue cart, got back in line for cash...and...it worked.

I had money. And lettuce. But the machines weren't done with me just yet.

Self-checkout...

Punched in my phone number for my "Customer Loyalty Discount." Got charged nearly $10 for a bag of lettuce. Because someone had "borrowed" my phone # to find out the price of something called "Wild Grass". But they didn't purchase it. Still, it turned up on my bill.

I pointed the problem out the the Customer Service Specialist on call at the You Scan. She informed me that she could not void the "wild grass" purchase; I would have to go to Customer Service, where manymanymanymanymany people were buying lottery tickets. I begged for an alternative. Sorry, Charlie.

Finally got to the Customer Service Specialist, AKA Lotto dispenser. After CSS looked carefully in my empty-except-for-lettuce shopping bag, got reimbursed for Wild Grass.

And, as I left, I HEARD the U-Scan machines chuckle.

They will be sorry.

Carbon Nation

2009-07-16T17:46:00.000-07:00

I was born to be a part of the Pepsi Generation. That was the ad campaign that was most closely aligned with my coming of Soda Pop Age; and I was happy to climb on board.

Not that we were allowed to actually CONSUME sodas in 1962...unless, of course we were at Grandmother's house; where soda AND dessert were OK in the same meal.

Although we lived in Atlanta, the Land of Coca Cola, I proudly displayed my red, white and blue, insuring my outcast status among my young peers. And I was an early adopter in 1964, when Diet Pepsi came on the scene. Followed in short order by...oh, I shiver to think...Tab. I don't think I consumed more than two cans of the stuff in my life, but I can still conjure the taste. It reminds me of the smell of ether, just before I went under to have my tonsils removed.

The Pepsi Generation, boys and girls, aged gracefully; holding hands and singing. We grew our hair long and embroidered flowery patches on our favorite jeans. Some of us were too cool for school, and opted to "hang out" on 14th Street; wearing flowers in our hair. We read "The Great Speckled Bird" News (simply referred to as "The Bird") and sometimes The Pepsi Generation - um - enhanced the Pepsi with interesting substances. The Coca Cola crowd was enjoying their debutante balls. It was clearly cooler to drink Pepsi.

And then, a new campaign. Circa 1972, we became The Pepsi People! Feelin' free, feelin' free! All across the nation, (we were) the Pepsi Generation! Feelin' free!

I was OSoCool!!! Free! The Pepsi People! And I had an invitation to a concert at The Great Southeast Music Hall, supercool ATL venue, where Country Joe and the Fish were holding court. Opening act was some guy named Barry Manilow.

Who just happened to leave the world of jingles for the world of pop music. Penned The Pepsi People, and then...Mandy.?

Can't remember anything else about that evening except:

1. My shock that I was in the presence of The Pepsi People Genius, and
2. Country Joe got booed off the stage; Barry played a second set.

I was in the front row. I loved my Pepsi (even though I think I had white wine that night), I loved Barry Manilow, and I pretty much loved everyone in the world.

Important footnote: Other than a tawdry dalliance with Diet Dr. Pepper in the late '70s, due to David Naughton, star of "An American Werewolf in London" and the "I'm a Pepper" campaign, I have been FOB with Pepsi. Even when MJ lost his entire head of hair.

Until tonight.

I was out of Diet Pepsi, Vanilla; my favorite carbonated evening beverage. Stopped by the local grocery to grab a fridge pack and some dog food; and noticed...I am not making this up. "Pepsi Throwback." Sweetened with Natural Sugar.

So I'm wondering. Before Pepsi ThrewBack, what WERE they using to sweeten their beverages?

Unnatural sugar?

Two Things You Should Know About My Feet

2009-07-13T18:08:00.000-07:00

First, I ALWAYS have silver toenails, even in the dead of winter when I am wearing two pairs of socks. Even when I'm on vacation. And even when I'm in the hospital for a colonoscopy. The only exception is when I wipe the old polish off to apply the new. I have 10 bottles of silver polish. One is the correct color (which has, of course, been discontinued) and the others are Emergency Backup Polishes, purchased when I had gone astray without the correct bottle. I have not yet had to use any of the Emergency Backup Polishes on a regular basis, but my last bottle of correct polish is getting kinda lumpy. It's been a while since it was discontinued. It is my fond hope that it will be New and Exciting again soon; and like leg warmers or platform shoes it will come back around before my last bottle solidifies.

Also, I am NEVER without my toe rings. You know how some people go on vacays and get tattoos to commemorate them? Usually because of too many margaritas? Well, for a period of time, I commemorated with toe rings. Not those cheap, adjustable ones with dolphins and rhinestones. Oh, no. I was drawn to heavy, hammered and twisted sterling silver numbers. Fitted, and requiring some Vaseline (Registered Trademark) to slide over the fleshy toe tops. My mother has been known to wear bangles in a stack up to her elbows. I guess that's why I developed the notion that toe rings should be piled on. And I ended up - eventually - with 3 on each, um, pointer toe?

Yes, I sleep in them. No, they don't hurt. No, my toes don't turn green. I don't notice them when I wear shoes, they don't rip through pantyhose. And they have been there for years and years and years.

(If I'm ever in a disaster, the fam doesn't have to look at the whole body for a positive ID. Just toes.)

So, last weekend hubby and I were sitting on the swimming pool steps after dinner. And he asked, "What is that silver thing on the bottom of the pool?" And the jewelry designer in me, who just loves to find random silver things to recycle into other things, looked down and remarked, "It looks like sterling silver! The same kind of pattern as my top right toe ring!" I was feeling pretty lucky, to score some silver. For a moment there...

Uh oh. No top toe ring on the right foot.

And the middle ring on the right foot is just a bit wiggly. Which is why I decided on the top ring to hold it in place. And now the top ring is...broken.

And we had no plans to go anywhere awesome that has sized and fitted toe rings; and the right side middle ring was surely going to fall off. I was suddenly very sad.

A cursory investigation of the broken toe ring confirmed what I suspected. It was fit for the meltdown pile, but not much else.

The next day, I searched the Web for a size 3 1/4 toe ring; plain hammered silver. No luck...lots of size 3s, which hurt; and size 4s, which I might as well just give away without wearing them. Because they are gonna fall off immediately upon toe placement.

That toe ring had been with me through a whole bunch of thick and thin. As had the toe ring beneath it; which was now unprotected and vulnerable. I was sad just thinking about it. I thought about booking a trip to Key West, where I got my first ring, but it is hotter than the grate over hell in the summer. And who would take care of the dogs while I was gone?

I considered clipping them all off. Brave New World without toe rings! But I quickly realized that I need them for ID in case of disaster; along with my silver toenails.

Ultimately, I decided to let nature take its course. If Toe Ring Number Two on the right foot was going to fall off, so be it. I slept soundly for the first night since the gruesome discovery of the bent and broken ring on the floor of the pool.

I was adjusting to the idea of 5 toe rings instead of 6; and facing the possibility of losing one more of the five. I was strong, and I was OK. I would survive.

Then, a whisper..."Nancy...?"

I took a deep breath, and listened:

"Uh, Nancy?" That darned voice in my head again...

"Don't you MAKE silver jewelry? You could make a toe ring. Size 3 1/4."

D'oh!

Why didn't I think of that?

A Day Without Kitties is Like a Day Without...Hairballs

2009-07-09T17:11:00.000-07:00

Aah, here's a photo of Nancy and The Kitties in happier times, last weekend. You can't see me, but I'm just to the right of the picture. With my trusty torch, melting metals. You can't see Foster, the Kitty, either. He was messing with the torch, and trying to catch his fur on fire. But you CAN see Bes. After conducting her morning bird census, she decided on a well-deserved rest in the salad bowl; as she coached Foster on the finer points of bothering Mom from the sidelines.

But now, NancyLand is a very sad place, indeed. There are no Kitties. We have reached the point in the renovations that involves toxic fumes, open windows and workmen who have no idea how to close a door. Consequently, the Kitties are "summering at the farm." And I can't believe how much I miss them.

Just today I let the dogs out - they are with me because they are immune to toxic fumes and would never exit an open door because they might miss a meal and they can't stay alone at the farm because they eat furniture - and in walks, bold as you please, a giant palmetto bug. For those unfortunates without southern roots, that is a cockroach on steroids. About the size of a lobster, but a lot uglier.

And all I could think was, if The Kitties were here, and I showed them the palmetto bug, and I pretended that I wanted to play with it, and perhaps sprinkled it with a little catnip; well, they might just poke it out the door. Then again, there was that recent incident with the mouse at the farm...six cats in the house, and my mother-in-law's little dog. Guess who caught the mouse? The Kitties didn't even feign embarrassment. In fact, I think they TOLD the little dog to get it, because they didn't want to ruin their nails.

Then, there's RatRat; poor filthy, fuzzy RatRat, favorite fetch fetish for Foster the Feline, forlorn in the foyer. I threw the damn thing upstairs just to hear it "thunk." But "thunk" was not followed by the sound of Foster skidding across the hall to tackle it. Oh, my heavy heart. I drew the line at fetching RatRat myself, so he is languishing upstairs in hardwood floor refinishing dust.

I have typed this entire entry without "help". No one has walked on the keyboard, erasing the entire piece; or spilled my Diet Pepsi, causing me to grab a throw pillow to absorb the liquid before it reached the grooves on the underside of the laptop. I have not stopped writing once to respond to that "haronking" sound, harbinger of the hairball. And I didn't have to open a can of smelly, oily fish eyes at dinner.

Sometimes it sucks to be me.

A Good Night's Sleep Is Hard to Find.

2009-07-06T17:06:00.000-07:00

I'm worried. And I know I'm not alone...tossing, turning and fretting as the clock ticks through the early AM hours have recently surpassed baseball as the national pastime. The Top Ten Things I Am Worried About:

10. We are running out of celebrities. What a time for Jon and Kate to ditch the media. As two of very few People-Mag-Coverworthy individuals remaining on the planet, it is no time for them to gather their Crooked Houses and motorcycles and skis and spa treatments and other toys and go home(s). Especially with Kate being a prominent member of the Elite Haircut Icons. Losing Farrah was a blow to the EHI; Kate has a responsibility to carry the torch.

9. It is possible there is more to this Sanford/Palin story than meets the eye. Perhaps there was never an Argentinian lover. Could it be that Sarah just decided, after hooking up with Sanford at An Important Meeting for Governors, to fish in warmer waters?

8. The report that, in the Giant Cosmic Game of Pool, Mars could ricochet off of Venus and hit the earth is really true.

7. Michael Jackson is being buried without his brain. What will they do with it after all the testing is finished? I'd hate to see MJ's brain on eBay.

6. The only vegetable I eat all summer is tomatoes. Oh, and corn. Dump a small can of corn into a plastic bowl. Heat in the microwave. Top with cottage cheese, and salsa. (Tomatoes again.) I worry that one day I will leave red fingerprints; like the orange ones babies sometimes develop when they eat nothing but sweet potatoes and carrots. And I forget what causes scurvy and rickets. I hope it isn't excess tomato consumption.

5. Swine flu. I feel kinda sweaty, and cold. And I could really go for a good truffle hunt.

4. I don't drink enough coffee to prevent Alzheimer's. I promise to work really, really hard on that, going forward.

3. Bedbugs. A national epidemic.

2. The dogs had rabies vaccinations today. Municipalities say they need them every year. Vets say no more than once every 3 years. And maybe, only once in adulthood. Rabies shots, like speeding tickets, seem to be designed to raise revenue, not to protect public health. Slimy.

1. What if I wake up in the middle of the night and need to pee? With all our reno projects, I sometimes forget which bathroom is the "working" bathroom of the moment. Tonight it is not the "Master Bath", which is undergoing a "color refresh". (Get us OUT of the 1980s!!! No more white tile, and mirrors!) The "hall bath" is OK...slate's been laid, new pedestal sink. "Comfort height" commode.

Welcome to my Nightmare, apologies to Alice Cooper.

Suicide's Not Painless. Thank God for Fireworks.

2009-07-02T15:57:00.000-07:00

Nearly twenty years ago - oh, my, that couldn't possibly be correct; but it is - I received an extraordinary "cold call" from an extraordinarily warm woman. I was working, at the time, as a counselor; doing my damnedest to help families overcome infertility. And, unfortunately, to live with it when necessary. Occasionally, the stress proved insurmountable; and families disintegrated into heaps of guilt, blame and misery.

Tina, a family mediator, had personal experience with infertility. She knew firsthand that terminal stage of marriage; and thought, perhaps, mediation might offer relief. And, as she was building a private client base, she thought someone in my position could be a source of referral. I heard her out, and agreed to meet with her for half an hour the following week.

Our initial meeting lasted 5 hours. Yeah, we talked business. We also talked about growing up in Pennsylvania (which we both did), cats (I had a herd, she had One-Eyed Calvin The Wonder Cat, adopted because he was FIV positive, and no one else would take him), politics (she was as far to the left as you can go without coming around the other way; I have issues with big government), snow (she loved it, I despise it), and Dunkin' Donuts. Because, by the time we wound down the conversation, we were both starving. Let the record show that I did not bring up the donut issue.

We swapped business cards, agreed to host workshops together, and hugged. As all good Pennsylvanians transplanted to Atlanta, Georgia learn to do. And, as I closed the door behind her, I was just a little in love; like women are when they know they've met someone who will become a very good friend.

I had mentioned my adult dance classes to Tina, and I mentioned Tina - because she was so much fun - to the folks in the classes...harboring a fantasy that one day they all could meet. And, I'm not exactly sure how that, in fact, happened. Suffice it to say, in very short order, Tina was on board with Dancin' Dynamics. And we we so happy she was there!

She quickly usurped my position as the leader of the class. When I talked, they talked. When Tina talked, however, it was like Charles Schwab and God were holding court at the same time. People listened. Tina always had a story, a barb, a self-deprecating anecdote. And we laughed so hard we worked our abs just fine, thank you, without curl ups.

Fortunately, Tina had her loyalties straight. When she, in one of her Pied Piper performances, led the crowd too far astray, I merely had to look pitiful and she would bellow, "Quiet! Back to your places!" Problem solved. They called her "The Henchperson". I grew to rely on that bellowing, since it has never been one of my skills.

Unfortunately, Tina was also very opinionated. One particular song, a crowd fave, always got her proverbial goat. She hated "Barbecue" by Mumbo Jumbo. Not because she didn't like the music. Because it was too long, and it - how dare it - made her sweat in exercise class. She tried mightily to lead a revolution against "Barbecue". It didn't work, so she resorted to bringing bags of freeze-dried apple chips to class, and opting out; crunching as we danced.

You are probably wondering about the point of this essay. Well, what we didn't know at first blush was that Tina - brilliant, funny, life-of-the-party Tina - was battling bi-polar disorder. As was her soul-mate husband. Probably not such a great combination.

Once Tina realized she was a part of a very special group of women, who have shared everything from birth to death and traveled the world together in the process, she let us into her world. We talked a lot about being bi-polar. We stood by her and prayed through several of her hospitalizations. We watched her try every treatment available. Some that worked, some that did not. And we knew...

It was a matter of time.

Almost 3 years ago, on the eve of my 50th birthday, Tina lost her battle. Our love, the love of her children, her precious grand children...none of us had the ammunition to overcome her disease.

But her humor lives on. She sent a letter, posthumously, to the minister who conducted her memorial service. Warning her that if she played any music, the Dancin' Dynamic contingent would burst out in spontaneous Macarenas. She willed her favorite art to me. As an artist, I adore it. As a friend, I mourn her passing every time I see it.

And, I should mention, Tina's birthday is the 4th of July. I always thought that was a strange day for Miss-Super-Left-Wing-Liberal to be born. Especially one who hated heat. But she loved snow. And, really, those silvery-white fireworks look an awful lot like snowflakes.

If you see a white "snowflake" on the 4th of July; please, think of Tina.

(Snowflake photo is courtesy of SnowCrystals.com - a gorgeously fascinating site.)

Dad Might be the Road Warrior....

2009-06-29T18:27:00.000-07:00

But the Kids Bear the Scars.

It's all over the news. Dad travels, bad things happen. Take Jon and Kate Plus Ei8ht and all their convoluted New Math...Jon goes to Utah with his 23-year-old NotBabyMama and Kate has to file for divorce and get a manicure and have the Hedgehog Hair trimmed in the same day. And that governor goes to the Appalachian Trail, no wait, maybe it was Buenos Aires for Father's Day weekend with his NotBabyMama and his four kids are left with glittery handmade cards and no one to bestow them upon.

Tragedies, for sure.

I speak from experience. My own personal father was often on the road. Consequently,

my mother served beets.

Tuna salad, which is a lovely Daddy-is-Away Dinner; and canned beets. Beets were never on the menu when Daddy was home.

Fifty years later, I feel compelled to speak out. Perhaps because my precious, precious granddaughter is sampling vegetables.

Beets are pretty, don't get me wrong. Such a lovely color. But they taste like dirt. Not that I've ever tasted dirt. They taste like pavement smells when a rain storm sets in. That's fine for the Great Outdoors, but a little weird for dinner. They are too big to swallow with milk (believe me, I've tried, even though I HATE milk...) You can sneak them to the dog, because frankly, what's a little dirt to someone who chews on sticks; but there will be purple stains on the carpet before she finishes them.

There is a really good book, entitled, "The Beet Queen", by Louise Erdrich. Enjoy the read. But please, don't foist that dirty dish on your children. They could be scarred for life.

Fool Me Once, Shame on You...

2009-06-23T17:07:00.000-07:00

Fool Me Twice, Shame on Me!
(Life in RenoLand...the Second Time Around.)

I always swore I would NEVER AGAIN live in a house undergoing renovations. Clearly, I am a liar. Because here I am, with my merry band of hounds, and Foster the Kitty; smack in the belly of the beast.

Because the hounds are extremely aged and high-maintenance, and because Foster is extremely young and high-maintenance, they cannot hang out at the already-renovated and usually-empty other house while I get this one ready for market. They need Staff. And that would be me, because I can work pretty much wherever I'm planted; as long as I have a torch to melt precious metals and a whole bunch of expensive bending tools that look eerily like bending tools at The Home Depot. So the six of us, along with Foster's precious stuffed RatRat, are hanging out here for a few weeks. And I am melting things, and serving as "Staff."

This is a four-point project. Part one, new appliances in the kitchen. Cake. Deceptively easy, in fact. So easy that the Appliance Switchers encouraged me to allow Foster the Kitty to "supervise", a role he takes rather seriously. They pulled the old cook top, Foster inspected the existing wiring for code violations. They installed the new cook top, Foster sat on top to test load recs. And he shared RatRat when they broke for Chick-Fil-A. There is something innately incongruous about a Fetching Kitty on a construction site.

Part two. The icky 1987 shiny-tiny white tile and peach entry marble had to go to its just reward. A Supervising Kitty and a jackhammer is not such a great combo; and the hounds insisted on "warning" me with every blow of the hammer...Danger, Will Robinson! So the six of us retreated to my basement studio. Where hounds found renegade beads and precious metals on the floor and consumed them; causing precious and quite attractive poop. And Foster, with his innate 1/2 Siamese wisdom, employed ancient feng shui principles to rearrange my workspace. My Sam's Club bottle of Acetominophen has seen a great deal of action this week.

We are now embarking on Phase 3. Refinishing floors gouged by a collective 80 dog toenails for a good ten years. None of which will TOUCH the finished product...the are going to wear socks from here on out. Because the fumes are quite unpleasant, we will vacate the property for a couple of days. Which means that tomorrow, between reveille and 0900, I have to gather absolutely everything we might need for the next 5 days and stuff it somewhere in the rental car. My personal car, an Audi tt, is really just a go-kart with a roof. I couldn't possibly pack five days of stuff for a herd of dogs, Foster the Kitty and myself in its minuscule self. I had to rent a Hyundai SantaFe or Similar Vehicle from Budget Rent-a-Car.

Then, finally, there will be Phase Four. We will paint the walls and trim floor to ceiling. I am certain that Foster will have our best interests in mind as he oversees the spraying process...

And then...through the magic of the Internet we will connect with the exact person who wants to inhabit our lovely, renovated Atlanta Zen Zone.

Ice, Ice, Baby!

2009-06-15T17:50:00.000-07:00

My cousin says that I "seem to have problems with things that are supposed to be cold." She says this because it took my Fix-It Guy a month to put in my new air conditioner; and that happened to be the exact same month I was under doctor's orders to stay cool and refrain from sweating, because I was mid-treatment for skin cancer BROUGHT ON BY MY AFFINITY FOR WARMTH. And then, not two weeks later, the ice maker in my nearly new and dreadfully stylish French Door GE Profile Refrigerator fritzed. And, of course, being a fan of Facebook, I couldn't wait to share this delicious tidbit with my family and friends. So my cousin came to her logical conclusion...

Not even knowing that, 20 years ago, the predecessor of the French Door GE Profile Refrigerator (may it rest in peace) had ice maker issues, too. Sears tried, unsuccessfully, to fix it on three different occasions. Son One, aged 10 at the time, claimed he could solve the problem. He was told, in no uncertain terms, that he was NOT to disassemble the refrigerator; which he did the next time I went to the grocery store. And fixed the problem so well that the predecessor refused to die. I finally pulled the plug. Without remorse. That thing was UgLy with a Capital L.

Anyway, the French Door GE Profile Refrigerator had been making ice cubes nicely since it moved in. Enough for drinks, and the occasional Reverse Hockey Game for Foster the Cat. (Ice puck on rubber floor. Smack, chase, smack, chase.) And then I left it alone for 3 days. Which generally resulted in an overpopulation of cubes, but this time...nada. Nothing. Zero.

A cursory quest for the refrigerator manual turned up...nada. again. I know I put it in a good place, though.

On line search: Gloom and Doom, and story after story about the failure of ice makers in the dreadfully stylish French Door GE Profile Refrigerators.

And helpful advice about "troubleshooting."

One article advised that I check to see if the "toggle switch" is in the correct position.

To find the "toggle switch", one must remove the "faceplate" of the ice maker. I figured that out.

Aha! A switch! Which, unless the Toggle Switch Fairy showed up to remove the faceplate while I was away, no one has touched since the fridge was installed.

But, just to be sure, I looked to see what it was set on. There are two choices:

O and
I.

Or is it

0 and
1?

"Off" and "Ice"?

"Zero" and "One"?

What the...

The article also advised that I check the "integrity" of "connections." I tugged on water lines. I wiggled the "sensor arm." I flipped the "toggle switch". I crammed the "faceplate" back into position. I said a prayer, I crossed some fingers; and listened carefully.

And heard the distinctive "thunk" of an ice cube in the "Harvest Cycle."

And, by the end of the day, I had a glass full of ice.

It might be a miracle; or perseverance. It might be plain old dumb luck.

But I have conquered cold. For the moment.

Around The World In Eighty Years?

2009-06-10T04:54:00.000-07:00

I have an intense fascination with beads. Quite possibly, an obsession. Beads have been around since the dawn of humanity. They were (and still are, in some places) our first form of currency. And, best of all, you can wear them! Our wise forefathers, deciding that the safest place to keep their valuables was under the woolly mammoth skin, on their very person; invented the hole. Which caused the bead. And eventually, led to Bling. Then again, it was probably our wise foremothers who invented the hole. After the forefathers whined one too many times, "Honey, have you seen my striated agate trade stones? I know I left them on the shelf by the entrance to the cave when I emptied my mammoth skin pocket. But they aren't there nooooooow..."

I love local beads. The ones made of recycled soda cans in Mexico. Lava, in The Ring of Fire countries. Moose poop in Alaska. (I did not make that up.) I have spent a great deal of time in Indonesia; consequently, I have a lovely collection of Bali silver beads, Indonesian "mosaic" beads, and recycled Java glass.

Indonesia - Java, in particular, has been producing recycled glass beads for a long, long time. These beauties can be found in a rainbow of colors. They are frosty and rustic; and I love to combine them with shiny sterling silver. It is a happy and balanced combination.

The last time I was on Bali, I stopped by a favorite beading haunt; where I found the yummy lemony-yellow beads I featured in my "Jumpin' East of Java bracelet", shown above. My shopkeeper-friend had only a handful of them; she had gotten them from a market on Java. They were clearly quite old; and not frosty, like typical Indonesian recycled glass. I was dazzled; I bought the handful. Made and sold several "Jumpin' East of Java" bracelets; kept one for myself.

Fast-forward to yesterday:

I have bunches of vintage crystals, and some of them have a secret. They are Vaseline Glass; which was made around the turn of the 20th century. For the amusement of those stuffy Victorians, who thought that having jewelry, and even tableware, that would glow under ultra-violet light might be fun. (Ooh, gut-punch to all the aging hippies - we did not invent black light to light up our Free Love posters! Johann Ritter discovered it in 1801! Way before posters!) So, glass artists added a little uranium to their glass recipes to make the glass glowy - no worries, it is not a dangerous level; and the glass is a natural barrier anyway - and made all kinds of fun stuff. Including some really awesome beads!

Most of the Vaseline Beads were made by the popular beadmakers of the times, the Italians, Bohemians and Czechs. Eventually, This War and That War gobbled up the uranium reserves, and Vaseline Bead production fizzled.

So, anyway. Yesterday I had this notion that I would like to make some Vaseline Glass earrings. I went down to the studio with my portable black light, to scan my box of crystals for glowy beads. Lights off, black light on, dozens of glowy crystals in the crystal box, and...whoa...what was that I saw out of the corner of my eye? The. Java. Beads. Were...GLOWING!!!???

Indonesia didn't make Vaseline Glass. I knew the shopkeeper who sold me the beads. I knew she got her stock on Java. How the heck did the Vaseline Glass get to an Indonesian island?

The plot thickens.

A little research turned up a strand of beads that matched mine exactly. They are Bohemian, made in 1915; for trade to Mali. Mali, with an "M"; close phonetically to "Bali" but far away, in Africa.

These rare little gems left Old Bohemia in the early 20th century, headed to Africa. Sometime between 1915 and 2007, they found their way to Java, and then to Bali. Then, via Singapore, to Atlanta, GA...and now they are scattered to the US winds. Oh, the stories they could tell...

Like I said,

I have an intense fascination with beads. Quite possibly, an obsession.

Tough Medicine - The REST of the Story!

2009-06-09T17:23:00.000-07:00

When we last saw our fair and quite splotchy heroine, she was clutching a prescription for - Hallelujah! - steroid cream that would stop - Oh, Sweet Heaven! - the chemical reaction that had turned her face into one hot mess. Let's follow her as she wheels the Audi tt to the pharmacy at the closest grocery store!

By now, my face had been naked for some two hours; and my major worry was that I would grin when the pharmacist handed me the salve, and my lips would split in two and my forehead would part like the Red Sea and I would ooze all over the pharmacy counter. I shouldn't have worried. THAT didn't happen. In fact, smiling was not a remote possibility. I waited semi-patiently while the lady in front picked up three prescriptions; two of which she thought should have reflected Senior Discounts, but did not; and one that wasn't hers. Which she did not discover until she had emptied her purse on the counter to find the flyer with the list of pharmaceuticals which SHOULD have been discounted (she didn't find it); and then, in agonizingly slow motion, wrote a check, messed it up, tore it into little pieces; asked for a trash can, wrote another check, signed for the medications and noticed that someone else's first name was on the third one. She decided she only had two things to pick up after all, and wrote another check. And slowly, very slowly, gathered up her purse contents, said "Hey" to some passersby (it was Senior Wednesday) and...LEFT...THE... COUNTER!!!!

I was dancing on the inside at this point...in mere moments I could slather my face with yet another unnatural cream! Suddenly, there was no Pharmacist, there was no Pharmacy Tech, there was no Intern from the local pharmacy college. I was pretty sure it wasn't The Rapture; because there were still a lot of people in the store. Maybe donuts in the break room? Designated potty time?

No, there they were. Over there by the. Drat. Computer. With puzzled frowns. Pushing buttons, checking wires. Hello, my face hurts! Do you want me to ooze all over the counter? I think I drummed my fingernails lightly on the Formica. OK, maybe I pounded it a little bit...they sent Alexis the Intern over.

She tried not to stare. And told me that "Actually, the computers are down." I could leave my prescription, and retrieve it later in the afternoon.

At that point, I believe I channeled Thelma and Louise. I also harbored deep hostility toward people who use the word "actually."

"Alexis, I am in a great deal of pain. I do not intend to leave this store without my steroid cream. I am going to shop a bit, and check back. Hopefully, we can figure out a way for me to leave here with my medication, even if the computers are, actually, down." Not one of my finest speeches, but combined with the fact that my face looked like a Flame Broiled Boca Burger, it appeared to make an impact. Alexis all but bowed, asked me to give them half an hour, and I found myself in the produce section.

Let me just tell you, when your face is cracking like hard-boiled egg shells, salad dressing starts to look sexy. Ooh, just imagine the silky feel of Marie's Blue Cheese against this parched landscape. And, don't ever EVER find yourself with Chemo Face in the Extra Virgin Olive Oil section. Morality goes right out the window. The thought of breaking the seal on that sweet and lush potion...

And then, over the PA system: "Will the lady with the TERRIBLE, DISGUSTING SKIN RASH please report to the pharmacy?" In fairness, I think they used my name. But, judging from the faces of the folks I passed, I'm not entirely sure. Especially since most of them had cataracts.

The pharmacy had only one tube of the medication prescribed. And it was for half the amount my doc recommended. I should come back tomorrow.

I'm not sure if I grabbed Alexis by her lapel. The one that had her Pharmacy School Sorority Pins on it. But I did suggest that I was going to stand in line and look ugly until I got my half-sized tube. And that I would be more than happy to pick up the second half-sized tube another day. And then...Sweet Jesus and All the Archangels...I had it! The Cream! I signed some stuff, and I was free! With The Cream!

I made it as far as my car. Slathered...not expecting...it...to...sting.

Tried not to cry, failed; which also stung.

My Great Expectation was to - today, one week post-chemo - post my pretty new face. But, patience is a virtue. Stinging is history. I still look like a prize fighter; but I am a cancer-free prize fighter. TKO.

Would I do it again? You bet. But I would lay in my supply of steroid cream before I needed it. And I would probably invest in a nice burka.

Tough Medicine: The Sequel

2009-06-03T17:38:00.000-07:00

So, today was The Big Day. The Day of Reckoning. Judgment Day. The Final Exam.

The day I was to find out if I had to do Round Two; a fresh hell of Carac Chemotherapy.

What was left of my face was a bloody, scabby, itchy, burny, dry, yet oozy, mess. My very own hand, the Applicator of Creamy Doom, had become my worst enemy. The voices in my head, arguing about whether we "Must!" or whether we "Can't!" smear the flesh-eating Horror in a Tube on the ravaged landscape yet another time, reached crescendo after crescendo; screaming like banshees in between. I was alternately ecstatic about my doctor's visit; and abjectly terrified.

I awoke 4 hours before my 8:30 AM appointment, so I would have plenty of time to fret. There was still product in my chemo tube. What if I hadn't used enough? What if I had used too much, and would now require surgery to repair the permanent scarring? And, what if...what if...I had to do this all over?

I had read the statistics. 30% of people prescribed the Carac treatment cannot finish the first round. I realized that NOWHERE in the literature is the failure rate of second rounds addressed. I would imagine that is because there are no known survivors.

CoffeeCoffeeCoffee; the whole time knowing that I had to wash my face, removing the chemo cream that was holding it together at the moment, and then refrain from applying sunscreen - the same sunscreen that stung and burned and made me want to climb in the freezer and close the door behind me and rest my head on the Double Brownie Lowfat Double Churned Active Culture Frozen Yogurt and freeze to death - and yet sunscreen was mildly moisturizing and seemed to hold some of the blood in where I had chasms that could hold full-sized rivers. No sunscreen for me this morning, no sir! Au naturel.

I did the math. It would take me exactly 6 minutes to get to my doctor's office. So, if I washed my face 10 minutes before my appointment time, I would only have 4 minutes of naked pain before I got my marching orders.

Of course, any medical practice worth its Biohazard Box is running a half-hour late before it even opens. So there I was, nakedfaced and burning; trying to read a book about quilts that just happened to be in my trunk, because a friend had given it to me the night before. No, I haven't got the foggiest idea how to quilt. And, even though I remembered my reading glasses (which hurt to wear, by the way,) I had read at least 2 chapters before I realized the book was upside down.

Weeks later, my name was finally called. Someone in polyester scrubs featuring woodland creatures, escorted me to my next waiting area; noting that, "WOW! That's quite a rash you have there! It must hurt!" Fortunately my pulled hamstring was aching...I have a pretty decent karate kick when I feel good.

The Woodland Creature Lady assured me it would be "just a sec" before Doc appeared. Let me pause to define "sec". A "sec" is the time it takes Doc to see Patient A and her Band-Aided chin, talk into the tape recorder regarding Patient A; see Patient B who was referred by her daughter, talk into the tape recorder regarding Patient B, talk in the hall to two co-workers, talk in the hall to someone, presumably the Woodland Creature lady about me, and knock on the door. I know this because the walls there seem to be made out of mostly thin air, with some small amount of fiber added to hold generic white paint.

My face, which is now sans any type of goo for a couple of hours, is pretty unhappy; not to mention flaky and so dehydrated that the corners of my eyes have drawn together. I have univision. I feel terrible. If I don't get a good report; well, let's just say it won't go well for someone.

Doc gasps when she sees me. She says, "You must hate me!" I assure her that "hate" is an awfully strong word. I am more in the "dislike" camp.

Sensing my hostility, she is quick to say that I have had an "excellent reaction." That I "really lit up." and that she is "so pleased."

That makes one of us.

She sends me off for steroid cream, to stop the chemical reaction, I am done. DONEDONEDONE. For two years!!!!!

All I have to do is go to the pharmacy, to get the 'scrip filled. What could possibly go wrong?

Ooh! Cliffhanger!!!

Tough Medicine

2009-05-27T17:22:00.000-07:00

It was never my intention to be born before the invention of sunscreen. And, in fact, if I had it to do over again, I would do things differently.

We had back then, of course, "Suntan Lotion". Our mommas shook it out of the Coppertone bottle and slathered us - and themselves, while they were at it - with the stuff, so that we would be as cute and berry-brown as the little girl on the label. The topless one, with the dog pulling her bottoms off. I think today that would be classified as child porn.

"Suntan Lotion" was some combination of sunbeam intensifier and cooking oil; which kept us nice and moist as we baked. The theory was that we would "tan", not "burn". That worked OK for my Italian and Greek girlfriends; but this freckled, reddish-headed, baby-blue-eyed, white-as-a-marshmallow body of mine, like a defective chameleon, turned only one color. Red. Very, very red.

Luckily, we didn't spend a great deal of time in the great outdoors while I was small. And when we went to the beach, my cousin and I were so scared of the legendary "undertoe" (gads!!! loose feet parts in the water that would haul you out to sea?) we usually stayed indoors gluing shells to tissue boxes and shopping at the 5&10.

However. My "sun-days" became numerous as I approached my teen years; thanks to an earthshattering new product which Changed the Course of Humanity. At least in the 12-year-old world. The introduction of Sun-In. Spray it on, sit outside for hoursandhoursandhoursandhours; wash your hair, wait for it to dry, and LIKE MAGIC! It would be at least a half a shade lighter! Repeat as necessary, until your mom decided your hair looked like vermin-infested straw and forbade you to buy another bottle (Which, of course, you did, when you went to the movies at the mall the next weekend. And we know now, Mom knew exactly what we were doing.)

On a side note, by the time my children were preteens, Sun-In came in a super-strength version. You could pretty much sit under a light bulb and end up with peroxide blond hair. A giant leap for boy- and girlkind, in terms of sun exposure.

But, once again, I digress.

Fast-forward to present:

NOW they tell us, because Sanjay Gupta and all his TV doc friends and Surgeon Generals and Oprah and, I think, Billy Graham, have read Very Important Studies About Teens Who Sat Outside Trying to get Their Hair Blond, we shouldn't have done that! Well, where were all those Einsteins when we needed them? Someone should have passed an Anti Sun-In Resolution ages ago.

And here is why.

Yeah, I spent most of the summers of 1969 and 1970 in the sun; buttered up, smelling like coconut and bleaching my head. But, as soon as it was cool, I was on the Sunscreen Wagon. I slathered. I didn't bake between the hours of 10AM and 4PM, and I didn't "work on my tan", which I never would have achieved anyway.

And yet, I am now in the middle of 21 days of hell, Carac treatment for facial skin cancer. My face burns/itches/hurts/burns. I have sores in my mouth, nausea, and a throbbing headache. I look like I fell headfirst into a fire ant hill. People at the grocery store stare. Every half hour I put an ice pack on my face.

And I am supremely grateful to my dermatologist; who, during a "skin scan" discovered my face full of "micro-lesions"; each one of which could have grown into a world-class problem. And will now be an EX lesion. Eventually...

Moral of the story: Get checked now. Get checked later. Do the time. You might look like this for a while:

And you might, like me, want to cry. But don't - it stings. And you'll be able to cry, and laugh, and live and love for years to come.

WILD!

2009-05-25T17:30:00.000-07:00

I weekended at the Country Estate; and, as usual, took a wander around the grounds with my morning coffee. It was a soggy, muddy venture. The edge of the driveway looked curiously muddier than expected, however...closer examination revealed:

displaced mulch.
scratchy marks in the dirt.
some poke-y holes in the ground.
funny footprints.

And there was some kind of snuffling/scuffling noise down in the ravine...

And then:

Armadillos!

So much fun to see! Especially alive, and not mooshed in the middle of a road!

So I did a little armadillo research, and learned:

Armadillos are mammals. Not marsupials, not lizards.
They are related to anteaters and sloths.
There is only one type of armadillo in the US - the Nine-Banded Armadillo.
Armadillos live 12 to 15 years.
The Giant Armadillo is 5 feet long.
They are beneficial because they eat icky things, like fire ants and termites.
They are in constant motion while grazing, which is why all of my photos are blurry.
They grunt as they eat, and are so focused that you can walk right up to them.
Since they sometimes eat roadkill, they often become roadkill.
Armadillos give birth to 4 identical babies, conceived of 1 egg cell that divides.
If you find an abandoned baby, you must bury its food, so it learns to forage.
You can feed the baby armadillo cat food and lettuce.
Armadillos sink in water. They can cross streams by walking on the bottom.
Or, they can suck up a bunch of air, and float across the water.
Armadillos sleep 16 hours a day.
People eat them. In some locales they are kept as edible pets.
They taste like pork. (Hearsay. I will not be testing armadillo recipes.)
But you should cook armadillo meat well, because they can carry leprosy.
(The only other mammal that carries leprosy is...humans!)

Armadillos are really, really cute. And I would rather photograph them than eat them.

Results are In!

2009-05-22T09:02:00.000-07:00

We received the results from the DNA test on our odd little dog, who is something reminiscent of a Keeshond. This is what we learned:

The above is 100% Keeshond.

Apparently so is:

Proof:

Which is proof to me that someone almost always manipulates the data.

Stranger Than Fiction

2009-05-18T12:59:00.000-07:00

I never cared for math, so a TV show called "Jon and Kate Plus Ei8ht" with its embedded numeral (obviously a trick question) held no appeal for me. Wouldn't "Ten" have been so much simpler? And more user-friendly for the equation-phobic, as well?

Also, my idea of a great night of television is watching severe weather on the Weather Channel radar; and occasionally looking out the front door for tornadoes.

Now, it turns out, as I suspected, "Ten" isn't the right answer, after all. I think it has something to do with that embedded numeral. (Haha, embedded. I crack myself up.)

And money. Lots and lots of money.

I have seen snippets of the show. It seems to involve a lot of screaming. And the kids scream a lot, too. The amazing thing is that the kids always have BOTH SHOES on their feet when they are outside. And NO SHOES on their feet indoors. Even with only two children I only managed that scenario occasionally. For each of mine, we dedicated approximately 3 of their Formative Years to seeking lost shoes, and another 3 to scraping dog poop off the ones that were not lost.

So I had a feeling all along that this show was bogus.

Plus. They had one actress play the mother in the first show, and now there is the one with the Hedgehog Hair. And we are supposed to look the other way, and go along with that? We're not stupid.

But, what's really weird to me is that - unlike stories about that Spears chick going commando and the lady with the big lips who has 14 kids and Madonna and Jesus (is THAT a coincidence or what?) and Paula Abdul swearing on Taylor Hicks' new crossover country album that she never took a single pain pill through 21 back surgeries - I READ the stories about Prickly Mrs. Hedgehog. What's up with that?

I'm beginning to think it's the Sudoku. My Number Tolerance is improving. In fact, since the weather isn't at all interesting, I think I'll rent "With Six You Get Eggroll" tonight. And tomorrow, I'll break open the "Complete 'Eight is Enough' Gift Set."

And, perhaps, as I feel numerically stronger and stronger, I can watch a few J&K+8 reruns over the holiday weekend...and by the time the new season starts next week I'll be all caught up. I wonder how I'd look with Hedgehog Hair?

There are Moments...

2009-05-06T18:13:00.000-07:00

When you know you are in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time; with exactly the right people. And everything is, as Goldilocks would say, "Just Right."

Like the moment your brilliant and beautiful granddaughter is baptized in front of family and friends; in an historic and achingly pretty church. And, for that moment, there is no discord. Or turmoil. Or recession, or drought or flood, or flu. Just peace, joy, and the knowledge that life goes on.

And you can't help but count your blessings.

Mystery Mutt!

2009-04-28T17:15:00.000-07:00

For over 30 years, we have been involved with animal rescue. We have "specialized", if you don't count the cats, and adopted only one breed of dog - the Keeshond.

Keeshonden (plural) are the whole package. Smart, and beautiful; with lovely temperaments. They are wonderful with kids. They are vigilant to a fault, and will tell you about every leaf blowing across the grass. They are so pretty that people will stop you on the street to ask about them.

And they don't take abandonment well, at all.

These are not dogs to chain to a tree out front. They want to have conversation over a nice bottle of Merlot. They want to discuss preparation methods for cauliflower. They know that half of the bed belongs to them; and there is no good reason they can't ride along to the dry cleaner. Some people just don't want to have that level of involvement with a four-legged creature; hence the need for Keeshond rescue.

We have adopted puppy mill mommas who never heard a human voice until they were too old to have puppies; and have no concept of speech. We have parented a retired Canadian/American Double Champion, after her puppy-bearing days were behind her. We have gone tooth-and-nail with this beautiful, brilliant and extremely bossy brown version of the breed:

And then, there is Hope.

We got a call quite a few years ago, that a "Keeshond" was wandering around a race track in North Georgia. She had been taken to the local animal control shelter; and, well...let's just say her "expiration date" was fast approaching. Would I go get her? The rescue coordinator had been assured she was a "purebred."

Well, a "purebred" something. My two hour drive north was uneventful. South, it appeared, was going to be a different story.

This "Keeshond" was about 1/2 the size of a normal Kees. One ear stood up, the other did not. She had just about no fur, lots of freckles, a mouth full of broken teeth, and a personality as big as Montana. She also stunk to high heaven.

The drive south was excruciating. Stink and toenails. The stinky little thing wanted to stand on my lap, and clearly had no concept of manual transmission. I stopped by the office of my Sister-In-Law-The-Vet on the way back. Hope had diarrhea in the waiting room, got some antibiotics and a once-over. SIL asked, "What IS she?" My response, "I have no idea. How old do you think she is?" SIL looked at her broken teeth and replied, "Well, she could be two. She could be ten. I don't know." It was clear that she was not going to be the star of the Keeshond Rescue website.

That was nearly 10 years ago. We have been wondering and wondering about this odd, grumpy, feisty, rode-hard-and-put-up-wet little excuse-for-a-Keeshond. She has none of the attributes - although she is gray, as they generally are - and a whole bunch of "otherness" in her compact self. I have always referred to her as "a bag of sticks", because she has bones sticking out everywhere. But I just heard a better expression..."a bag of antlers." Which describes Hope perfectly.

For Christmas this year, my mother got a DNA kit to test the genetic makeup of her Great-Dane-With-an-Underbite mutt. Who would have guessed? Boxer - of course, underbite. And Rhodesian Ridgeback? Come on, how likely is it that a Rhodesian Ridgeback is just wandering around, waiting for a boxer to come along to make really odd-looking puppies? But I fell for it, swabbed the inside of Hope's cheek with the "polyester swab" guaranteed not to cause any lasting damage. And now we are waiting, waiting. I'm just not sure how I will explain to her that we are not her "real" parents.

Stay tuned. And feel free to place bets here.

Fun with Fibromyalgia!

2009-04-21T17:01:00.000-07:00

Fibromyalgia is a collection of symptoms that result in widespread pain and fatigue. I know a lot about it, because I've had it for years; and I also have a lot of friends who hang out at health stores and watch infomercials. Therefore, in addition to having fibro, I know what everyone except people who have it thinks will cure it.

So I have put together this helpful fact sheet for long-time sufferers, the newly diagnosed, anyone with a family member battling this demon; and hypochondriacs. All in simple terms. No scary graphics, posters or newsreels; and no Doctor Scribble.

What Is Fibromyalgia?

Within the last few decades, medical doctors noticed an alarming trend. People, mostly female people, swamped their offices, complaining of pain and fatigue. The doctors, of course, recognized hormones and hysteria, and prescribed appropriate anti-anxiety medications. Resulting in decidedly not anxious patients with widespread pain and fatigue, returning for follow-up visits.

So some of these doctors got together at a fancy resort, to discuss the trend. After a few martinis, they decided to have a Name-The-Syndrome contest. Some of the ideas floated about were "Fibrocystitis", "Chronic Fatigue Syndrome" and "Fibromyalgia" (literally, 'pain in the fibro.') The votes were split evenly, and they decided on a Limbo Tie Breaker. Dr. Finartener, from Sioux City Iowa (who was only 5' 4" and some thought should have been disqualified because he had a genetic advantage) won the Limbo Contest. He cast the deciding vote for "Fibromyalgia", because he had used that word in Scrabble and swore on his Merck's Manual that it was a real syndrome and won the game. And now he could prove it.

What are the Symptoms of Fibromyalgia?

Well, if you wake up in the morning and you feel like total poop, and everything hurts and you have stomach cramps and you are already menopausal or you are male so you aren't getting your period, and you had no idea your ears had joints except now something that seems to be an ear joint is throbbing, and you don't have a fever and you don't think you have been bitten by an exotic insect; you likely have Fibromyalgia. Another sign is if you are trying to explain to the dog how to start the coffee maker, because the thought of putting a foot on the ground makes your teeth hurt. And, come to think of it, lying here with those sheets TOUCHING YOUR SKIN is pretty painful, too.

What are the causes of Fibromyalgia?

My personal Healthcare Team have offered the following list of possibilities:

A physical or emotional trauma
A virus
An autoimmune response
A side effect of my thyroid disease
Infection
Genetics

And my mother thinks I need a new mattress.

How is Fibromyalgia Treated?

What doesn't work: Everything ever invented for the treatment of pain. Like Anaprox, Aleve, Ibuprofen...all for "inflammation" that we don't have. Topicals, like Ben Gay, and Icy Hot; because even though you THINK your knees hurt, in 15 minutes it will be your elbows. Hello, the pain is not really coming from what hurts. It is coming from your brains!! They just want to trick you into believing your hips hurt, when it is really your Frontal Lobes! Haha, silly brains! You could play Smack The Gopher with a Thermapad all day and never land on the part that hurts.

You can take Vitamin B shots. You put the needle in your arm and, I am not making this up, inject the Vitamin B slowly over a period of 3 minutes. When a doctor demonstrated the technique (using my arm) I swore I would never be in enough pain to make THAT treatment worth it. He assured me that "one day you will crawl to me on your hands and knees to beg for a Vitamin B shot!" Good to know.

You can take drugs, off-label, designed as sleep aids. Is that brilliant? I hurt, so I will take something to make me sleep through it. And then my handsome prince will kiss me awake, and I'll find the glass slipper, and let down my hair and escape from the tower.

Or, someone call Billy Mays, you can try this NEW! BREAKTHROUGH! TREATMENT! I read about yesterday...a low dose "addiction" drug is showing some promise. So it can help crack addicts, and all of us "pain addicts." Come on.

Exercise appears to be a real antidote (perhaps because when you fatigue other muscle groups you don't notice the fibro?), and I think that "mind over matter" is a great approach; staying active scares the bejesus out of this syndrome.

And some people report relief with a bubble bath, and a nice chardonnay.

We won't die of fibromyalgia; but we can wither away if we don't fight back. 4% of the population suffers - I imagine this number is very low because most people who exhibit fibro symptoms think it is a natural effect of aging. It is not.

Fight the Fibro.

This blog expresses personal opinion and a degree of smartypantsiness, and is not a substitute for actual medical advice. Please consult your medical healthcare provider for real information. No animals were harmed in the process of this study, although the dogs resent the fact that dinner will be late.

This is a Test! It is Only a Test!

2009-04-10T05:35:00.000-07:00

I am baffled. I am a very noisy person. I hang out with generally noisy people. I attract noisy people, I am attracted by noisy people. Especially noisily laughing people.

And.

I have analytics on this blog. I know that lots of people stop by to Katch up Wit The Kitties. But, apparently, only shy, quiet, and keyboard-phobic folks visit, because no one leaves a message. This makes The Kitties unhappy, and very restless. And, let me tell you, life with Unhappy, Restless Kitties is no fun. I worry quite a lot about the Collective Power of Unhappy, Restless Kitties.

(I have considered, and rejected, the idea that my musings are so profound that readers are rendered temporarily mute.)

A tutorial: to leave a comment, you just click on the "comments" thing. If you are not a "Blog Person" you will make a little account, by filling in a couple of blanks. Then you type some words that are written in wavy text. Eazy Peazy. And then you can comment here, and on other blogs! You will be a Published Author! And the Kitties won't be Unhappy or Restless! Try it! (For my personal safety, please!)

The Oldest American Cell Phone Tells All...

2009-04-06T06:45:00.000-07:00

6" x 3/4" of High Tech, chrome-look plastic!

RARE "Cingular" nameplate!

Elegant and stylish monochrome display!

Accessories readily available on eBay, or in the Vintage section of Etsy!

Streamlined operation! No cameras, games, Internet or music functions to interfere with your calls! No annoying "flip" to perform before talking! Six built-in ringtone choices! No model number to remember!

Okay, so am I anti-technology? Saving the planet by reducing, recycling, reusing? Just plain too lazy to shop for a new phone? Nope, nope, nope.

This model-numberless model featured a $10/month plan in 1998. Guess who's still down with that?

TMI

2009-03-26T18:44:00.000-07:00

I'm one of those people that everyone talks to. If I am in the grocery store, looking for okra, for example, five employees will ask if they can help me find it. Young men will see me selecting okra pods, and ask for advice for choosing the best ones. And for easy recipes to impress their girlfriends. When I wander into the cereal section, little old ladies will ask me to reach them the One-Minute Quaker Oats off the top shelf, because those canisters are fresher than the ones on the middle shelves. And I am tall, so I can reach.

I will put a box of quick-cooking barley in my grocery cart, and someone will ask me what I make with barley. The truth is, I am making dog food (barley plus salmon plus green beans plus cottage cheese.) But that is unglamorous, so I will explain how to make my famous barley-mushroom soup.

My friend, Maria, who lives in Baltimore, says that I look "approachable."

I don't mind. I'm glad to reach things, and hand out recipes. But I draw the line at underwear consulting.

Two days ago, I had the misfortune of shopping at the local Target, while the store was in lockdown because a 3-year-old girl was lost. The sales staff were sweeping their jurisdictions, while I was looking for black, french-cut undies. Along with a very confused, and fairly intimidated gentleman; who knew his Significant Other needed...um...some help in the foundation department.

Although he rang for assistance, employees were unavailable; as they were climbing under racks and canvassing dressing rooms in search of our 3-year-old Houdini. And there I was...approachable me.

"Um, excuse me? I am looking for undies for a woman, about 5' 2", and 125 lbs? Do you know what size she would wear?"

(The curse of the approachable woman. Again...) "Maybe a size 6?" said the nearly- 6-foot-tall-me.

"Uh, she wears those thongs. They don't look good on her. What would you suggest?"

Oh, man. Man-o-man. Why does this always happen to me??? "French cut makes your legs look longer...maybe she should try them?"

Out of the corner of my eye I see, at the front of the store, a joyful Mother and Child Reunion.

Yay, the saleswoman no longer has to search for a lost toddler. She saunters over.

The confused man describes his Significant Other to the salesperson, she shrugs and says, "Why don't you bring her in to try stuff on?" and scurries away to pat the once-lost 3 year old on the head.

"I'm off to the dog food department. Good luck!" I really mean it, too. Sort of.

I {{HEART}} Trader Joe's. I Really, Really Do.

2009-03-22T17:44:00.000-07:00

My mother has been in the hospital for nearly a week. Other than the fact that Piedmont Hospital allows patients the luxury to choose meals from an impressive menu, and have said meals delivered by a tuxedoed waitron, it has not been remotely pleasant for any of us.

A couple of days ago, I stopped by the Trader Joe's closest to the hospital (Peachtree Road in Atlanta), to get some flowers and some caloric snacks, because my mother had lost a lot of weight. And she likes cookies, And TJ's has awesome pastries. I chose a lovely spring dish garden, with iris, hyacinth, tulip, daffodil and other goodies in bloom. And a decadent selection of mini yummies and chocolate-drenched almonds. When I set out my treasures for the cashier - John - to ring up, he asked who the flowers were for. I told him my mom was in the hospital...

And he said...

"Go over there and get another bunch of flowers, and pick out a card. From the Trader Joe's staff!"

John signed the card, "Get Well Soon, From the Trader Joe's Crew!"

I chose some glorious blue hydrangeas,

an indulgence (especially for this one-time-florist patient!) because their beauty is fleeting...in fact they faded by the following day.

But their splendor lives on in their story. A happily blooming respite for mom and daughter; and a tribute to John and Trader Joe's. Thank you for allowing us to feel special, in an especially unpleasant time.

Children Should Not Be Left Unattended.

2009-03-16T18:35:00.000-07:00

Neither should Teenaged Kitties. Especially if you are in the middle of crocheting baby blue leg warmers for the new grandbaby.

No matter how mature you BELIEVE your Teenaged Kitty to be, he is - at his core - a Kitty. Who WILL open the nightstand drawer, and uncrochet; simply because you are not there, and he can.

If you MUST leave your Teenaged Kitty overnight, I recommend a house-sitter to guard your stuff. Choose a house-sitter who does not like television, is agoraphobic and therefore unable to leave the premises, and doesn't need to go to the bathroom. Preferably one who does not sleep.

These measures cannot guarantee the safety of Baby Leg Warmers, of course; but they are a start.

You Think Herding Cats Is Hard? HA!

2009-03-09T04:02:00.000-07:00

As an Expert Cat Herder, I am in possession of the coveted Six Claw Certification; meaning that I am often called upon to lecture (nationally) on topics such as "Herding Cats Into The Basement Because There is a Tornado" and "Herding Cats Into The Car Because There is a Little Fire in the Furnace and the Firemen Want the House Evacuated." Civic Groups, Garden Clubs and Children's Birthday Party Planners often incorporate my "Stuffing a Cat Into a Cat Carrier" lecture into their programs. (Children are especially impressed with the presentation if [my] blood is involved.) And I am frequently invited to Senior Citizens' Centers to perform my "Dressing a Cat in Cute Costumes, Using a Real, Live Cat" routine.

Which all of this is, to me. Routine.

Photographing horses, however, is...haha...a horse of a different color. Especially the horses who are camping out (Literally! They have a Horse Tent!) in the back yard, while their new barn is constructed.

I love my equine friends. They love horse treats and apples and carrots; proving that love is not necessarily a two-way street.

A friend, who has not met our house guests...er...yard guests, requested photos. So I trotted (yeah, lame but irresistible) down the steps to the yard, camera in hand. Treats not in hand. Horses hurried over. Oh, great! An action shot! But, it was too late. Got this:

Then this; as I was being worked over, pockets, armpits, hair, by Horse Two looking for peppermints:

And, FINALLY, Horse One (as you can see, begrudgingly) allowed for some semblance of a portrait:

Horse Two sulked. Clearly hurt feelings:

It worked. I set the camera aside and passed out goodies. Did they toss their manes, smiles on their horsey faces, so I could take pretty pictures after treats?

Nope. Some snorts, foot stomps; then horse butts as they ambled off.

I think I'll stick to Cat Herding.

Why Smelling Good is Not Necessarily Good

2009-03-06T17:24:00.000-08:00

Reed diffusers, candles; incense. Room sprays, plug-in oils; stick-up smellies. Glade air fresheners, carpet sprinkles; those things to insert into toilet paper rolls that release scent with every spin. Fresh flowers.

The lengths to which we'll go to fragrance our surroundings.

So I woke up the other day, slowly. Drifted in and out; and, mmmmm...the bedroom smelled lovely...

Lovely. But, wait a minute...that scent is not orange, like the reed diffuser. Not ginger-eucalyptus, like the linen spray. Not passion fruit-apple, like the yummy soap in the underwear drawer. More like lavender vanilla. Delicious, but incongruous.

Rubbed the sleep from my eyes, stepped into flip-flops; headed into the living room to let the dogs out.

Lovely! The living room smelled even more lovely.

Dogs came in; headed to the kitchen for their breakfast. And, oh my. Did the kitchen smell super-lovely! Something was very, very wrong. And it appeared to be coming from the laundry room. Aha:

Ooh. Mess. SOMEONE wrestled the lavender vanilla detergent from the top of the washer. But, who?

Note the sticky, spiky, laundry detergent tail...

Laundry room needs an overhaul. Feline needs a bath - but at least he's already soapy. I should be furious.

But how can I be furious, when he's SO cute?

Why?

2009-03-04T18:00:00.000-08:00

I've been making jewelry for quite a few years. It is what I do most of my waking hours. Yet it rarely makes news here.

A couple of days ago, I decided to apply to the Metal Entanglements Market at 1000 Markets. 1000 Markets is a juried site, and the Metal Entanglements Market is juried, as well - you have to pass muster to get in. There is a test.

And the first question is, Why? Why do you make jewelry out of metal wire?

Why? For me, the easy answer is "Why not?" But I didn't think that would pass muster.

I thought about it. For a looooong time. No one had ever asked me "Why?" before. Including me. I didn't really KNOW why. So I began to work backwards; with "how" I found myself working in the medium. Hoping I would get to "why."

This is where I ended up:

Ooh, scary question, kinda like introducing myself at a 12-step meeting. {{Deep Breath}} OK. It started with paper clips. I was always the kid who fiddled with paper clips. My mother, as artistic as she was, didn't appreciate that all the paper clips were turned into non-clippy flowers. But I couldn't stop myself...

And, it turned out when I got there, Corporate America was pretty unimpressed, as well. (BTW, Corporate America also has no tolerance for memos folded into paper airplanes before being placed on the recipient's desk.)

Clearly, the only solution was for me to part ways with Corporate America, and open my own business. Where I was FREE TO BE ME!!!

Unfortunately, my Paper Clip Habit was eating into my bottom line.

Then, a flash! An AHA Moment! Dare I say, a miracle? Or perhaps it was merely the voices in my head, chattering a little louder than usual...there are metals more beautiful than paper clips! (Please don't get me wrong, paper clips are beautiful in their own special ways.) I could bend beautiful wires into fun and functional stuff, and make all my Christmas presents at the same time! Because, really, no one wants a paper clip flower for Christmas. And I could do it at my office, while I talked on the phone, and I wouldn't bend any more paper clips! Who doesn't love a win-win situation?

So I went to the Jewelers' supply house in town. Met my good friends Austin and Rolf. (Names have been changed to protect the innocent.) Pestered them incessantly...I mean, asked politely (a lot)...about the properties of different wires, and what would happen if I sanded this wire and threw it into Liver of Sulfur, and what that gizmo does, and could they sharpen this cutter for me...and pretty soon they just started giving me copies of jewelry mags to keep me busy and out of their hair (and probably also to cause me to have more ideas so I would buy more things.)

That was a long time ago. Since then, I retired from office work, and now bend and hammer and stretch and coerce wire (and a few other media) into adornments; for sale at shows, shops, and via the Internet. I am still amazed and fascinated by the infinite possibilities of wire. The highlights and lowlights of oxidization. The delicate whisper of texture when I wrap a chunky, hammered 12 gauge bracelet in smooth, round 24 gauge wire.

In a lot of ways, I'm still that little girl bending paper clips. Thank you. {{Sits down.}}

Is this "Why"? I don't know. But I passed muster.

Teflon Man And the Blizzard

2009-03-02T06:23:00.000-08:00

It's no secret that I'm Not Wild About Harry. But I've got to give credit where credit is due (although someone clearly gave him credit once, when it wasn't due. To "buy" a house that he prefers to merely inhabit; rather than to purchase.) Harry can go with the flow.

We had a Significant Weather Event here in the A-T-L yesterday. Five plus inches of wet, wet snow; late in the day. A bunch of melting because the roads were warmish. Then overnite temps in the low twenties...frozen slush. Thick, frozen slush.

A flurry (oh, I crack me up) of discussion among rational Atlantans, regarding dinner plans. Son Two canceled a dinner event, after a power outage. This was a serious culinary blow to me, because I had to eat leftover spaghetti; instead of the deliciousness that Son and Wife are famous for.

You might recall that many of us here in the Deep South are not genetically blessed with the Weathering Winter Weather Well Gene. So even when we have INsignificant Weather Events, the transplanted Michiganders and Upstate New Yorkers stay off the road because we are dangers to ourselves and others. So the only people on the road in foul weather are people who have no clue how to drive in it. Go ahead, conjure any manner of slippery-slidey-seriously stupid scenarios, and it happened last night.

(Scene set, segue somehow to Harry.)

Harry enjoys the odd Adult Beverage on his patio. And the even ones at Clubs of Questionable Repute. Patio imbibing was pretty much out of the question yesterday, so Harry had no choice but to head out about midnight, in his Fancy Ride which still sports its dealer drive off tag a year after acquisition. Car windows down, radio bass up. And then to return around 3 AM, windows down, bass up; refreshed, but unable to locate the door handle to exit the vehicle...for 40 minutes.

Please, someone, 'splain Harry to me. I'm pretty sure he's not protected by angels for living right. Superhero powers? The Amazing Teflon Man! (But is he a Good Guy or a Bad Guy?) Maybe he's got the Verizon Network. They look pretty resourceful on the commercials.

Whatever. Harry can go with the flow.

I Had NO IDEA Laptops Are So Much Trouble!

2009-02-26T18:22:00.000-08:00

Having moved firmly into 20th Century Technology with the installation of HiSpeedWiFi and lots and lots of wires snaking about under the bed, down the hall, behind every dresser, so that I might have Wireless Internet (what kind of sense does that make? Cable Guy installed twice as much wiring as I had before, and it's called "wireless"?) I decided it might be time to crack open that beautiful plum-purple Dell Studio 17 inch laptop that has been sitting in its cocoon of styrofoam, waiting for Son One to transfer things from the Dinosaur Desktop onto its yummy purply self. Begging worked.

Proving again, the old adage. Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

Fantasies of editing jewelry photos from the bed, surrounded by fluffy pillows, and watching reruns of "What Not to Wear" gave way to the reality of

TRYING to edit photos, surrounded by Kitties who were certain that those things on the (very delicate and expensive) screen were for them to poke. And that lovely, warm flat metal thing was some sort of Heated Urban Feline Futon.

And that lurking under the bed, hissing and growling at other lurkers would command human interaction. Even if it was the yelling-and-spray-bottle kind.

Foster is curled up, despondent, in front of the Dinosaur Desktop; on the one-time "computer chair." Site of much kitten snuggling. Wondering, I'm sure, just what went wrong.

I feel his pain. And I have NO intention of upgrading my 12-year-old cell phone at this point. Change is not always something I can believe in.

G.R.I.T.S. and Global Warming

2009-02-24T06:05:00.000-08:00

I am most assuredly opposed to Global Warming. I think that glaciers should remain frozen. I think snow should continue to fall on people in puffy nylon suits who like to strap 2x6s on their feet and slide down big hills at Jackson Hole. I even think that you should be allowed to inhabit an Ice Palace in Quebec if you really want to pay a lot of money to sleep on animal skins in an igloo.

That being said, I am Fiercely Pro Local Warming.

You might be familiar with "G.R.I.T.S.". An acronym for, "Girls Raised In The South." Some of us are not of hardy stock. Hollywood has, historically, portrayed us as Sufferers of The Vapors; wilting and swooning in the heat. Setting Aint Bee off for Sweet Tea and smelling salts.

Unfortunate. Because the reality is that:

We can run the Peachtree Road Race on the Fourth of July, and vie for the ALTA (tennis) championships at high noon in August. We can wear linen to a garden wedding under a 100 degree sun without (the linen) wrinkling; and, of course, we wear sunscreen. We can even have a glass or two of Chardonnay at the wedding, without ill effect.

We can handle hot.

Winter? Well, not so much.

A White Christmas is not something we dream of, unless we are having a nightmare. Because we will inevitably find we are out of Classic Coke early Christmas morning, and the 24 hour convenience store will be closed due to the dusting of the White Stuff on the grass. So we'll continue to be out of Classic Coke when the grandkids arrive. Which, of course, they won't; because The Meteorologist Who Had a Major Facelift will have been on the air at The Station You Can Trust For Severe Weather Coverage for the last 48 hours; pointing to red, green, pink and white blotches and telling people to STAY OFF THE ROADS. (You will know he is VERY, VERY SERIOUS because he'll have a pair of scholarly glasses perched low on his nose, although he had that laser surgery and he doesn't need them.)

Also, we consider people who find cold weather "invigorating" to be, well, daft. Cuckoo. Nuts. We think they should stay in New Jersey, and keep their sub-sixty-degree temps there, too. (I was born in New Jersey, but had the good sense to leave as a toddler; in search of like-minded, warm-blooded company.) And, let me tell you, we resent the fool out of those Arctic Blasts. You people in New Jersey signed on for that nonsense. We did not.

Just this weekend I spent some time on the road; listening to a plethora (I love that word) of local talk shows. Including an "Ask the Lawyer" bit. No kidding, a landscaper called in to find out if he could sue the National Weather Service because they said it was going to rain and he sent his crew home and it didn't rain.

Silly, I know, but it got me thinking...perhaps we need a commission to study Weather Redistribution? I think we could solve the melting glaciers and keep the snow falling on the people in those puffy nylon outfits and the 2x6s strapped to their feet if we could just move the cold weather back up there where it belongs. Giant fans? Or some sort of Global Support Bra?

It's just going to waste here. Such a shame.

Origami Cranes! They're Not Just for Baby Showers Anymore!

2009-02-19T16:24:00.000-08:00

We are blessed with the most fabulous, wonderful, brilliant and beautiful new granddaughter; with the fanciful middle name of "Crane." A random, yet extremely meaningful appearance by a white crane, early in the pregnancy, precipitated this moniker; and the family has enjoyed the Crane Theme to the hilt. OK, beyond the hilt. Other little girls are surrounded by "Classic Pooh", or Dora, the Explorer; or any of a number of Princesses With Fancy Names. Our angel has birds. And lots of them. I imagine that she will one day curse her parents, because her Crane Collection will fill a Super Deluxe, Climate-Controlled, Two-Story Storage Locker. Until then, well, we will Crane On.

I am also blessed with an eclectic group of seemingly mismatched, yet fabulous friends; who have danced together for some 25 years. They are generally well-bred, but occasionally get kicked out of your more up-scale establishments. Like that Italian restaurant in South Pittsburgh, Tennessee. Or the Fine Dining Eatery in New Hope, PA. Where they decided to, um, rearrange the flowers on the tables. And the tables, while they were at it. (And I won't mention the "On the Boardwalk" video fiasco at the lovely Monteagle, Tennessee, inn. It involved way too much underwear.)

These friends planned a baby shower for Son and Daughter-in-Law; but they wanted to do it after-the-baby-fact; so that they could admire our new little one, and share with her some group lore. (We have been accused of KoolAid consumption. More than one of the group husbands fears for his wife's involvement in the - um - clan. Indoctrination? You decide!)

And they needed a theme. Easy enough!

CRANE CAKE!!!

And an activity. Because, without an activity, we have a little issue with focus.

But, my dear friend "G", from over at

http://sewphisticate.blogspot.com

can make pretty much anything out of anything. (She makes angels out of plastic bags, for Pete's sake.) And she folds a mean Origami Crane. She agreed to teach us to fold cranes, too.

It is easier to herd cats than to teach this group to fold cranes. But,

We folded cranes. And then I folded more cranes. And more cranes. And pretty soon I was throwing a "crane for luck" in my jewelry orders. And folding cranes for friends who were looking for jobs. And folding cranes for, well, anyone and everyone who might need cranes.

The weirdest thing is that origami cranes make people happy. Recipients know that the "folder" cares. When I fold them, I know it is because I DO care. Japanese Crane Folders have done so forever; to bring good luck to recipients, and to express support. The Power of Crane.

Fold 1000, and your wish will come true!

NEVER Mix Mosaics and The Cable Guy

2009-02-16T17:45:00.000-08:00

OK, so.

I am finally moving into the world of Hi Speed and Wi Fi and other things that are only two letters long. I am ditching the Dial-Up. There is a little problem caused by The Un-Named Monopoly Phone Company, which installed incompatible (oops!) Fiber-Optics, which is not a breakfast cereal to promote good vision. Making it impossible to continue to use my Internet Carrier that I have had for a bazillion years. Since MainFrames. Unless I want to keep Dialing Up, which I do not. Because the converse of Dialing Up is being Dropped. Which I am sick of.

So I have succumbed to the Cable Come-Ons. I bought a Bundle. TV, Hi Speed Internet, phone. Everything on one bill. Great price! (for 6 months, then actual charges revert, retroactively. Substantial surcharge for indoor plumbing, people who take non-generic prescription drugs, and homes of more than 1200 square feet. Prices subject to change. Not available to households in flood zones, or those with more than 6 cats.)

And today was the Day My Phone Number Could be Ported.

Which means, I think, that I will get a big bill from the Phone Company for Exportation of my phone number. And a big bill from the cable company for Importation of my phone number. But I'm no expert on Immigration Law.

So, anyway, I was given a "Window" of time in which to expect the Cable Guy to show. Generally, if you have a 3 hour "window", the technician will show up at exactly 2 hours and 59 minutes into your window. Unless you go to the post office. Which is when he will show up.

My Guy showed up 23 minutes before the "Window" expired. I was feeling lucky. And I was well-prepared. I had a lot of projects that I could finish at the kitchen table, while Cable Guy did his thing, and asked me VERY important questions. Like, "Where is the cable box we issued to you in 1993? It is showing up on your account."

Uh, we haven't used a cable box since 1994. All the important stuff comes straight through the wall, into that cord. And then into the TV.

"Yes ma'am. But I have to pick up your old analog box. Where is it?"

Perhaps I used it as a doorstop in the playroom? Gave it to the Salvation Army? Sold it in a yard sale? I have no idea.

Cable Guy calls in, "She doesn't have the box." Then he rattles off a VIN for a NEW box, which now sits on top of the TV. So much for all that technoprattle about "boxless" cable.

As usual, I digress.

I had Projects. Very Important Projects, to keep me busy; yet available to Cable Guy. One of them was Millefiori Collage. That is, quite simply, the use of veryveryvery tiny pieces of exquisite millefiori glass, arranged into pleasing patterns, creating unique pieces of art that one can wear. You can see them in my Etsy shop, and on 1000 Markets.

"Millefiori" means manymanymany flowers. Hundreds, thousands, millions. Lots and lots. And the mosaic artists create the TINIEST flowers, to use in the TINIEST spaces.

I had my Millefiori, 3 or 4 pounds of them, at my disposal. Ready to create, while the Cable Guy created a streamlined Web Presence for me.

The only problem is that I also have

Foster. The Geek Cat.

I made things, the Cable Guy made connections (with absolutely no need for the old analog box, I might add.) And then the Cable Guy left. And I carried some supplies back down to the studio, where I heard a noise; unlike any noise I had ever heard. But if I HAD ever heard three or four pounds of mosaic pieces, the size of 1/3 a grain of rice each, raining down on the hardwood floors and then rolling as far across the living room, bedroom, kitchen and dining room as they could before encountering a permanent obstacle like a wall; well, I would have bet it sounded something like that.

According to Foster, it was a test of something like force times velocity. But I was not interested in explanations, no matter how noble the cause.

Tornado!

2009-02-11T17:52:00.000-08:00

I am one of those people who is best avoided. I have one of those Black Clouds of Doom overhead at all times; and way, way, way too much stuff happens to me. (I think, to provide blog material. But possibly because I'm a Drama Queen. Or maybe the punchline of some Cosmic Joke.)

For example, just a few months ago, there was the Little Incident with the Exploding Washing Machine. Hilarity, and a Major Flood ensued. Then, The Fire. Of course, I was preparing for Famine, the natural progression after Flood and Fire.

But someone screwed up the Cosmos; and tonight it was the Tornado Siren.

I have now been in four, count 'em, four, tornadoes. I can tell you every inconsistency in the movie, Twister; because I don't have to chase the stupid things. They come to me. I am a Natural Tornado Expert. I am a Tornado Whisperer.

So I was teaching my dance class this evening, at the Comedy Theatre. I turned off the music for the final stretch - because we like to relax and think positive thoughts...I mean talk about the people who didn't show up for class - during the last five minutes. And it got quiet, and we heard Tornado Sirens.

We were in a one-story building, with no basement and a tin roof, and a tornado in the immediate vicinity.

The only other populated shelter in the area was the "adult toy" venue, across the street. They might have a basement, but it could be scarier than a tornado.

What to do?

The obvious answer, of course, was to Make Stupid Jokes.

I won the Stupid Joke Contest, hands down. Because I realized that, in the lobby, was the most beautiful pair of Size 11 Bright Red Sequined Platform Shoes! "Rocky Horror" Rejects? Who knows? Just click your heels together three times, and say, "There's no place like home."

The sirens stopped.

We were safe.

Stories from the Scorched Earth

2009-02-07T09:35:00.000-08:00

What I learned from the fire:

No matter how much garage space they consume, one must ALWAYS have as many cat carriers as cats. In case there is not an extra car around to stash cats in.

When the (wonderful, fabulous, awesome) firemen turn off the breakers to one's furnaces, it is a good idea to double check the panel to be certain that they have not also turned off the water heater. Especially if it 11 degrees outside, and the ONLY thing that could possibly warm one up is a nice, hot bath.

Occasionally the HVAC guru, Bob, will spend all day trying to repair a burned-out furnace; only to discover - just at the stroke of 5 PM, when the Parts Warehouse closes - that the brand new motor he just installed is a dud.

And this will be on a Friday. So it will be Monday, at the earliest, before one again has heat.

If there is one space heater to sit in front of, and six Kitties who want to sit there, something bad is going to happen.

One can't cure "burny" with FeBreze.

Nancy and The Kitties Have a Three-Alarm Fire, and Also A Three-Ring Circus

2009-02-05T16:54:00.000-08:00

You know those days when you just want to scream because your life is so booooring? Well, today wasn't one of them.

I was editing photos of "Two Fish" when I noticed that something smelled, um, burny. Which is a word I just learned today, on a forum post about made-up words. Serendipity!

Checked the coffee pot, oven, stove, microwave, hair curlers and the electric mixer. (Even though I hadn't used the electric mixer since I made my father a lemon meringue pie last month for his birthday.) Nothing on, nothing burny.

Checked the automatic litter boxes to be sure the Geek Kitty had not stuffed sticks in the motors. Went outside to breathe (extremely cold) fresh air and came back in to be sure something was burny.

It was.

I guessed it might be the heat pump. Changed the filters I knew about. There are Secret Filters that only Bob, the HVAC guy is aware of. Called Bob, who is never home and returns calls sometime between the time you call him and eternity.

But, when he does stop by to find that you have a busted Rumple Basket on your heater's Strippel, he will know where to find a discarded Rumple Basket behind the Dairy Queen a few towns over. And he will have the heat back on, Rumple Basket and All, for $50. Including the changing of all Secret Filters.

I waited awhile, and wandered the house. Not so burny upstairs, or in the basement. But the main level of the house was now burny, and a bit OH KRAP! SMOKY!!!!

I dialed 911 and spoke with Deborah. After she introduced herself in Starbucks fashion, "Hi, my name is Deborah. How can I help you with your emergency today?" I tried to respond in Calm/Collected/Capable mode, "Hi, Deborah. I have a..."

"This is 9-1-1! What is the nature of your emergency?"

"I smell something burny, and there is smoke."

"You have SMOKE?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Smoke."

"Get everyone out of the house and I will have the fire department respond immediately! I repeat, get everyone out!"

"Yes ma'am. Uh, Thank you."

"Thank you??" It was time to feed the dogs and cats their dinner. And I was supposed to get them out because the fire department was on the way. Where could I put them? The Kitties had never been outside in their LIVES!?!

Son One had left his car in the driveway, and his dog in the house, while he went to Hawai'i and I had a fire. I thought it was fair to use his car as a giant cat carrier. I started grabbing felines and stuffing them into the Honda. But I quickly reached Critical Mass. Throwing one more in would result in the escape of at least one already captured, so it was on to Plan B. Vet carriers. One cat in one, two cats in the bigger one. Hisses, spits and claws. I was bleeding profusely from bites and scratches.

The DOGS! They really wanted dinner, but they followed the biscuits to my car. And they like the car, so they just went to sleep, drooling on the leather.

Then I realized - I hadn't made the bed. In the master bedroom, which was where the smoke was thickest. (There was a good reason for my negligence. Although I had canceled their appointment, the Vietnamese Cleaning team had been on the way; and I was going to have them change the linens.) How embarrassing to have the fire department arrive with the bed unmade...I got it done just in the nick of time.

It must have been a slow fire day. I thought maybe one of those red cars with the flashing lights would show up. In fact, three ladder trucks arrived at about the same time. There were at least 15 people in the house; climbing into the attic, poking around in the closets, scanning with some kind of TV devices. And asking a zillion questions. "When did you turn the heat on?" "Uh - September?" "Did you notice any strange noises today?" "Yes, but I have a very noisy neighbor." "Man, this is a great house!" "It's about to go on the market, you want to buy it?" "That car is, um, moaning?" "There are 3 cats in there."

After a bunch of questions and a whole lot of waving devices about and the arrival of another half-dozen or so other people who had other things to wave around, it was determined that no one had a clue why there was smoke and the house smelled burny. But probably it had something to do with a busted Rumple Basket and I needed to get Bob on the case.

In the meantime, the breakers for the heat pump had been shut off. We had no heat. Bob had not called.

BUT

The fire department used gigantimongous fans to blow the smoke away. So the house didn't smell so burny. I added three quilts to the bed. The space heater was blowing in the master; with Kitties camped out all around. Bob would find us a new Rumple Basket behind a Dairy Queen in the morning. And the coffee pot was ready to be plugged in.

All the Kitties survived the Honda and the vet carriers.

Life was good.

Who Are You Calling "Chicken?"

2009-02-03T04:02:00.001-08:00

I have spent a remarkable amount of time on the Internet, recently; Googling chickens.

Not blogs about chicken stock reduction, or recipes for chicken tetrazzini. Chickens. That cackle and lay eggs.

This behavior, of course, is due to Green Acres. Lisa in satin housedress and boa, would float out to the coop and sweet talk Hungarian-English to Henrietta the Hen; who would reward our Hungarian Heroine with an egg. To make "panscake batter."

Generations of young girls, thanks to cable TV and Amazon DVDs, have been imprinted with not only Lisa's satin-and-boa fashion sense, as one would expect; but also a deep-seated need for Pet Poultry.

Psychotherapists describe this subconscious longing for chickens as a "latent tendency." Which makes perfect sense if you go to this website:

Backyard Chickens

Here is the Welcome Message for the site. Read it carefully:

Welcome to BackyardChickens.com!

Established in 1999, BackyardChickens has become the #1 destination for the information you need to raise, keep, and appreciate chickens. Originally designed for the urban chicken owner, we're here to help and support chickens in any backyard!

Let's peck this apart, shall we?

"Established in 1999" CLEARLY indicates the latency of Chicken Envy. Green Acres originally aired in the mid 1960s. Unlike the affection for satin and boas, which peaks in prepubescent girls around age 7; there is a lag of at least 30 years between exposure to friendly chickens named Henrietta and the urge to harbor them in the back yard.

And then there is THIS quote:

"Originally designed for the urban chicken owner". WHAT could be more "urban" than a penthouse on Park Avenue? Right above "The Stores!" And steps away from "Times Square!"?

I have merely scratched the surface of the Lisa Douglas Effect. Naturally, I have made a grant application for further study.

I am also anxious to explore the impact of a seemingly-major extenuating factor, The Eglu:

Eglu
A cute coop.

Lisa was cute. Her chickens were cute. The coop? Not so much. After all, Ol-ee-ver probably got the makin's for it from Mr. Haney, who stole them from his own mother.

Cute coops, available in 5 different colors, would seem to affect the Lisa Douglas Effect, diminishing the Latency Lag. This is definitely going to require a double-blind study protocol.

And a lot of grant money. This is not chicken feed.

Attack of the Killer Tomato

2009-01-28T07:27:00.000-08:00

It was a simple idea. A couple of eggs, and a sliced tomato for breakfast. There was one juicy on-the-vine-product-of-Mexico red orb remaining in the fruit bowl.

Eggs arranged on a plate, I reached for the tomato. Which felt, um, bumpy. Looked at it. It WAS bumpy. Like a nerdy boy before the invention of Clearasil. Scratched the surface, and...oh my!

It was ALIVE!

Sigourney Weaver came to mind immediately.

And then I realized that I had eaten the other three tomatoes from that very same vine. And I'd been feeling a little queasy, off and on. I wondered if an MRI could detect tendrils.

Whoa. What if the problem wasn't just the tomatoes? What if, due to Global Warming, there had been a Cosmic Shift, and Radioactive Energy was now bathing the house?

Or, maybe the microwave was leaking. It was awfully old, and close to the fruit bowl.

I peeled the two grapefruits and the clementine, which were neighbors of the tomato. They looked OK. Surely, if it was Global Warming or a leaking microwave, it would have affected them, too.

So the only possible explanation was Tomato Aliens.

Mexican Tomato Aliens.

This begged the question: To whom do you report Mexican Tomato Aliens? The grocery store where you purchased the tomatoes? The CDC? FDA? The Immigration and Customs Department?

I made a cup of coffee, and ate the eggs (but not the egg yolks, I gave those to the dogs) while I pondered my predicament. If I went to the store with my find, the chain would have to open an investigation. Trace the Tomato Pedigree. Call in all those acronyminous federal agencies. Who would ban the import of tomatoes from Mexican farmers, devastating the economy, and resulting in the closing of that hotel we like in Zihuatanejo. And I'd be accused of harboring a personal grudge against Mexican tomatoes...even though I would have done the same thing if the tomatoes were a product of Guam. (Just FYI and CYA - I like Guam! Shirley's Coffee House is my favorite breakfast place in the whole world! Really!)

A moment of clarity, as I loaded the egg dish into the dishwasher. I couldn't share my discovery. Couldn't risk the destruction of the Mexican economy; even though that would lead to a sharp increase in tomato farming on Guam, which could really use the business.

I had to deal with my Mexican Tomato Aliens alone.

Luckily, a Google search turned up lots of websites with patterns for aluminum foil hats.

The Trouble With Book Stores

2009-01-24T16:49:00.000-08:00

Is that they have too many books.

Book stores were invented in my lifetime. In my Nancy Drew Days, the only place to get a book was at the library. (Well, except for Nancy Drew Books, which you could find at the Dime Store. Right next to the 45s, and I don't mean guns.) If you wanted a book at the library, you had two choices - the "school library" or the "public library." The same lady worked at both of them. She had a long tweed skirt, a white blouse and a cardigan sweater. If it was warm enough, the cardigan was draped over her Librarian Chair. Otherwise, she was wearing it, usually with a Kleenex (registered trademark) stuffed up one sleeve. She also wore "stockings" that resulted in legs the color of bratwurst. And sensible black shoes with crepe soles that didn't clickclickclick when she walked up and down the aisles with the book trolley.

(I never figured out how the same lady could be at the school library when I left for the day, and at the public library when I arrived there, a half an hour later. Perhaps they were twins.)

If you wanted a book you had to look in the Card Catalog, a very scary configuration of index cards in very long and tenuous drawers that you had to remove from a dresser-like piece of furniture, and you WERE NOT TO PUT THE DRAWER BACK WHEN YOU WERE FINISHED...such an offense could result in losing your Library Card for an entire year. No one ever explained WHY you couldn't put the drawer back. Maybe people put the drawers in the wrong slots, which could cause permanent damage to the Dewey Decimal System? Perhaps there were liability issues around dropping drawers on toes; but liability was not a popular concept at the time. As evidenced by the fact that PE consisted of us shooting arrows on the playground, and climbing ropes to the ceiling of the gym. Of course, we had "spotters" who could alert the authorities if we lost our grip twenty feet up and splatted to the floor. Although the spotter thing was probably overkill. Even a school-age body falling from the rafters would make enough noise to attract attention on impact.

Once you looked in the Card Catalog, you would get a Locator Number; which was, for all intents and purposes, the precursor to GPS technology. The idea was to wander up and down the aisles in the library until you found someone to talk to about the sparkly pink lipstick you bought at the Dime Store and had in your purse right this very moment even though the school didn't allow it and you could be sent home for its possession. And then got in trouble for violating the Library Noise Ordinance (which would certainly go on your Permanent Record.) I digress. The Locator Number was written in white ink on the spine of the book, and involved a bunch of numbers and decimals. It was invented by Dewey. There is a really good book out right now about Dewey the Library Cat. He was a cute orange and white tabby, and he lived in Spencer Iowa. I highly recommend the book, if you haven't read it.

Darn. I digress again. The Dewey Decimal System was just like playing Hot and Cold. You read the spine of the books, which were arranged in heavily-decimaled, semi-numerical order; and headed in the direction of the Locator Number according to the Card Catalog. And finally you found...an empty spot where your book should have been because your friend Jane had checked it out even though SHE WAS NOT WRITING A REPORT ON ULYSSES S. GRANT! The lady in the cardigan told you that Jane had the book for two more weeks, which pretty much meant that you were screwed unless Jane would let you borrow it one night.

I'm pretty sure that, because of privacy issues, librarians are not allowed to tell you that your friend Jane has the book these days.

So it is a good thing that we have book stores.

Book stores emerged just after the Vietnam War. They were places to partake of poetry readings; and, frequently, tofu and brown rice. You could sit, crosslegged, in an aisle, devouring an Indonesian backpacking guide that you hadn't paid for and had no intention of paying for and no one would blink. Because, eventually you were going to get hungry and have a plate of tofu and brown rice. If you did find the need to purchase a tome, you would find, upon arriving home, that it had a distinct aura of incense - or possibly patchouli - about it.

Oh, the era of the Independent BookSeller. Heaven. Nirvana. But, something was missing...oh, yeah. Profits.

Fast Forward 30 years:

No bookstore visit is complete without Starbucks. I'm not complaining.

There is this RADICAL, NEW, method of organizing volumes. Alphabetically, by subject. No white writing on spines, no Card Catalogs. No liability if we drop drawers on our toes. But...

And this is radical, also...books are not arranged spine-out. They are often placed cover-out. Because. A Cute Orange-and-White Kitty Named "Dewey" stares at us, and a couple of copies end up in our basket. And we see the front of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and we loved that book, and it would be fun to read it again. And look at all those cookbooks featuring big, smiley photos of Rachael Ray - my mother-in -law just adores her. Better grab a few.

Get out! A display of Ghirardelli Chocolates??? I love book stores. Maybe I'd better get the Nancy Drew Complete Collection. That GrandDaughter will be eight in no time...

I wonder whatever happened to the Cardigan Lady?

Lordy, Lordy; How Time Flies When You Have a New GrandDaughter. And Someone You Love Gives You a Kitten.

2009-01-22T05:24:00.000-08:00

So, yeah; it's been a while. A looooong while. But I've been so busy with the GrandDaughter. Shoppingholdingshoppingcrochetingshoppingsewingshoppingetc. And shopping! This GrandDaughter has the dubious distinction of being the first female born into hubby's family in nearly a century; so there ARE no hand-me-downs (as if she would be allowed to wear them.) Which means, of course, that Mema, Nanny, Grandma, Siti, Nona, All the Aunties, and Twenty-Or-So-Of-My-Best-Friends have purchased at least two of every cute outfit available in retail shops, outlet stores, and on line. And her parents spend most of their waking hours changing her clothes and taking pictures, so that everyone gets to see how cute she is in the cute outfits they bought. (My pragmatic and insufferably-designerized, dressed-to-impress friend Penelope is teaching her to say "wardrobe allowance", so she's prepared; should the flow of cute clothing ever ebb.)

Which brings me to the kitten.

The day the GrandDaughter ("GD") came home from the hospital with her Proud Parents ("PPs") was gloriously perfect to test-drive the new jogging stroller. The PPs dressed GD in many layers of cuteness, because it was a tad cool; and also because it was an opportunity to photograph GD in several of her cute outfits. GD was ceremoniously escorted outdoors, and placed in her shiny new chariot. Where she immediately pooped. Unruffled, the PPs reacted as naturally as Jon and Kate (Plus Eight)...they returned to the nursery, to dress and photograph GD in more size-0-to-3-month layers; which she would likely outgrow before dinner. And headed back out to the jogging stroller. Which was now inhabited by

A kitten.

The day you bring a baby home from the hospital is probably not a good day to adopt a kitten, so what do you do? The logical solution, of course, is to call your mother.

"Uh, Mom? There's a kitten in the front yard. What should we do?"

Well, so much for my plans to go baby shopping.

They crated the kitten. I set out to fetch it, looking for "Lost Cat" signs along the way; and they went for a walk. No one was home when I got there; I couldn't blame them. When you give someone the "opportunity" to rescue a kitten from your front yard you are probably giving them the "opportunity" to have and to hold (and to feed and to vet and to clean up after) that kitten until death do you part. And if the person to whom you are granting this "opportunity" already has five cats, it is best to be gone when the kitten is retrieved.

On to the vet, checking every telephone pole along the way for a "Lost Cat" sign. I would have been in luck if I wanted to earn $10,000 a month working at home, or if I wanted to lose 40 pounds in two weeks or I needed a queen-sized, nearly new mattress. But, no lost cats. The foster kitty wailed and howled the whole ride. Or maybe it was singing along with the radio.

As we checked in, the receptionist asked me his name. "He's a foster cat. I hope to find him a good home. Has anyone called you looking for a lost kitten?" She didn't respond. Just filled out the chart with my last name, and "Foster" in the space for "Pet's Name".

In the exam room, I finally got a look at my charge, a stringy teenage boy. Mostly white, but with an incongruous Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Kitty gray striped tail. He stopped howling when I let him out of the box; and wandered around the room inspecting things. And...this is the only way I can describe his vocalizations...muttering to himself. He jumped into the sink, and pushed a handle enough to make the water drip. Splashed. Tried to extract a paper towel from the holder. Swatted at the foot pedal on the trash can. Opened the gate to his crate and went in. Out. InOut. Stuck a paw under the exam room door. Mumbling.

Enter, the Vet. She scooped him up, with a cheerful, "Hello Foster!" No, no, I protested. A foster kitty. No caps, not a name. "I just love that name, Foster! So distinguished! Perfect for your handsome young man!" She was beaming as she set him on the table. I gave up. Pronounced in fine health, foster kitty set about amusing himself while we discussed the removal of, um, problematic parts of his anatomy. He continued to mutter, as he opened a cabinet and attempted a drawer. His doc was quite pleased to note this "talking" behavior, hallmark of the Siamese, her favorite kind of cat (although she didn't need another, thank you very much.) She also commented on his "busy-ness" in unfamiliar territory. Using words like "self-assured", "assertive" and "bright."

Those are not necessarily positive attributes in teenage kittens.

Foster, in fact, is a geek.

No button goes un-pushed. No flashing light flashes for naught. He turns off the automatic litter box. He turns the printer on, and prints copies of the screen saver. Lots of copies. He understands the mechanism of flushing; fortunately he doesn't yet have the strength for it. But, based on the amount of food consumed and his rapidly expanding frame, I'm sure it won't be long. And last night, when the smoke detector went off (scaring the fool out of me and interrupting a really good dream about being at a nice warm beach) I scrambled to gather cowering animals and lead them to safety; finding Foster easily. He was on top of the kitchen cabinets, pushing the smoke alarm test button.

Anyone need a self-assured, assertive, not to mention bright, kitten? I'll even throw in some free smoke alarm batteries.

I Love Irony. But Cooooome Ooooon!

2008-08-07T19:04:00.000-07:00

You call the local pizzeria. Your phone number shows on their Caller ID, and they ask if you want "The Usual." (Large veggie, hold the onions, double eggplant.) Affirmative, it arrives at your front door in 20 minutes.

Ditto, the Great Wall of China. Tofu with broccoli. And free veggie eggrolls.

You call the Automated Customer Service Number on the back of your credit card to get your balance. Which you will pay off in full, because you just had a GREAT yard sale. It recognizes your number, asks for the corresponding Zip Code, and gives you the info you seek.

The pharmacy recognizes your number, and asks you which of your prescriptions you would like to refill (and they offer to call your doc for expired 'scrips, to boot.)

The county tax info line knows exactly who you are based on your phone number. They REALLY want your money, and plug you into their "Pay Your Tax Bill On-Line" page immediately.

Then, you call the Local Phone Company. To report "buzzing" on your line. You are connected to a robot, who asks you to input your phone number. The phone number you have with the FREAKING PHONE COMPANY. And, then, the robot informs you, you MIGHT (will) have to input the number again down the line, "In order to provide outstanding Customer Service."

You re-enter your number, after selecting the option of "noise on the line."

The "noise on the line" department is closed, but they will respond the next business day.

You are asked to input the number where you can be reached. Hello, by the Phone Company. Who knows full well where you can be reached. Forget that they also provide your cell service, and your Internet.

Maybe these folks could learn something by ordering takeout.

Tax Holiday. Not Exactly a Walk in the Park.

2008-08-01T17:33:00.000-07:00

Something - indeed, several things - have compelled me to purchase a laptop computer:

A) I have this overwhelming urge to join (after 8 years) the 21st century;

B) The husband wants my desktop for his office;

C) I live a carefree (ha) and nomadic (true, that) life;

D) I love PURPLE! There is a purple laptop out there!; and

E) This weekend is the GA "Tax Holiday."

How could I resist? So I spend half the afternoon researching options and talking to Geek Son via phone. I wait on "Live Chat" with Dell for 45 minutes to find out that tax holiday applies on line. I get an on-line price; with a 7 to 10 day shipping delay.

Hubby really NEEDS the desktop, to read Yahoo Sports and order Todd Snider CDs via Amazon. 7 to 10 days is a long time. And I REALLY want the purple laptop... so I head to the local Big Box Store, where they are handing out numbers to LOOK at the laptops, because it is a Tax Holiday.

I get to the front of the line, where the "Specialist" tells me they do not carry what I want. They can't order it, because it isn't even on their website.

I look at some other things with the "Specialist", who tells me (sotto voce) that the computer I am looking at on line is superior to what she has.

I check out two other stores who do not carry on-line model, either. And they are not even giving out numbers, so they look like a Chinese subway at rush hour. That reminds me to

Order Chinese food.

I eat tofu while Geek son comes by to see what I am planning to order.

I get approval from Geek son, except for the Windows Vista operating system, which is more despicable than beets. You might have your own parameter, but for me, it doesn't get worse than beets.

Click to buy. Go through verrrrrrry slow checkout.

Get confirmation of order from Dell.

Get call from Bank, who assumes that purchase is fraudulent because I used an old (but still valid) credit card number - even though the old card is not expired, and the old card was used successfully just hours ago to buy linen pants (on sale). I am informed that I must call Dell with new number.

I get email from Dell because card was rejected.

I call Dell Customer Service to give them the new number. I talk to a nice Indian woman (Rani) who says "the system is down, call back in two hours."

I e-mail Dell. Get response that says to call Credit Card Services.

I call Credit Card Services, which is closed until 10 AM Monday.

I get email from Dell asking whether to re-run old card.

I call the Bank to get authorization to re-run, using the old number.

I am told that old number was eliminated when new cards were activated. Even though old cards are not yet expired.

I ask to speak to supervisor.

I get transferred to "Authorization."

I get accidentally transferred to "Customer Service."

I explain my story to a person who says that the old number is not eliminated, and is still OK for 90 days.

I get fraud alert lifted.

I e-mail Dell to tell them to re-run old number.

I pray.

I fix drink. Stiff drink.

Holidays are not for the feint of heart.

So, This Would be Pretty Funny. If it Happened in Real Life.

2008-07-18T16:03:00.000-07:00

Imagine:

(Somewhere in Alabama...)

Person A has a rental SUV. Person A and Person B have gone to Walmart, to buy a bunch of bulky things like plastic laundry baskets and a gas can, because they have a rental SUV.

The SUV starts flashing and dinging that it is getting hungry - AWFULLY SOON AFTER ITS LAST MEAL, IF YOU ASK ME - and Person A (PA, for short) pulls into a hugantic ginormous mega gas station where the gas is a penny cheaper a gallon than the last fillup, which makes PA almost giddy.

Person B (PB) leaps out of the passenger seat to pump. PB has had a very long day selecting laundry baskets and gas cans and a mower to go with the gas can, and eating a big breakfast. PB is not on the top of PB's game. PB inserts a credit card to pay for fuel, but the credit card never comes back out of the slot.

Because it is the slot from which receipts emerge.

PB uses some colorful language, which attracts the attention of PA. PA exits car and looks in slot, where PB has already looked. Credit card is baaaaaaarely visible, but they both note that it might be extractable. PA has smaller fingers, and attempts to reach it; to no avail. PA suggests that PB alert the staff of the hugantic ginormous gas station; who might have a key to open the front of the pump.

PB is not excited about admitting to sticking a credit card into the receipt slot.

PA suggests buying a pair of tweezers from the attached convenience store. Maybe a private extraction is possible. PB goes indoors to shop for tweezers.

Meanwhile, PA thinks that it might be possible to open a keyring, slide it on either side of the sliver of visible credit card, squeeze the ring, and ease the card out.

Oh, so carefully, PA conducts the delicate maneuver...holds PA's breath, and...SUCCESS! PA fills tank with gas.

PA is deliriously happy. PA reaches into rental SUV, grabs the keys from the console, locks the doors with the inside push-button doorlock, closes the driver's door and rushes into the convenience store to share the good news with PB.

PA encounters PB in the doorway. PB has had no luck buying tweezers. PB admitted the credit card gaffe to the amusement of the very large staff of the hugantic, ginormous gas station; and borrowed some toenail clippers from one of them.

PA and PB rejoice together, return the nail clippers, and head back to rental SUV. Where PA realizes that the keys in PA's hand are not for the rental SUV. They are for the car in the garage at home.

And the rental SUV is locked, safely securing the laundry basket and gas can from highway bandits.

PA goes into convenience store to face 10 snickering gasmongers. It is not the first time they have heard this story, but it IS the funniest. Fortunately, they know the number for the Heavily Tattooed Locksmith. They call him, and offer PA and PB, who are vegetarians, a hot dog while they wait.

The Heavily Tattooed Locksmith arrives, and asks PA the year model of the rental SUV. PA has no idea. HTL tries many high-tech wedgy-ratchety-inflatable-bendy tools that look like they would come in handy in prison. They do not open the rental SUV.

HTL looks in his trunk, where he finds a coat hanger. Success. HTL gets a bunch of money, and a tip.

PA and PB go home without filling gas can for lawn mower. And decide not to use credit cards anymore.

Yes, that would be pretty funny, if it happened in real life. Oh, my - is it 11 already? the SUV has to be back by noon! Gotta dash.

Give Me a Hand!

2008-07-08T05:35:00.000-07:00

I make jewelry. My jewelry is handmade by my own two hands (and sometimes a foot or an elbow for stability's sake, but they have no place in this story and I'm getting sidetracked as usual.) Because my jewelry is handmade, it is unique. Even if I try to make the exact same thing I just made, it will be a little different the second time.

I sell my jewelry here at Etsy - a site for artists who make things by hand. This serves as a disclaimer. Everyone who comes to Etsy to shop knows (or can read, in big, bold letters) that Etsy is a marketplace for handmade. People shop at Etsy to find things one-of-a-kind, or a bit off the beaten path (sometimes all the way over the cliff) or anti-department store, if they are feeling particularly negative.

"By hand" is good. But, pardon the intended pun, the hand stuff has gotten a little (come on, you knew it was coming) out of hand.

For example. Every restaurant worth its fleur-de-sel in a teeny tiny dish that you (and anyone else who has had the dish before you, or will have it after you) access via fingers has a "Hand-Cut Prime Rib," likely served with "Hand-Cut Steak Fries."

Now, A) I have no idea why fries are only for steak. I don't eat steak, and I like fries, so I think they are losing a large demographic of potential buyers suggesting that you can only get the fries if you get a steak. I mean, lots of people like a side of fries with, say, pizza. And besides, prime rib is not a steak, so why do the prime rib people get fries? And B) Could someone explain to me why on EARTH I would want anyone to touch my prime rib? If I ate prime rib, which I don't. But, does hand-cutting make the prime rib unique? Or is it a disclaimer so that people know that the sizes of the cuts of prime rib vary wildly, and they can't complain to the waitron (is that the PC term? Or is it "waitperson?") that his slice is bigger than your slice. The server can point (with a flourish) to the description on the menu and simply say, "Look, honey; you were warned. The Prime Rib is HAND-CUT. If you think you can do it better, have at it. The carver's parole restrictions limit his knife to 3 1/2 inches...I'd like to see you make anything but a mess with that. Oh, by the way. I gave you the smaller piece because, honey, you could really stand to lose about 20 pounds."

And another thing. Hand-ground meat at the grocery store. Why would I spend hard earned money on it (if I ate it, which I don't) when all those butchers are missing fingers?

Two blocks away we have the Touchless Hands-Free carwash, competing with the Hand-Detailed Carwash with Fancy Coffee Cafe. How to choose?

Hand-breaded fried chicken. It's OK at Mama's house, but not so appetizing at KFC.

Yesterday I saw a drive-thru offering "Hand-Spun Milkshakes." What do they do, juggle them? And what are they going to do with their milkshake machine now? I'll bet it broke, and they told the burger-flippers that their job description now includes juggling. Come to think of it, that place is represented by a clown. Clowns juggle. Savvy marketing ploy, no? Wish I could have been in on the Executive Strategy Marketing Initiative Leadership Media Relations Brand-Globalizing Council Meeting for that idea.

Yeah, I'm a hands-on kind girl, but I am definitely hands-off my food. Indifferent about the carwash thing.

Oh, and if you plan to move a king-sized Tempurpedic mattress (along with about 4 bazillion tons of other stuff) from a fourth-floor condo down a freight elevator and into a 16-foot rental truck that stands about 5 feet off the ground, be sure the lift gate works before you drive it off the rental lot. Just saying.

Isn't She Lovely?

2008-06-28T16:58:00.000-07:00

I won! The Arte Y Pico Award! Many thanks to Ronalyn, discoverer of all things artistically interesting, over at A World of Creativity for the honor. Ronalyn, herself a recipient, chose our blog (along with 4 other fabulous bloggers - you can read about them here) because, in her words, "this girl is smart and funny, her cats are cute and I like it." Ronalyn, so sorry to disillusion you, honey. The Kitties tell me what to write, generally after waaaay too much catnip. And, yes, they are cute. Which is why they are still around after throwing irreplaceable handblown glass lamps to the hardwood floor.

But, I digress. I just LOVE the pretty award lady, all dressed in - how did they know? - PURPLE! And I didn't have to find a dress for the Awards Ceremony, I accepted the trophy in my pajamas. Of course, since I heard the news, I have been working on an acceptance speech. Here is what I have, so far:

You like me! You really like me! Oh, wait, that's been done before...

I would like to thank all seven of my blog readers, especially Ronalyn, who likes cute Kitties. And my mother, for spraying FeBreeze down the vents when there was a dead thing in the basement. I loved writing that post. And my friend David, for slogging through treatment for colon cancer, and getting a ZERO on his circulating tumor test, BIG YAY!, and giving me a reason to blog about colonoscopies. And my dad, for persevering through 13 different doctors who thought they had the answers to his dizziness. And laughing at his own convoluted treatment regimen when I documented it. And, of course, those cute Kitties. Who are not much on Thank-Yous; and are rolling in catnip at this very moment. They look like breaded pork chops with legs.

I'd better not forget my friend, Penelope; and Stacy and Clinton. But I have to say, those constant emails angling for prominence in yet another post is getting old, guys.

Speaking of Stacy and Clinton...to accept the Arte Y Pico award, I have to agree to The Rules. Now I have to decide on future recipients, like this:

1) I must choose 5 blogs that I consider deserving of this award by virtue of creativity, design, general interest, and contribution to the blogging community, regardless of language (the Arte Y Pico site is in Portuguese. Did I ever tell you about the time I was in Lisbon and I thought I asked the waiter for a napkin? When, in fact, I asked for a sanitary napkin? It would be best to use an online translation site if you want to read the Arte Y Pico blog, rather than asking for my help.)

2) Each award must include the name of the author and also a link to the blog, so that everyone can visit.

3) Each award winner must display the award and include the name and link to the blogger who bestowed the award.

4) The award winner, along with the award giver, must include a link to the "Arte Y Pico" blog.

5) The Rules must be displayed.

So, like I'm not busy enough picking up lamp shards and growing organic catnip; now I have to go blog shopping. Geez...I can't wait! Stay tuned. It might take a while, but you'll be the first to know when I make my decisions!

In the meantime, don't forget the auction for the displaced animals in Iowa, here. There are just a few days left! And I've got that BIG project moved from the back burner to the front burner. I will need your help.

Mwa! Mwa! (Air kisses!) Thanks for checking in, and thanks again, Ronalyn!

Who Needs an Alarm Clock?

2008-06-23T07:13:00.000-07:00

When you have Sweet Little Dewi, the Precious Black Kitty.

Who recognized that I overslept this morning; and knew that would have grave consequences. Specifically, that Dewi's morning treats would be delayed.

7:15 AM: Poke, poke, poke

"Dewi, leave me alone."

7:15:30 AM: Poke, poke, poke

"Dewi, I mean it. Go away."

7:16 AM: pull, pull, pull strands of hair.

"Dewi, get lost."

7:16:30 AM: lick, lick, lick cheek.

"Dewi, that's disgusting. Shoo!"

7:17 AM: study on problem.

7:17:30 AM: poke, poke, poke handblown, irreplaceable glass lamp on nightstand. Poke really hard.

CRASH! Glass and animals scatter, scatter, scatter.

Kitties get treats to keep them out of glass shards during clean-up.

All - I have taken a little break from Funny this week, to make an auction item for a fundraiser benefiting the animal victims of the Iowa floods. The website is

www.iowafloodreliefauction.com

and the auction begins on Wednesday, 25 June. Please bookmark the page, and check out the offerings later this week. And Dewi and I (along with the whole Frillz Furry Family) ask you to please be generous so that these animals and the people who love them can be reunited.

Also Coming Soon to This Blog...

A BIG project that will warm even the coldest heart. I am very excited to be a part of it, and I am going to beg you to hop on board.

Everything Old is New Again

2008-06-14T15:41:00.000-07:00

I have always been rather proud of my cleverness. I can string together words and sometimes people laugh. I can make art out of trash, which probably wouldn't have gotten me a seat on a Titanic life boat. I can get a pill down a cat gullet, which I don't mention often, because my friends all have cat gullets in need of pills; and they are not shy about asking for assistance. And I usually know how to get from here to there, which used to mean a lot of panicked calls to my cell phone until I gave out GPS units one year for Christmas.

But now I realize my "clever" is really just "marginally clever." Maybe even just "kinda clever for a non-clever person." Possibly even, "well, she THINKS she's clever. What's the harm?" I have just faced Mega Clever, And I've had a two-hour drive to marvel over it. I have returned from the house my brother-in-law (with help and encouragement from my sister-in-law, of course) built.

Oh, so YOUR brother-in-law builds houses, too? I bet he feels very clever. But I'll also bet he doesn't build log cabins.

Yeah? He built one? Put the kit together all by himself in a week? Well, nanny-nanny-boo-boo...he didn't build it out of

raw trees.

No joke, BIL cleared a "footing" ("place to put a house", if you're not building literate) and peeled the resulting trees, which were now officially logs. I mean, I guess he peeled them. They don't have any bark anymore. They are about the size of interstate bridge pilings. I have trouble peeling thick asparagus.

Then he stood some up on end, and glued others lengthwise in between. I understand the concept, but I can't imagine how. The strongest stuff I know is Gorilla Glue, but I wouldn't trust it to keep a pile of eight foot long logs in an eight foot high, one atop another configuration. Maybe he used that stuff they show in the infomercial where they put a blob of it on the roof of a Volkswagen Beetle and stick a crane hook in the blob and crank the VW up to the top of a building. Which I think is a pretty stupid idea these days, given all the crane accidents. So now crane manufacturers are scrambling to prove that not only were none of those accidents their faults; but their cranes are also perfectly safe for lifting Volkswagens with blobs of Infomercial Adhesive.

Eventually, BIL made a Log Box. It had a main room and a sleeping loft; and an outhouse. So if nature called during the night, one had to shimmy down a ladder and walk through the wilderness to answer the call. Prompting my sister-in-law to maintain a 4 PM fluid intake cutoff, until BIL decided to add a real bathroom. (I think that was very clever on her part. A Fluid Boycott.)

There was a problem, though. BIL had used up all his native pine trees, and had also run out of friends and family to convince that "that pine there really needs to come down. A little bit of ice, and it's Hello Living Room! Hey, I just happen to have my equipment with me - let's deal with it and I'll haul it away for you." So he had to come up with a new method of tree collection.

You know when there's a storm and everything gets knocked around and amazingly a Good Samaritan in a flannel jacket shows up (with a gas powered chain saw) and kindly clears the road for you? And tells the local On The Scene news reporter "Just trying to help a neighbor..." That's BIL.

He next added a living room and a bedroom, using logs cleverly scavenged (with permission) from a logging site nearby.

Then he built a fireplace out of pieces of an old patio a friend replaced. (BIL marvels, "They were going to throw them away!") My repurposed candy wrappers and bottlecaps are now mere specks of dust in the recycling universe.

My sister-in-law pointed out a subtle but Oh-So-Clever touch in The House Made of Trees - the curtains (can't confirm or deny whether they were dyed by boiling them with local plants) are held back with, not ties! Oh, no! Antlers.

So I was thinking as I drove, these folks have it going on. They are prepared. Yeah, I can change a dead-bolt, and I can get my car radio out of "Safe Mode" (whatever that is. I think it means "doesn't work") without going to the dealership. In case of emergency (or getting chosen to be on a Reality TV Show) it is good to know how to build a house out of trees. And how to peel them, and stick them together.

I spend too much time on this computer. I am going to shut it down for the night, and...um...go churn some butter.

It's a YART SALE!

2008-06-11T17:01:00.000-07:00

Not a typo...a Yard Sale for ART! It's all over Etsy. Just jump through the portal below to see what The Kitties and I have contributed (in the section labeled "Yart Sale") and use our shop as a comfy home base to check out the other vendors! There are PEPSIs in the 'fridge, and extra pillows in the closet. And The Kitties will show you where we keep their treats. Have fun!

Nancy and The Kitties on Etsy

I'm Not Wild About Harry

2008-06-08T13:56:00.001-07:00

Harry is a neighbor who could make even Mr. Rogers cry. It is one of the great mysteries of life how Harry snagged a mortgage on what was once a showplace; decorated by an Artiste in a gold Lexus with a license plate that said "le peche." The couple who hired The Peach to decorate the showplace spent about 75% of their waking hours beautifying yard and pool, and the other 25% sipping perfect martinis poolside, with Frank Sinatra crooning in the background. Harry, well, he has "worked" in the yard once since he moved in; when the grandkids were coming to visit and it was impossible to enter the house through the front door because the bushes had grown through the railings and across the steps. After he cut the bushes (with a box cutter) he reverted to his normal routine, sitting by the algae-green pool with a bottomless beer, smoking assorted things like, but not limited to, cigarettes and cigars; and throwing the butts into the "swamp."

Harry gives new meaning to the concept of MacGuyvering. For instance, when the glass panel in his front door shattered about a year ago, he covered the opening (inside and out) with clear packing tape. You can hardly tell, except for sometimes the "glass" comes unstuck and flaps in and out of the house with the breeze. Then there's his clever solution to the "algae pond," which has been a problem for a few of the neighbors, resulting in complaints to the county and a few (unpaid) fines. Forget pricey pool chemicals. When it gets green enough to cause comment - approximately every 10 days or so - Harry just pulls the plug, then runs the hose for a few days to refill it.

Which might have something to do with the fact that his water bill has apparently been, um, neglected for some time. Like long enough to earn him a disconnect. I wasn't aware of this, and would have been very happy in my ignorance-is-bliss; had the county not accidentally cut off our water instead of his.

The very day after the air conditioning decided to take its annual summer vacation. Don, our amazing Fix-It Guy, is very proud to have coaxed 21 years (so far) out of our antiquated HVAC system. Once when the "fan basket" (who knew we had one?) broke (or that they could break?) Don told us not to worry. He saw one on the ground behind the Dairy Dip in Hopeville, and he would fetch it. So I can't exactly entrust the system to anyone else. It likes Don. Don likes it. But Don can't get out here until the first of next week because of a crisis with the A/C at the Sizzler; and so we swelter.

With no water. Not having a clue why we were dry, I called the county water department. There is an outage 3 zip codes south, says the Customer Service Representative; after I have been assured that this conversation could be monitored for quality assurance. I replied that I didn't think that was close enough to affect us. "Please hold a moment" gave me enough time to log in to on-line banking, check that I had paid the water bill (whew,) see that it had been processed by the water department (double whew!) and bake two batches of chocolate chip cookies with coconut chips instead of the chocolate, and walnuts rather than pecans. And let the dogs out twice.

Finally, the Customer Service Representative returned, thanked me for holding, and explained that our water had been disconnected "in error." But she was going to write a "Service Ticket" and it would be "Highest Priority" and someone would be dispatched posthaste to turn the water on.

I gave thought to dragging our hose to Harry's pool deck, site of his outdoor faucet, to hook it up and collect the water that was Rightfully Ours so that I could at least flush; until a cursory peek out of an upstairs window yielded the following:

The pool deck was inhabited by a very large woman in a hot pink bikini and a thick coating of very shiny oil sunning herself (and swatting flying things) by the opaque, emerald-green, uh, hole in the ground.

So I deadheaded gardenias instead. In the 100 degree heat. Sweated myself silly, sure I'd have a shower waiting. Came back inside to find, 3 hours later, no water. I called the county again, and got a different Customer Service Representative (probably second string, because all the regular folks were at lunch) who told me this was all news to them, there was "no report on our account." She took the information grudgingly (because she didn't get to go to lunch until the Important Customer Service Representatives returned) and I could tell she thought I was scamming her. Again, she promised me "highest priority."

I'd hate to be "lowest priority", which might be sometime after the next ice age. (Oh, Ice! Glorious ice! I would wallow in ice! I would crunch it, caress it, worship it!) Four more hours passed, and closing time for Customer Service was imminent. I called again and got yet another Customer Service Representative, who assured me that my "report" was "in the system" but I had to be patient. There were Many, Many Important Things that had to be attended to by the people who turned water off and on. I told her that I had small children at home (didn't mention that they had four legs and fur) and that I had to make their dinner. And that, if someone didn't show up soon, I would call back every three minutes until someone DID show up - and I would cry.

I think the Customer Service Representatives were getting tired of toying with me at this point. Fifteen minutes later a woman came to turn my water on, but she did not turn Harry's water off. I think her job is "On Only." An "Off Only" technician, or possibly an "On/Off Technician" is required to "Off" someone, which is clearly more dangerous than "Onning." Plus, the "Onner" was talking on the phone, so she might have been just too busy ordering dinner to "Off" Harry, even if she was qualified to do so.

Really, I don't care. No more Evian in the dogs' water bowl. I can wash lettuce for a salad. And I can rinse off that dang gardenia juice. Best of all, we can flush. Life is good.

Two, Four, Six, Eight! Colonoscopies are Great!

2008-06-04T10:53:00.000-07:00

Easy for me to say. Mine is, ahem, behind me; and I don't need another one for a couple of years. You, however, are a different story. You, or someone you love, might be putting it off. So your Colonoscopy Cheerleader is here to Kick Some Chicken Butt.

You Can Do It! Let's Get To It!

Step number one: Call the doctor's office. You will be put on infinite hold. DO NOT HANG UP, even if you are really, really planning to call again tomorrow. Clean out that drawer with the warped birthday candles, ball of string and keys to cars you had in college. The Front Desk Lady will finally come back, and your drawer will be empty (except for two yellow candles and one green one that didn't look so bad.) When you explain to the Front Desk Lady that you would like to (well you wouldn't really LIKE to, but try to be polite) schedule a colonoscopy she will connect you to the Office of the Colonoscopy Scheduling Lady (and, no, the Front Desk Lady was not giggling as she transferred you.) Choose another drawer to work on, because the Colonoscopy Scheduling Lady will have to put you on hold while she checks the Colonoscopy Schedule. The Lady will return to tell you that she has one appointment next February, and a cancellation on Monday morning...do you want that?

Don't Be a Baby! Say YES! Not no, or maybe! Y-A-Y, You!

The good thing: you will not have to worry about having a colonoscopy for months before you have it. The bad thing: yes, you do have to cancel your Sunday dinner plans. You will, um, be catching up on your reading. But that new fusion Mexican Vietnamese restaurant will still be there next week. Maybe.

You, You Got It! You, You, You, You Got It!

The Packet Of Very Important Information. From the Doctor's office. Confirming your 7 AM appointment on Monday. Containing the prescription for two gallons of something that tastes like a can of Gatorade mixed with an entire box of baking soda, a canister of salt, a whole bottle of those little Saccharin pellets and some "lemon" flavoring concocted by a mad scientist who had just come from a Going Out Of Business Sale at the Mad Scientist Store.

And instructions, which tell you to drink one gallon of the something the night before the procedure. And to drink the other gallon FOUR HOURS BEFORE the procedure. Hmmm...7 AM minus 4 hours would be about 3 AM? It's probably safe to guess that you were not the only one "lucky" enough to ever snag a Monday morning 7 AM cancellation.

One Day! To Go! It's Time to Start This Show!

Sunday! Sunday! probably won't dawn with its usual happy possibilities. If you're going to church, I strongly advise the early service. You have laid in your supply of Jello (no red flavors,) unless of course you are me and you have a rule about not eating anything that wiggles more than you do. Then you have vegetable broth, ginger tea and water. Which might be enough to have you looking forward to the gallon of artificially flavored Gatorade, baking soda and Saccharin. Well, until the first sip. (My recommendation is to hold your breath and drink it, as fast as you can. It is not really, really terrible; but the shorter the time on the palate the better. And you are going to dream about that second gallon, ready and waiting on the kitchen counter, all night. Or at least until 3 AM.)

Be Strong! Be Good! Tomorrow You Get Food!

No cheating. Because if your doc can't maneuver that Mercedes of MiniCams around the ess turns and hairpin bends, you are quite literally SOL. And your doctor will be quite disappointed in you; perhaps recommending that Nurse Ratchet administer a serious enema next time.

I'm Here! I'm Ready! Let's Get This Done Already!

Worryworryworry your way to the hospital. Worryworryworry in the waiting room. Worryworryworry when they call your name. Stick you in a cubicle. Take all of your clothes (except your shoes? True that, so they have traction when they "rearrange" your legs, and your legs don't fall on the floor.) Give you a very thin sheet as cover, in a very cold cubicle. Worryworryworry when the chipper (who the H-E-Double Toothpicks is CHIPPER at 7 AM?) nurse asks if you are ready to go. Worryworryworry down the hall, into The Room. See lots of medical stuff, worryworryworry, get some ahhh anesthesia and ahhh have a lovely nap and ahh ask the nurse when you wake up 20 minutes later if you were good; and if so, could you take a little of that sleepy stuff home as a prize? Get dressed, get a visit from the doc who tells you that you had the cleanest colon he had seen all day (forget that it was also the ONLY colon he had seen all day) thank him for the compliment and go out to breakfast.

You Are A Champion!

It might occur to you that Blogging About Colonoscopies is weird, and that maybe Nancy and the Kitties are weird, too. You might be right. But, my mother is a colon cancer survivor. A very, very brave one. My friend, David, who I have know since before either one of us had to shave, is a colon cancer survivor. He could use your support, you can visit him here:

David's Caring Bridge Site

Colon cancer stinks. It is not funny. Bottom line - Wipe it out. Get a colonoscopy.

Canine Eating Disorders - The New Frontier!

2008-05-31T08:27:00.000-07:00

The Brown Dog is a Food Snob. She comes by it naturally, because she was raised by a chef. (Who, I think, put her up for adoption due to the rising cost of truffle oil. She likes her scrambled eggs with a little spritz.) You can read about The Dog Who Loves Cauliflower here.

We have tried to dial down her palate by mixing the dreaded Dog Food into her jasmine rice with curried chicken. She successfully separated good from bad, and the floor was covered with curried kibbles, to the delight of the other hounds. We have left her home alone, with only Rachael Ray for company; in hopes that she would realize caviar is not a staple. We have secretly replaced her Roaring Forties blue cheese with Velveeta. And gotten The Look, and a flounce off to the bedroom, in return. It is hopeless. But at least she isn't a

Compulsive Overeater.

Fortunately, if your dog IS a CO, there is a treatment. Go to your vet and get a prescription for Slentrol. This oily liquid, dispensed daily via syringe on your dog's food, or directly into your dog's mouth will curb her appetite. You will notice she eats less, and gradually she will lose weight. Um, couldn't I just skip the whole vet thing and put less in her bowl to begin with? Hello?

Oh, but then I wouldn't be addressing the emotional component of her overeating. Maybe she is upset because her favorite stuffed squirrel is losing its stuffing. Or maybe she missed me when I went to the dentist last week. Time to call the Dog Whisperer, or maybe the Pet Psychic.

Thank goodness there is a potential cure for compulsive overeating in dogs, but what about other eating disorders? Like Canine Bulimia? Anorexia? I think yearly vet visits should include checking teeth for acid wear caused by binging/purging behavior. Forget Doggy Day Camps. What we need are Inpatient Treatment Centers for Canine Anorectics.

The pharmaceutical companies clearly have their work cut out for them, but they are making progress. I just hope that, once they cure these devastating dog diseases, they take a long, hard look at cats. I have a feeling there is a whole lot more to "finicky" than the wrong flavor of Fancy Feast.

Working From Home: All That and a Bag of Chips! or is it?

2008-05-27T18:33:00.000-07:00

Do you think you want to work from home? Do you envision a beautifully organized "Home Office," full of Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrel and The Container Store "Systems?" A DayRunner with entries like:

Thursday, 8:15 AM - CALL MR. BIG! (lock barking dogs in basement bathroom first)

Thursday, 9:30 AM - Go to Starbucks.

Thursday, 10:00 AM - CALL MR. BIG AGAIN because he was not in at 8:15, but it's good to have a nice, early time stamp on voicemail.

Thursday, 10:30 AM - Doodle while catching up on TV shows and the weekend plans with office-bound peers.

Thursday, 1 PM - Record All My Children. Heck, the phone is quiet, just watch it. And do a load of laundry.

Thursday, 2 PM - Reheat leftover pizza. Eat while filling out expense report and playing solitaire (in a separate tab, of course.)

Thursday, 2:30 PM - Quit for day to make up for working through lunch. Go shopping.

Sound good? Go for it! But when you discuss your Work-From-Home Plan with the boss, it is IMPERATIVE that your agreement includes a Personal Emergency System Lanyard Alarm Button.

I work in my basement studio, and also wherever I happen to drag my jewelry parts. Sometimes I hammer metal on the deck. Sometimes I make silver curly-cues while I am talking to my mother about gout. And frequently I assemble necklaces in waiting rooms while my mother-in-law has physical therapy. I can, and do, work almost anywhere.

This morning I hit the ground running; well, after the requisite caffeine fix. Dealt with family business first. We needed rocks for a retaining wall, and some agave plants for the back yard. (FYI: There are no plans to brew tequila. Do you "brew" tequila? Ferment it? It's probably a good thing that tequila is not the plan.) I was on the phone, and on line for a few hours with this Personal Business before I got down to Impersonal Business. Still in my cute-but-indoor-only Vera Wang navy and white pajamas. With matching flip-flops. I was mixing resin, alone in my basement, and there is no dress code there.

Man-o-man, I was Exceeding Expectations! Great rock deals, the jewelry sparkled; and there was hummus and pita in the fridge for lunch. Life was good.

And then, the Old Dog looked kind of...squirmy. The way she looks when she really, really, really needs to go out. Let me pause a moment here to tell you that she is deaf, and virtually blind. And when she gets nervous she scatters about like a pinball.

I opened the front door; she dashed out. As did The Dog Who Has No Idea You Are Talking To Her. This one is a "rescue" from a puppy mill. She spent years in a concrete box, making cute puppies, with no human companionship whatsoever. Conversation is merely background noise to her. She understands nothing beyond the word "cookie.". She is happy now, in a generic way; but, like the blind person who has surgery at age 40 and discovers sight that makes no sense, she just doesn't get the idea that vocalizations relate to her.

The two rather challenged canines took care of business and headed straight back to the corral, because sometimes cookies are handed out if they have been good. I was standing outside on the front step, ready to lead them to their rewards, and grabbed the door handle, which

Fell off in my hand. Wait, FELL OFF??? The door handle just fell off. I was on the outside of the door. The door handle just fell off. I couldn't get into the house. Where I work. Where these creatures live. Where my cell phone is. And my clothes. What the...

My neighbors were all working in office complexes bordered with Windmill Palm Trees (hardy to Zone 3, I learned when I ordered the agaves.) No way to break in, All the doors and windows except this one have burglar bars. And my cute-but-not-so-socially-appropriate Vera Wang Pajamas with matching flip flops were not a good look for flagging down passing vehicles.

I willed myself to stop panicking and be resourceful...coerce the hounds to the back door. We couldn't get in because of the burglar bars, but I could trap the dogs safely on the deck and...think...think...think...of what to do next.

Except, the dogs decided they must be in trouble (or I was insane) because I was flailing about and making loud noises; so they fled in the direction of the nearest busy road. My flip-flops precluded effective chase. Calling a deaf dog and one who has no language skills is not very helpful, but I tried. Fortunately, they encountered a brick wall a few houses down; and turned around. To run the other way. Down in the gully, which leads to the lake. Brambles, rocks and probably sunning snakes. I needed a game plan. Fast. Scrambled up the deck steps and pretended to be eating something delicious. Made lots of yummy smacking noises, and pantomimed exaggerated eating behavior. The dogs stopped running and came toward me, obviously intrigued. (As were the neighbors, I'm sure.) But when they reached the deck to find me dragging the storage bench across the stairs and the "food opportunity" looking a little sketchy the suspicions returned; and they made another mad dash, this one back to the relative safety of the front door. Fortunately they were bordering on exhaustion, so I had no trouble threading the flower hose through their collars to immobilize them.

Forty-five minutes of "tag," now I could sit down to think.

Should I break a window? Could we climb in? (As the cats climbed out...) Would there be any way to reach the keys to the burglar bars through a window? Should we wait, tethered to the hose, for 5 hours until Son One returned from work to pick up HIS dog (who is barking at us from inside, because we are clearly trying to break in?) Maybe I should wiggle that little remaining piece of the handle a little more?

Wiggling seemed the least dangerous option, so I started there.

I wiggled to the left. To the right. Up, down; listening (between barks) like a safe cracker. Slowly, carefully, methodically. OK, obsessively. Maniacally. For a half an hour, and suddenly

I felt something "click." Said a prayer, pushed and

I was in the house. With clothes! And a telephone! And all the animals! Oops, except for the ones tied to the hose. They fought like bulls, but I disentangled them and pushed them through the door.

Took a shower, and it was back to work as usual. Right after I ordered a new door handle, arranged a Door Handle Inspection by a Certified Door Handle Specialist, and called for my Personal Emergency System Lanyard Alarm Button. (Because I dialed "within the next ten minutes" I will also receive a Bonus Personal Emergency System Keyring Alarm Button. I think I will keep it outside, under the hose.)

Chemical Reaction

2008-05-25T17:21:00.000-07:00

It is important, over the Memorial Day weekend, to remember our heroes who made the ultimate sacrifice. It is also important to have margaritas with your girlfriends, and discuss hair color.

Men don't have to talk about single- versus double- process, or permanent versus demi-permanent, or highlights or lowlights or foiling, over cocktails. That is because, as men age, they become "Distinguished Silver-haired Gentlemen;" while women "go gray." This is clearly unfair, discriminatory, and mean. So we deserve our margaritas. Top shelf.

I have friends, beautiful and brilliant women friends, who wear their argent tresses like fine platinum jewelry. They are stunning; and they are in the minority. The rest of us cut our coloring teeth on Sun-In (Extra-Strength for me! Red hair plus Regular-Strength equaled Electric Orange; if I sprung for the Premium Sun-In I could get something loosely resembling "blonde" but most easily described [color and texture] as "shredded wheat.") and there is no patch for our addiction. Also, I firmly believe that if God had intended for us to have gray hair, we would have been born that way.

The trouble is, hair color is very dangerous. You can tell because Nick Arrojo puts on full combat gear before he foils a "contributor." You read it in the warning missives in the drugstore brands:

Do not use on eyebrows, product could cause blindness.

Use product immediately after mixing, to reduce possibility of explosion.

Conduct "patch test" 48 hours before application. Have physician biopsy area before proceeding.

Do not use if you are allergic to strawberries, Tide Laundry Detergent, or shellfish other than bivalves.

Send pets to pet hotel and send children to neighbor's house before applying.

And then, of course, one has to wonder. What's with the gloves? We are putting this stuff on our heads. Right on top of our brains, for crying out loud. The manufacturers see this as normal behavior. But we are supposed to wear gloves to protect our HANDS?

Women become oblivious to the dangers when they combine hair color with margaritas. My friend Laura interrupted my lament. "Nancy," she said, "that's enough. Sometimes it is better not to know." And my friend Penelope, who manages to insinuate herself into this blog even more often than Stacy and Clinton, added (brightly,) "That's why I have someone else do my coloring for me! (puts hands over ears) La,la,la,la,la!"

Why don't you have to sign medical waivers at hair salons?

OK, I've never heard of anyone dying from dyeing. (Oh, I do crack myself up.) But, all those chemicals...I might as well be a

Pest Control Technician.

Penelope called me last week with ants. Tiny dead ants all over her sun room. Also piles of "sawdust," and ant poop on her curtains. My sage advice, since it had been nearly 40 years since I took an entomology class, was to phone an exterminator. Pennie found a company highly recommended in a book the company had paid to be listed in, as a "highly recommended company." Sherman, the highly-recommended technician, stopped by to confirm that she had ants. In the vaulted ceiling. And the only thing high about that company (except, maybe Sherman) was the recommendation. The company didn't have a ladder long enough to reach the problem area. Pennie asked if Sherman could help her find someone with a long-enough ladder. He demurred - he couldn't recommend the competition. She called the main office; spoke with the GM. He would, of course, help her find someone with a ladder. Five days later, no referral, no ladder. More sawdust, more ants. Pennie is, as I type, putting in calls to other highly recommended companies and creating a Ladder Height Spreadsheet.

We once had palmetto bugs. Roaches on steroids. In this part of the world they come in under the sliders, through the holes in the screens, when you let the dogs in, or have a pizza delivered. And, you know how sometimes there is a knock at the door, but when you open it there is no one there? Not the nine-year-old from next door. Palmetto bugs. They are ugly, sneaky, scary and aggressive. Alan The Technician (from a highly-recommended company) treated our house for them 3 or 4 times, but I would still be bugged by a bug once a month or so. In frustration, I asked Alan what I could do to make them go away. He assured me that if I dumped the contents of all the bottles in the liquor cabinet, they would disappear.

Alan disappeared shortly thereafter.

That DID explain, however, all those tiny shot glasses I found strewn across the living room on Saturday mornings; not to mention the lime peels and dirty margarita pitcher in the sink. And why we were always so low on salt.

Pantyhose is so.........Undead.

2008-05-21T17:35:00.000-07:00

In my circle, coming of age meant getting your first pair of "heels" (the Pappagallo patent-leather, bow-adorned 1"-chunky-heeled trainer) and a garter belt. Not a fancy lace-and-ribbon pole dance garter belt. A contraption similar to (but not as colorful as) the rubber band holding the raw asparagus stalks together at the grocery store, with smaller attached rubber bands ending in fabric covered rubber "fleshtone" snaps, the size of kiwis.

It was the '60s, and we were NOT going to wear our mothers' girdles; and The Fashion Designers decided rubber bands were more fashionable so we begged for garter belts. Our mothers knew our skirts were too short and they would ride up and our garters would show, and we were Too Young for Stockings Anyway; but we took vows of modesty and the mothers relented. And we got our garter belts, and stockings in every color of the rainbow (COLORED stockings? Our grandmothers just shook their heads and adjusted their girdles and wondered what was happening to Young People Today) and matching patent leather 1" heels with bows. And our garters showed.

I remember, at age 12, taking the day-long Amtrak Trek from Atlanta to New York City, because we were "School Safety Patrols" and no one had gotten squashed by passing traffic on our watch so we all got to go to see the Empire State Building. My friend, Elizabeth and I shared a hotel room IN NEW YORK CITY with NO ADULT SUPERVISION and found our way to the bus that was taking the myriad unsupervised 12-year-olds to the Empire State Building without incident. It was Easter weekend, and we were going to CHURCH before the ESB (this was a public school trip, go figure) and we were all to wear "dress-up" clothes for a photo and our dose of religion. Every girl had a Jackie O shift dress and matching stockings and Pappagallo patent leather 1" bow pumps. My ensemble was turquoise, Elizabeth's was yellow. We thought it might be rather fun to swap stocking legs, so we each had one yellow and one aqua. You can't tell from the group photo, though; because it is black and white. (I will tell you that the 2 chaperones - for 75 boys and girls - were not amused but had much more serious things to deal with. Like half the crowd who were barfing from the egg salad sandwiches at the Automat the day before.)

It took a very long time to set up for the photo. The tall girls (that would be me) had to sit on the grass in our Jackie O shifts, because our precocious hormone-induced growth spurts caused us to tower dangerously over the boys (and the two chaperones and the photographer.) We tried (without 100% success) to arrange our gangly limbs in proper photo fashion, with garters neatly tucked away. The GrownUps concentrated on arranging the barfing people in the back row where they could barf over their shoulders if necessary. There was a great deal of "Where's Mark? Where's Debbie?" and scurrying to the Central Park bathrooms (for a variety of reasons) and eventually everyone was accounted for and we got the photo. And then we went to church. Sometime between church and the Empire State Building, pantyhose was invented.

Because our mothers complained that our garter belts showed and (I think) found out that Elizabeth and I traded stocking legs.

(And 15 minutes after the invention of Thank God Pantyhose, came the Miniskirt. Which wouldn't have worked so well with the asparagus rubberbands.)

We loved pantyhose. If you had a run in one leg, you could cut the bad leg off and wear it with the "good leg" of another pair. So practical! Our garters never showed. And, as we got older, neither did our varicose veins and sunspots.

And then. Somewhere around the mid 1990s, Famous People like Jennifer Aniston decided that pantyhose were stupid. They stopped wearing them, we stopped wearing them. Except to places our mothers would INSIST that we wear them. Well, everyone but me stopped wearing them. I didn't know about Jennifer Aniston; and, frankly, I didn't go to many places that my mother would insist I wore pantyhose.

Until last week. I was going to a wedding. I went to T.J. Maxx for a new purse, and decided to pick up some Wedding Pantyhose while I was there. Public Service Announcement: There IS NO LONGER a Pantyhose Section at T.J. Maxx. I brought this to the attention of my friends, who knew all about Jennifer Aniston and told me that even The Queen doesn't wear pantyhose anymore. My friend, Penelope, who once bought a REAL Chanel suit worth $3500 off eBay for $600, proving that she has great fashion sense, told me that the only place to get pantyhose now is in those little eggs at the grocery store. I still couldn't imagine a "dressy dress" without them, so I wore an old pair to the wedding, but stood at the front of the venue before the nuptials to conduct a poll. Only three other women had hosiery on. My mother-in-law, and the two grandmothers of the bride. So I went into the bathroom, took them off and threw them away. Panty hose is so dead.

After the wedding I did a little research, because I was feeling extremely old. I had witnessed the birth of the Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread (which, to my knowledge, Jennifer Aniston has not taken a stand on) and then its death.

This is what I found. (On Wikipedia, so it MUST be true)

(I)n the mid-to-late '00s of this century, pantyhose have been appearing once again in fashion and in public, indicating the recurring cycle of couture once again bringing the leg covering back into vogue, especially in the form of thicker, dark tights and shades of black pantyhose. Pantyhose have even made a return to Paris runways and Haute Couture

If you know Jennifer, or T. J. Maxx, please let them know. Pantyhose is now Undead. Like Zombies. Which brings me to the question...are Zombies good or bad?

When we wore stockings, Zombies were extremely scary. Our parents wouldn't let us go to Zombie movies, because we would have nightmares. So we snuck into the movie theaters and watched the Zombie movies (we had friends who worked the popcorn machine. They accidentally left the back door of the theater ajar when they took out the trash; and, while there was no line at the box office there was quite a crowd at the back door.) Then we had nightmares. Now, if we have, for example, a son who thinks Zombies are The Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread we can get him this T-shirt. And, we can put this in his Easter basket.

(If you're calling Jennifer about the pantyhose thing, would you ask her opinion on Zombies?)

So, in conclusion (one must always have a concluding paragraph to tie loose ends neatly in a bow. Unless a celebrity and The Queen have concurred that this is no longer necessary, and I have not yet been told.) Jennifer Aniston killed pantyhose. Except for the ones in the plastic eggs. But, just like Zombies, pantyhose aren't really dead. You shouldn't put bunnies in Easter baskets anymore, because Zombies are the new bunnies. If you want to get into the movies for free, befriend the Popcorn Person. And if you take 75 12-year-olds to New York City to see the Empire State Building it would be wise to avoid the egg salad at the Automat.

Clean Sweep

2008-05-16T17:06:00.000-07:00

I really don't mind cleaning, and I'm pretty good at it. The problem is, I am a model of inefficiency. In fact, if Inefficiency was an Olympic Event I could take at least the silver medal; unless, of course, there were competitors from Guam. The Guam Motto is, "We're Guam, and We're Inefficient!" The motto, on a flashing billboard, is the first thing you see when your plane taxis to the gate at the A. B. Won Pat International Airport. It is on the sides of garbage trucks. It is stamped on Styrofoam fried chicken boxes left to disintegrate (or not) at the beach. I like Guam. I like Tumon Bay, and all the Japanese Indoor Rifle Ranges, and bubble tea, and Shirley's Coffee House where you get rice with your eggs. But I could never beat someone from Guam in an Inefficiency Competition.

Here is my cleaning system: I wake up knowing that it is Friday, which is Dust-And-Vacuum day. Start the coffee. Get the duster and head for the bedroom. Where I notice that the stick from the incense I burned last night is still in the burner. I pluck it, to toss before dusting and realize that dusting would be much more pleasant with fresh incense burning. It's off to the incense drawer, and I remember enroute that I have no more matches in the bedroom. Matchbooks are in the kitchen, in a drawer. Next to the drawer where we keep the dog pills. Did I give the dog her pills this morning? Check the pill drawer and it appears I did not. Gather dog pills, hunt the dog who knows what's about to happen and slithers behind the sofa. Move the sofa to get to the dog, and THERE are all the cats' pom-poms! Take them into the laundry room so cats can find them when they use the litter box, also in the laundry room. Oh, no, I did laundry yesterday! It is sitting in the washer. Smells a little funky. Set it to rewash, get the stuff out of the dryer (as long as I'm there,) take the dry load to the bedroom, fold it and put it away. As I'm shelving sheets, I see that we are nearly out of TP. Better head to the grocery store while I'm thinking about it - a bad thing to run out of.

Remember the bake sale on the way to the grocery store, pick up the ingredients for brownies, find a nice piece of fish for dinner. Go home, stopping for the mail on the way, remember that yesterday was Bill-Paying Day, and I didn't. Bake brownies while On-Line Banking loads. Pay bills. Wrap brownies attractively, put in basket, put basket in car.

Feed milling dogs and cats, cook fish, put now non-funky wash in dryer, answerphoneanswerphoneanswerphone, crash in bed in state of exhaustion and wonder what a duster is doing in the bed.

Now that I look at it in black-and-white, I might just give those folks on Guam a run for their money.

I have tried hiring out the cleaning. First there was Belinda. She needed six weeks off every nine months to have her next baby. The first 3 months of each pregnancy she felt like throwing up and had to go home. The last 3 months she had contractions and had to go home. And the three months in the middle - well, every Thursday morning one of the brood had an ear infection. About the only time we saw Belinda for more than 10 minutes was when she came over to pick up clothes our kids had outgrown. She finally gave up "cleaning" to homeschool.

Then, there was Maggie. She would only clean houses on HER side of Spaghetti Junction, the infamous highway interchange that defines Atlanta. She made that clear in her ad in the paper. She made it clear in conversation. She had never, and will not ever, ever, drive across Spaghetti Junction. Fortunately, she could safely get to our house without encountering The Beast. Unfortunately, she didn't work from 1 PM to 3 PM because she had to watch her "stories." She left us notes that said, "You know that Bureto in the refrigerater? I ate it." And she occasionally called us from the bowling alley in the middle of the night, because she had consumed "a little white wine." Also, she was certain her lovely daughter, Shayree, was the perfect match for our son. Luckily, Shayree had other ideas, and Maggie had to stop cleaning and stay home with her "stories" because Shayree's boyfriend got kicked out of his house and moved in with Maggie and Shayree and there was too much laundry and cooking to do (when you added in "story" time) for Maggie to work outside of the home.

Patti came next, and she was far-and-away the favorite. Yes, she brought the toddling Baby Grace. Grace was pretty and sweet, and except for the time she shoved a sandwich in the VCR (which later, in revenge, ate her Barney tape) she was no trouble at all. Patti had dogs. Lots of dogs. Hair on the furniture was no match for her, and she did not rest until every fuzzy was gone. The house sparkled when Patti was finished. Sigh. We loved Patti. And so did her ex-husband; his stalking became a bit of a problem so she moved out-of-state and changed her name.

Again without help, I could conquer the laundry and dog-pilling and bill-paying and grocery shopping, but still managed to distract myself from vacuuming even while wearing my new (and quite stylish) Professional BacPacVac. Yes. I was wearing a vacuum, and I would forget to vacuum. No. I don't think I am suffering from dementia. I am just observant (and I hate to vacuum.) Example: See that frayed cord on the antique lamp? I'd best remove BacPacVac, head to garage for lamp parts, notice that the stuff for the next yard sale is in a messy heap. Rearrange it for a couple of hours until it is too late to vacuum because the natural light is gone and I miss too many spots by lamplight. Capiche? Easy Peasy.

And then I whined and whined about the unfinished vacuuming. Friends and family made the outlandish suggestion that I find another housekeeper. I had every excuse in the book - a cat would escape through a door left open (not likely when they are all quaking under the bed,) a dog would bite someone (no, the dog only bites when she doesn't get Gorgonzola on her dinner,) and the above-mentioned examples of Housekeeper Horrors.

My friend Penelope had heard enough.

"I'm sending over The Swarm Of Locusts."

Everything Pennie hates about her cleaning crew makes them perfect for me. They don't spend all day with their clients. They don't do laundry. They don't pay bills, or arrange the cereals by box height.

And they don't bring children, or watch stories or have stalking husbands. That I know of.

The Swarm blows through the front door, waving rags and plugging in vacuums on their way. They disperse like an Alka-Seltzer. Like Whirling Dervishes. No one speaks, but the noise is deafening. Furniture flung to the center of the room. Clunk, thunk, vacuums blaze. Every surface is sprayed with something. Rags and mops dance in perfectly choreographed formation. Not a cat in sight. (Dogs are shaking in the basement. They have only been down there a few times, when tornadoes threatened the neighborhood. They are sure this is "The Big One.")

And, before you know it, The Swarm is gone. Vaporized. It is eerily silent, like the wake of an F-5 tornado. We emerge, like Dorothy and Toto, from our shelters. Things are out of place, but there is no dust! There are no dust bunnies under the bed! (Well, yeah, the bed is in the middle of the room. But it's freshly made.)

The house is very clean. I might be pleased with The Swarm. But I'll reserve judgment until I see if I get a late-night call from a bowling alley.

The Message in the Music

2008-05-12T17:32:00.000-07:00

It was shaping up, according to the clawed and chewed DayRunner, to be a busy day for Nancy and the Kitties. I planned to take my mother-in-law for Post Mother's Day Pizza at "that new place where you get two slices and a drink all for one price. And the lady from church said the slices are big and very filling." Before I headed off in the direction of pizza, however; I had to wrap, pack and post silver tornado-shaped earrings to a newly-minted Meteorologist in California. And after pizza, I planned to finish a "belly chain," which I understand to be some kind of necklace you wear around your waist, and it might or might not attach somehow to a pierced navel. So a little research (other than asking the younger of my mostly older friends whether they had heard of these things, which quickly morphed into a discussion of tattoos, which really didn't help me at all) was in order. I also ABSOLUTELY HAD to go to the ATM, which had one of those armored trucks parked in front of it the last three times I buzzed it. (I finally decided the driver parked there because there is a canopy over the ATM and he had enough shade for a good nap. Or else someone shot him dead, took all the money and no one had noticed because we were all driving by making up stories about the driver taking a nap.) And then, off to teach a dance class, which really wasn't that crucial because if I didn't show up the ladies would just swap recipes and talk trash about those of us who weren't there, and maybe pour the water from their now-unnecessary water bottles on the flowers we planted in front of our building and then go home for dinner.

The Kitties had planned to claw and chew the DayRunner a little more, and then make zillions of little corrugated cardboard crumbs out of their Costly Cosmic Catnip Corrugated Cardboard Couch Scratcher, and then hiss and spit about who got to sit on top of the Catnip Corrugated Couch; and to bring downstairs all the Glitter Rats that I had heaved upstairs for the 4 millionth time, because the dogs are confined to the downstairs and they eat Glitter Rats and then make Glitter Poop.

So there was really no time for a flat tire.

Therefore, I had a flat tire.

Ha! I am a Flat Tire Magnet. After flat tires caused by the common nail, the uncommon nail, heat bubbles, errant forks, a screwdriver, acts of God, and vicious slashing by a copy editor who took exception to my disagreement with his use of the words "that" vs "which", I have learned that I need Road Hazard Protection. "My Guys" fix my tires often, and often for free. I do not fear the Flat Tire. But I still had all this stuff to do. So I borrowed my mother's car.

It is a spankin' new, bells-and-whistles minivan; perfect because I could use it to carry home a table and my trampoline which I had forgotten that I took to dance class. (Yes, trampoline. It is a rather involved story, best left to the imagination.) And the minivan has Satellite Radio. Which is code for "Only-Works-If-No-Trees-Are-Blocking-Transmission." The signal comes and goes, but the people who pay for it are so excited about the 126 channels, they are willing to live with sound that reminds me of the back of a Chevy at a Drive-In Theater in 1968.

I have no idea how to change the Satellite Radio to the "I'm Post Fifty But I Think I'm Still A Bit Edgy and Cool" channel, so I leave it on my mother's "Movin' EZ" channel, which I might call "Barely Movin' ZZZZZZZZ" channel. At first I listen in shock, with the windows up; because I know every word and I'm singing. And someone might HEAR ME SINGING. And I don't know why I am singing "Me and You and a Dog Named Boo"? "It's Another Tequila Sunrise"????? "Someone Left the Cake Out In the Rain?" Come on. Who would bake a cake and leave it outside unless they had Alzheimer's? Then again, I left rice in the rice cooker overnight one time. "There's Got to be a Morning After" from the Poseidon Adventure. The Freaking Poseidon Adventure!!!!!!

"Feelings." "Afternoon Delight."

There is a message in this music, and our PARENTS are listening. They could be driving our children around, listening to this...this...there are no words for the horror. And SINGING ALONG.

Somebody needs to speak with our parents about the Message In The Music.

And learn from my experience. Don't borrow your mother's minivan unless you can handle her "Movin' EZ."

Helicopter Parents (hovering, hovering...)

2008-05-10T16:40:00.000-07:00

We were Free Range Children. If we cleaned our rooms to minimum hygienic standards we were Free To Roam for the rest of the day, until the streetlights came on. There were a few rules. We were not to go into the houses under construction (but we did.) We were not supposed to play in the creek (but we did, and then we stayed in the woods climbing trees until our clothes dried out so no one would know.) We were not supposed to climb trees. (But we had to do something while our clothes dried out.)

When our children came along, Free Range was no longer in vogue. Something Terrible in the form of Scary Strangers would happen to children allowed to play in their front yards, so we fenced in the back yard and put up a swing set. We read books to our kids about shadowy men in shiny cars asking them to help find lost puppies. We turned pages advising that children should scream "Fire" if someone kidnapped them, even though we thought it would work better to shout, "Hey this person is kidnapping me!" (The Experts promised us that "Fire!" attracted more attention. And The Experts never told us what the kids should scream if there was an actual fire. "Stampede!"? "Free Ice Cream!"? "Hey, Macarena!"?) And we embraced Children's Television, which kept the darlings safely in the living room with Mr. Rogers, The Electric Company and Oscar The Grouch.

Is it any wonder a generation of children on the lookout for lurking Scary Strangers, trying to remember what they were supposed to shout, would grow up to embrace The Disposable Toddler Helmet? Buy 'em like disposable diapers, slap one on your newly toddling toddler because, dang, she is toddling, and that fireplace corner could be SHARP! Oh, My God, she's veering off that way! Thank goodness she's wearing her Disposable Toddler Helmet!...You can even use the link to sign up to carry them in your retail establishment. Perhaps, for example, you own a grocery store. You could offer them as freebies, right next to the sanitizer wipes, for anyone who dares to put a child in the "child seat" (with safety strap) of the buggy, instead of the AWESOME (and sanitized daily) Plastic Race Car cum Shopping Cart, capable of blocking Aisle Two completely even if little Maddie is not reaching out for the Chocolate Chex. (I really want to know who was in the focus groups for that one. Women with cramps and a migraine so bad that they couldn't cook breakfast because the sound of cracking eggshells was too loud? Perimenopausal women wearing T-shirts that say, "I'm out of Estrogen and I Have a Gun"? Who else would think Chocolate CHEX was a good idea?) I also think there is a market for a Disposable Toddler Helmet Vending Machine. What kind of parent wouldn't cough up a few tuppence for the peace of mind afforded by Disposable Toddler Helmets? Because if your little one should happen to reach for the Chocolate CHEX and overextend, or Heaven forbid, her brother pushes her out of the Plastic Race Car cum Shopping Cart, it is a good six inches to the floor and there is no recycled rubber chip padding.

I think that the next frontier is disposable goggles. In case a child learns to USE A FORK, which might put an eye out. Or runs with scissors, or chases his brother with a stick. Until then, I have two words:

Bubble Wrap.

Oh, I need two more:

Duct Tape.

Oh, NO! It's Wednesday, and We're out of Cat Food!

2008-05-07T04:34:00.000-07:00

Due to circumstances beyond my control, dear friends in town for a conference, re-scheduled doctor's appointments and my car still being full of all the stuff from Saturday's show, it is now Wednesday. It is supposed to be Monday. Grocery day. Big-Buggy-Full-of-Cat-Litter-Kibbles-Dog-Biscuits-Laundry-
Detergent-And-Something-for-Dinner-and-Maybe-Some-
Potato-Chips Day. There is no coffee creamer in the fridge. There are no eggs. The Brown Dog "needs" her cauliflower. And we are dangerously low on Kitty High (street name. AKA, catnip.) That means I have to do the grocery shopping. On Wednesday. On

Deaf-Old-People-With-Double-Coupons-And-
Styrofoam-Cups-of-Weak-Coffee Day.

There are two major problems here. I am tall. DOPWDCSCWCs are not. There will be a great deal of, "Honey, would you reach that Metamucil on the top shelf for me? They keep the freshest ones up there, you know." And by the time I stand on the lowest shelf, clinging to the shelf divider - because even in my platform flip-flops I'm not quite able to reach it - and snag the Metamucil (which I had to poke forward with the DOPWDCSCWC's umbrella first,) the intended recipient has wandered over to the meat counter to join a crowd admiring freshly cut round steak and I'm not exactly sure which one she is until I see the umbrella. I'll smile and hand her the canister, and she'll say, "Thank you, honey, but the store brand was on sale so I just picked up one of those." Don't get me wrong, I am glad to use my God-given gift of height to help out at the grocery store. But I also need to buy toothpaste.

The other problem is a bit more complex. Many of my fellow Wednesday shoppers knew me when I was six. Played bridge with my parents. In fact, had gallbladder surgery, angioplasty and bunion removal with my parents. Some of them led my Girl Scout troops (they don't, thank goodness, remember that little brouhaha resulting in my eventual "retirement" from the World of Scouting) and can wax poetic on those glitter pine cones we made that year in the church basement. And many of them think I am my sister.

My sister and I have looked so alike in the past that one of us could walk into a family party for the first time and a family member would ask us why we changed clothes. And our sense of style, or lack thereof, has been eerily similar as well. We have on more than one occasion shown up to an event in the same shoes. (Not the same PAIR of shoes; two sets of shoes. I just realized I might have confused some people. I decided to expand and clarify.)

So shopping on Wednesday requires me to limber up first, in case I need to be tall; and remember which sister I am and which children are mine in case someone inquires about them, and - God help me - WHO that man is, asking about my father's dizziness.

Arriving at the store, I'll scan the parking lot for familiar vehicles - the ones with ancient school booster stickers, or American Flag decals strategically placed. I'll take note of the "Hollywood Cars", the boat-like Caddies and Lincoln Towncars so favored by Mr. and Mrs. SoandSo. I'll grab a cup of the weak coffee, which gives me a little mental edge (very little) and helps me to blend in. And then I will

Attempt. To. Shop.

If I am lucky, I will remember everyone familiar by name. I will be tall gracefully. And I will remember that the "Self-Checkout" volume is dialed up on Wednesday, so I won't jump out of my skin when the AutoChick shouts, "WELCOME, VALUED CUSTOMER!" And I will not hyperventilate when I reach into my wallet for my credit card, and notice again, with tremors of shock, that it is right next to

My AARP Membership Card.

I hate Wednesdays.

What do you get when you combine

2008-05-03T17:08:00.000-07:00

A dozen talented and especially charming artists, totally unpredictable weather, some tables, some tents, some shoppers, and ten dozen Krispy Kreme donuts? All hosted by a "Well-Bred Ladies' Dance Group" (and Gretchen...she is not Well-Bred but we let her hang around with us anyway)?

I have no idea, but it sure was fun.

A Virgin Venue, we had never attempted an art sale at Sketchworks before. But the theatre folks were excited to give it a try, and so was a group of mostly Etsy sellers. For some, it was their very first show, so it was doubly exciting.

A nailbiter yesterday. We knew we had a lot of drive-by visibility from the road in front of the theatre, and thought that, given "pretty" weather, we could set up all over the lawn for curb appeal. Vendors had tents, umbrellas, vividly colored tableskirts...it would have been a lovely scene. BUT, Mother Nature had other ideas. Yesterday emails (or "Convos," if you speak "Etsy") flew here and there. Do we give in to the weather? Do we chance that it won't get messy until later in the afternoon (the prevailing wisdom at that moment)? The forecasts were ambiguous, we had a "rain plan", and we "went for it."

Today dawned, well, threateningly. No fluffy cirrus or cumulus clouds for us! Big, black icky blobs. Some of us were brave. Especially the very shy and retiring LeAnn Christian, Lampwork-Icon-to-Be. In her very shy and retiring style, LeAnn had a GIANT rainbow patio umbrella, and the most decidedly fancy set-up. She became our Official Lawn Ornament, until Gen and Hubby of Sewphisticate hit the scene with their EXTREMELY ELABORATE tent. Which they had to set up using an instruction manual. Which, thank God, they had with them. They bravely joined LeAnn as the Front Yard Team; which worked until it started to drizzle.

Not a drizzle that becomes steady to clearly indicate that we should all go home because it is about to turn into a downpour. More like a drizzle when one person says, "Oh look! It's clearing to the west!" And someone else says, "I just heard on the car radio that we are about to get tornadoes." So, we mostly moved tables out on the lawn, back under the covered patio, and in and out of tents until...

A very kind and wonderful benefactor donated 10 dozen Krispy Kreme donuts to us to sell for profit. At that point, since we were short on customers, we made a "Free Donuts" sign and fed all the vendors donuts and handed freebies to people walking home from the grocery store and ate too many ourselves, and fed them to our very cute children who were extremely well-behaved up to that point and we all suffered a collective sugar high.

And we talked to each other, and we bought things from each other; and I'll bet everyone who was there feels like they ended the day with a whole bunch of new friends.

My personal highlights:

I felt a little warm in the afternoon and couldn't figure out why. The temp had dropped, it was damp; but I realized I WAS wearing the most beautiful purple scarf that everyone who knew me thought I should buy. And I did, because it was ME! Product of Adripratt - and it is sooooooo soft! My gut tells me I looked just a little silly, with a scarf (that matched my outfit so well) in 70 degree weather.

I have new notecards! The Jinkywink girls have the PRETTIEST '50s retro dinner party designs! And their own website, with even more goodies at more jinkywink.

Gen of Sewphisticate has the most wondrous hammered copper jewelry. I want it, and I could probably do it myself; but after seeing her work out on her anvil (she brought it for a little demo) with 6 gauge copper wire (really more like rebar!) I am going to let her make it for me. And her husband is going to bring his FORGE! Yes, I said, FORGE! to the next sale, to do demonstrations. Be still, my beating heart.

I lovelovelove what Danielle of GracefulBabies makes. Tutus! American Sign Language Initial Onesies! Pillowcase pinafores! Monkeypants with Banana pockets! I cannot wait for people small enough to wear them in my life. And it was so nice to have Danielle's personal babies around to keep us all amused.!

More FAB baby stuff at SugarPlumDelights. Oh, my goodness, the adorableness of the bibs! (It seems like a million years ago since I needed bibs for tiny people...I can't wait to need them again!) I Know I am not alone. Many friends told me they would so love to have a reason to purchase baby goodies...

I was completely captivated by Diana of Knotty Sheep, and her stuffed sheep and her "knottiness." How she can remember all those patterns! Watching her at work, doing something I can't even conceive. And they are soooo pretty...my Personal Fashion Consultant helped me to select a pair of earrings that will match everything earthtone I own. Love.

I am going to learn how to make glass beads! From the ICON, according to LeAnn. (Shy and retiring Leann exudes quiet wisdom in the lampwork world.) StudioMarcy! The woman who told me I can etch Czech glass. You don't know what that means to me...I can etch(?) Czech glass? I LOVELOVELOVE Czech glass and I can make something new and different out of what I already have? How much do I love this?

And, The Most Amusing Moment of the Day had to be when tsiphotography(y'all, she repairs old photos, and rehabs Uncle So-and-So's slides!) had a display of her pet portraits, a terrier on one side, and a calico cat on the other. My friend Cynthia's dog, Pete; who LOVES cats and comes to my house to hunt for them, was asked repeatedly - where is the Kitty? And he lunged at the appropriately feline figure in Sam's display every single time; much to the amusement of everyone involved. Gifted photographer, or brilliant Keeshond? You be the judge.

Carol Southerland, Orchid Documenter Extraodinaire, was also a part of the crowd. She is famous for botanical works showing in venues from the Botanical Gardens to the Varsity; and a true Atlanta Gem.

So the weather pretty much stunk.

But. We had a bake sale. We had cover; and we HAD EACH OTHER. We had fun!

ArtMart! May 3rd! 11 AM to 5 PM!!!

2008-04-30T18:13:00.000-07:00

Sketchworks Theatre
3041 North Decatur Road
Scottdale, GA 30079
(Scottdale is just a little suburb of Decatur. If you're in Atlanta you don't need to pack a lunch and drive a billboard-ridden highway to get there.)

We have been planning for months. We have made our rain arrangements. The grass will be mowed Friday. The Vendors are mostly Etsians, like me. (Etsy is another planet. About 4 light years from the moon. People there just make stuff all day long, and sell it. But we are happy, we Artsy Craftsy Types. No worries about gas prices or presidential candidate meltdowns. No Global Warming or Recycling Issues. We can make everything into something else on Planet Etsy, and we are happy.)

I would like to tell you about some of the May 3rd participants, because I am in awe.

Sewphisticate is one of my very first friends from Planet Etsy. I am enamored of her work because

a) she makes chainmaille keyrings, which impress 20-something sons and nephews who are often very difficult to shop for; and,

b)her husband has a FORGE. Can you imagine how much fun a FORGE could be???? I can.

Graceful Babies is coming from NY(!) to participate; gotta love piratewear and argyles for the wee ones.

LeAnn Christian and Studio Marcy can make glass do their bidding!! Lampwork is fascinating. Each little piece is its own little world. I want to do this. In the worst way...I want to take pieces of glass and FIRE and combine the two to create ART. I want to shriek "It's MELTING!" like the Wicked Witch of the West! I loved Wicked, didn't you? Oh, I'm sorry. Where was I?

Jinkywink has invitations, announcements and paper things to adore.

Sugarplumdelights, your source for finger puppets, burp cloths and tutus! Tutus! Who doesn't need a tutu? My dance group will be drooling. (Of course, some of us are prone to drool anyway...) We LOVE tutus.

Knotty Sheep makes jewelry using Chinese knotting techniques. I've been to China, but I didn't see such corded prettiness there.

Adripratt knits and crochets all manner of wearables and home goods, many from organic materials (soy yarn? who knew?)

And the drama of TSI Photography. Images to make you think! People, animals, nature; amazing.

Oh. The Kitties are poking my legs as I type. They want me to mention that I will have THEIR creations, their very own frillz art-to-wear, at the show, also. The Kitties, unfortunately, will not be able to join us because their rabies shots are not up-to-date. I told them over and over to take care of that little chore; but they kept claiming to be "too busy" (yeah, right. Chasing sunbeams and worrying my vintage crystal beads is "busy?" How about lying around in the laundry?) Upshot (ha, an unintended but clever pun!) being, they can't get an appointment for their shots until next week, so they have to miss the ArtMart.

Also, as a special added attraction, The Ladies of Dancin' Dynamics (yes, the ones who covet tutus...how "ladylike" is that, really?) are hosting a Bake Sale! We are proud to offer The Secret Recipe University Inn Granola, among other deliciousness.

And what brought this show on, you might ask? Or not, but I will tell you. It's one part Local Artist Showcase, one part Thank You to Sketchworks Theatre because Dancin' Dynamics just looooves our Sketchworks friends, and belonging to The Theatre Scene; and the rest is "Why not? Sounds like fun, and everyone benefits!"

Please come join us! Meet some incredible artists! You might even brush shoulders with Very Famous Actors. The Very Famous Actors might even consent to photo ops...for a small fee.

The Kitties Are Behaving!

2008-04-29T04:36:00.000-07:00

They are, in fact, using their flea spray. They are working out diligently on their scratching posts to keep their nails filed. They come when called, kill the scary bugs and let the lady bugs out the front door; they put their dishes away after dinner. I have seen no evidence of plagiarism in their recent writings. So, as I promised, I am going to let them repost some of their favorite entries from the archives. (Not, of course, the ones that caused that National Security Issue, and set off the whole Plagiarism Scandal. Those have been shredded. [I attached them to the scratching posts and had the Kitties do it themselves.] And, just to be safe, we shredded the monitor and hard drive, also. I think I will make the scrap into jewelry.)

Remember these? (Insert that dreamy harp music and some wavy lines to indicate a flashback, like on reruns of The Brady Bunch, here:)

Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Your Mom

Oh, the nuggets of wisdom we glean from our moms. Roll the curlers under, not up; where the salad fork goes; bourbon, honey and lemon for a cough (hmm...do I detect a little tickle in my throat?); the "secret" family recipe for macaroni and cheese; how to hang spoons on your face (well, maybe I should save that for another entry...); the list goes on and on.

And sometimes you're not quite sure what to do with your mother's wisdom.

Like the day your mom calls to tell you she thinks there is a "dead thing" in the basement.

"How do you know there's a 'dead thing' in the basement?", you ask.

"Well, it smells."

"OK, there's a 'dead thing' in the basement and it smells. Have you looked for it so you can remove it?"

" Yes, your father looked. He couldn't find it, so I looked. I couldn't find it. We looked together, but we still couldn't find it."

"Do you want me to come over to look?"

"No, you won't find it. We looked everywhere."

"Why don't you call on of those critter catchers to get rid of it?"

"Well, it doesn't smell as bad as it did yesterday. I think I'll just spray some FeBreeze down the vents."

Friday, March 14, 2008
Nothing Cures The Blues Like a Trip to the Dentist!

So, I broke a crown. On the most valuable tooth in my mouth, at that. This tooth bought my last dentist a Lexus. That man did everything to my molar except move it to the other side of my mouth. To my credit, when he made that suggestion, and I noticed the treads on his Lexus tires were looking a little ratty, I took my cash cow of a mouth elsewhere.

And landed squarely in the practice of...a standup comic. More fun than Tim Conway and Harvey Korman with Novocaine; no laughing gas necessary.

A call to the combination Dental Office/Comedy Club yielded (after a fair amount of rearranging our respective schedules) a "work-in" appointment. I would park in a chair and be attended to while other patients rinsed their mouths and paid their bills and watched infomercials about veneers.

A vignette:

The sweet Xray tech puts the film in my mouth, positions it just so, asks me if I'm pregnant (haha, and she's not even a comedienne), covers me with the 40 lb lead blanket, positions the camera just so on my cheek, tells me to be veryveryvery still, and steps back to push the Xray button just as

my dentist (from the next cubicle, where she's seeing a rather nervous teenage girl with cavities) starts telling me a story about how her son skipped school so she took his glasses away from him for a week and made him wear his sports goggles instead and he is now known as Steve Urkel.

When that happens to you and you are trying to be veryveryvery still and you have an Xray camera pressed up against your cheek and a big wad of plastic and film between your jaws and YOU DON'T DARE LAUGH; well, snot comes out your nose, and you move, and you have to take the picture again.

Three hours, forty jokes, one temporary crown, four wax impressions a couple thousand dollars, and an appointment for another crown in two weeks later, I walk out of the office into a gorgeous sunset. Life is good when you get to spend the afternoon with your dentist.

If she only served margaritas.

Why Buying Jeans is so Difficult

2008-04-27T08:53:00.000-07:00

I need a new pair of jeans. I have been watching Stacy and Clinton religiously (well, maybe that is a bit strong. Maybe "regularly" is better) to find out where the "waist" of our jeans is this season. It seems that rarely is the "waist" at one's waist. I'm pretty sure that the "waist" is never above one's waist, unless one lives in a modular home subdivision, which includes a hospital and a restaurant with Early Bird Specials, located in Florida or Arizona. But how far is the "waist" below the waist right now?

The problem is, I can't read Roman Numerals. I can watch an entire episode of Stacy and Clinton and copy down all "The Rules" and then sit all the way through the credits to find out if it is a "current" show or if it is recycled from 2003; and then the copyright date comes up and I can't see it because I don't have my glasses and I can't find them and finally realize that they are on my head. And I pull them down over my eyes and the screen will say, Copyright MMQRP or something to that effect. It will take me a minute to realize that those letters are supposed to be a date and I will wonder for the millionth time why regular people are taught to write our birthdate as November 12, 1955 and at the same time people who make credits for TV shows and movies persist in archiving them with letters. Didn't these people go to the same schools we did? Do they think that replacing numbers with letters is just more "artistic?" Like those teenagers who write in RaNsOm TyPe (I stole that phrase from a very clever Etsy artist, WinonaCookie and she deserves credit here for it) because it is "cute?" Doesn't that make it doubly hard for Historians, who have to take college classes in number-numbers AND letter-numbers just to pass their Historian exams? And don't even get me started on Europe. Those people don't know that the day of the month comes before the name of the month. Just think if you were European and wanted to be an Historian. You'd be so confused that someone could write the date in binary notation as a joke, and you'd worry that you missed a lecture in Historian class. That's probably why you don't hear about too many Historians from Europe.

I only bring this up because the "waist" of jeans has been so many places in such a short time. And heaven forbid if the "waist" is one inch below the belly-button when it's supposed to be two. Stacey and Clinton will call you out. (Of course, if your birthdate is remotely close to the [hypothetical] one above, no one REALLY should have any idea how far your bellybutton is from the "waist" of your jeans except a very select inner circle, and possibly the cat.) So it is extremely important to be able to read Roman Numerals so you can discern whether you are getting fresh fashion advice, or something that's been sitting in the hamper for a while.

It is also important to take ibuprofen before shopping for jeans. This, of course, is standard for everyone before trying on piles of unyielding denim with metal zippers that sometimes require lying on a floor covered with straight pins in a cramped dressing room, to zip them up. Knowing the whole time that once you buy them in a size that causes breathing to be painful they will let down their guard as soon as you get them home and will immediately be 2 sizes too large. (The corollary is also true. If you buy jeans that fit perfectly in the store they will suffer a fit of pique at being washed and shrink to fit your twelve-year-old daughter who wouldn't be caught dead in anything that rose so close to the belly button.) It is even MORE important to take ibuprofen if you are tall. Because the (two) pairs of "long" jeans in any given store - presumably stocked for those of us approaching or exceeding 6 feet in height - will be on the lowest possible shelf, requiring you to bend your knees to retrieve them; and even worse, straighten your knees to stand up again. (Again, I'm not saying anything bad about that [hypothetical] birthdate above; but "bend-and-stretch" might not be a favorite exercise of individuals in that particular ballpark.) And, really, who came up with the idea to keep those (two) pairs of jeans on the bottom shelf? The "short" jeans aren't on the top shelf, because then the staff would have to keep retrieving them for customers. Everyone knows there is no shame in asking for help to get something you're not tall enough to reach. But very few people will ask the staff to bend down to get something off the floor. So I conclude that it is a vast conspiracy to humiliate tall women "of a certain age" who can't bend easily. There are probably dozens of YouTube videos on this very topic, and they all have very high star ratings. Probably as high as those pole-dancing subway ladies, or that dog who dances to the song from "Grease" or the OKGo guys on the treadmill.

Now that I've given it some thought, maybe I don't need new jeans. I can just wear skirts. After all, they hang at eye level. No ibuprofen required. And I don't need to know Roman Numerals to buy the right ones.