Downer Hill Skiing

I recently visited the website of sillyswedishskier who sounded eerily like a younger version of me…I, too, like to peel things! And I am compelled to peek behind shower curtains at parties!

Except that she calls herself a skier. That’s where we part ways. Dramatically. In fact, just the word brings back traumatically suppressed memories….

Warning. This is long.

I’ve snow skied twice in my life. Once was in Nebraska, where I’m from, so it probably only counts as half. In Nebraska, you basically ski down into a giant hole. Since I didn’t have the slightest idea how to ski, I snapped on those contraptions and just went, thinking it would somehow come naturally. It didn’t. My legs were locked perfectly straight with fear, which makes you go really fast. I managed to stay upright due to the same force that kept my legs so rigid—sheer terror of falling. I had no idea how to stop, but the good thing about skiing into a big hole is that you automatically stop when you start to go up the other side.

So I had done that once in my early 20s and thought it was a good beginning.

Then in my late 20s, I moved to Denver for about three years. During that time I only skied once. It was enough. I went to Breckenridge with my friend Deb, who is also from Nebraska, but Deb had truly lost her ski virginity due to having skied on an actual mountain before. Whereas I had maybe only been felt up by one. Deb and I both got instructors, but hers was more advanced than mine.

In hindsight, I should have known that things were not going to go well when Deb got Jean-Claude as her instructor and I got Bob. (Note: These are actual, non-made-up names.)

Bob was proud of the fact that he could teach any beginner to ski. He kept telling me his statistic: “I’ve never been unsuccessful in teaching someone to ski!” I have to hand it to Bob, he stuck with me for a long time—even after he had to take away my poles because I narrowly missed impaling him—long, long after I begged him to stop. But even Bob eventually gave up and left me in a snow bank along with his former record and the shame of being the one person who had broken it.

The rest is sort of hazy because it was so traumatic that my brain actually blocked it out. I believe nuns were involved, or maybe that was my mind playing tricks on me, but I don’t think so, because my mind was too exhausted to actually make things worse. I do distinctly remember these smiley older women zipping past me, and when I would fall and flail about in the snow like a stranded June bug, they would stop long enough to help me up. That’s when I’m sure one of them told me that she and a few of the other sisters were on vacation from some convent in Iowa. But I also think she told me it was their first time skiing…and then she zipped off again. She was about 60.

The EVENT happened, I think, when I was getting off the lift. Or maybe trying to get on. The memory is gooey from the horror of it. I just remember not jumping at the correct time and getting stuck, and then getting tangled maybe, and somehow dropping like a lead weight. I do know that I landed on people. I also know that a little girl was one of the people I landed on, but I also know everyone assured me she was just fine and that there were no serious injuries! Really!—and I know for a fact no ambulances were called—but I also remember that it was scary for a while when they shut down the entire ski lift and had to untangle the big pile of people. Oh, the screams, the horror, the pandemonium.

Because of me.

So nuns were involved in the story, but not in the actual mayhem. I’m almost 100% sure they weren’t using the lift then because I don’t remember their smiley nun faces. Unless they were buried under the pile of human rubble. So at least 60% positive for sure.

But that’s really all I remember, other than searching for someplace that sold alcoholic beverages after that. I do know I never found a toasty ski lodge with a fireplace and cute guys in casts sipping hot buttered rum like you see on TV. I seem to remember a picnic bench, and beer. And I discovered that you can cry pretty effectively behind sunglasses as long as you wipe the tears when they escape from underneath and also if you are careful not to sob much.

What I remember most is vowing NEVER to ski again. My guess is the nuns prayed on it as well.

“In the foster home, my hair was my room.” ~Erin in “The Office”

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #3

E-pologetic
E-pologetic Guy asks you out by email. Okay, I get it, no one likes rejection. And frankly, it was great to discover after my divorce that courtship-by-email is much easier (for both parties) because you get time to think about the wording. So after I sent my “no, thank you, I’m not ready to date yet,” here came the email apologizing for not being clear. Did I think it was a date? He didn’t mean it as a date. It was just dinner! Because everyone has to eat, right? And he just thought I’d want to sit next to him at the same place and eat at the same time. So sorry; he certainly didn’t mean to offend! Excuse him for even suggesting such a thing! Really! Stupid me: I emailed back no problem. His response to that was so huffy that he practically came out and said it was a pity invitation, anyway, so there! ‘K, E-pologetic, I get it! You don’t like me! You really, truly don’t like me! Does this mean we can stop emailing now?

Next week: Episode #4, The Flaky Fake

Totally Random Tuesday-Magic Words

Asking a friend how they are (in that sincere way that means it and listens for the answer) is like offering magic words, because the question itself is a gift. Whenever someone sincerely asks me that, I want to say, "Thanks to your question, I am cared about."

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #2

Sporty Skimpster
“Sporty” is an older gentleman, and good for him for being in such great shape. The problem is that he wears shorts that are really short. No, I mean reeeeally short. As if that’s not bad enough, when Sporty climbs off his bike, the shorts remain in a seated position. You just know that at any moment, there’s going to be a spillage of junk in a catastrophe that rivals BP’s. It’s hard to talk face to face with Sporty because you’re just waiting for that avalanche to occur. Whoa—get back on that bike, Sporty! Wait, no, don’t do that, either! Sporty was, no doubt, a Speedo man 40 years ago. Or last week. There’s a male friend in my biking group who claims that older men should never wear spandex, either, but said friend also commented that my silver nail polish was the exact color of a Ford truck he used to own. Even though I later had trouble driving due to counting how many cars matched my fingertips (three), we won’t listen to him! Spandex is way better than the reeeeally short shorts because at least those macho man-girdles restrain the bits—perhaps a little too violently—to keep them from escaping into the great outdoors. Who cares if that shiny black pelvis-stocking would fit a Ken doll when he first took it off the hanger? Either way, to the Skimpster, sports are a chance to sport body parts that should be kept under wraps. And not Saran Wrap, either! Bigger wraps. Much bigger, roomier wraps.

Next week: Episode #3, E-pologetic.

Psst—Does This Make My Blog Look Substantial?

When I heard the news that I was going to be an official “Blogger of Note” (BON) at Words of Wisdom (WOW) today, I was flattered to think that anyone would consider anything I have to say to be substantial. WOW is right. BONs mots, moi??! For a while I was left positively typeless. Click the WOW link above or the typewriter link on the sidebar to get to this great place that helps “bloggers of substance” to find one another!

When you connect with a person through writing, you know you are the truest of kindred spirits. That’s what happened with the person who nominated me, Becky Povich. We first met through our writing, but Becky is one of those people whose warm, fun spirit shines though both in writing and in person. Now when we occasionally get together for a cup of coffee, we usually end up laughing so hard that coffee comes out our noses (well, okay, mostly mine). So thank you to Becky, who was a BON herself on Monday.

This blog has changed a lot since its inception, and it’s still changing. Life is like that, though, right? It was originally a way to help me connect with others who shared a particular set of difficult circumstances, but a funny thing happened. The more I launched my message that I will survive into the sea of blogdom, the easier it became to survive. We’re all, of course, surviving something. Sometimes we do it by being silly, and sometimes by being serious, and sometimes by just trying to figure it all out. That’s the art of being broken: as soon as we celebrate the brokenness, it ceases to be truly broken and becomes merely…art. Isn’t life wonderful?!

So now this blog is less about being broken and more about being silly and being serious and trying to figure it all out. It’s about the art, about writing. No, that’s not quite true…it’s about rewriting. It’s about taking a look at the poopy things in life and saying, I will rewrite this. Not rewrite it in a way that changes the truth or covers bad behavior, because that’s how evils are allowed to flourish in the first place. But rewrite it in a way that tries to find the art in it. Art that heals.

That’s the intent, anyway.

I’ve loved words as long as I can remember and have tried to embrace that love as long as I could grip a pencil. Even though my topics are all over the place, I’m trying to keep certain ones scheduled for certain days so that it’s easier to skip what doesn’t appeal to you. I hope you are, in some way, a kindred spirit.

Because it’s our link with one another that is the sea, the art, the hope, the healing, and the divine. Thank you for bothering to reach out, however briefly, and read my little message. Thank you for casting your own laughter and wisdom into the sea for me to find (and I cherish them!—just read the quotes). And thank you to Sandy and Pam for not only helping us to find one another, but for making my random, bobbing “bloggle”…oooh!...could it be??!! More substantial.

-Tammy (wish I knew how to do those cool signatures! I’m shamefully tech-challenged. So just imagine one, ‘k?)

WOW is a place for bloggers who enjoy reading and writing great content to find each other. ~Sandy and Pam, Words of Wisdom

Totally Random Tuesday-Rose

A rose by any other name will smell as sweet, sure. But if you give a rose a name like, say, “smick,” and you have a celebrity go on TV and say smicks are passé and tacky, and then you sell long stemmed smicks for 5 cents at the discount store, I guarantee you that sophisticated people will sneer at the ones who exclaim, “Yippee, cheap smicks!”

And AFTER Them, Too

When I married, I wore white pearls. And when I divorced, I purchased a strand of black ones.

It was the only time I’ve ever bought myself better jewelry. It was an impulse. They were the perfect divorce gift. Although not usually a jewelry person, I love them and all that they celebrate.

There is nothing proper or pristine about them. They are neither trite…nor polite. They don’t stand at picket-fence-perfect attention or march virtuously across my skin. No Pearls of Innocence, these.

To me, they are smoky, exotic. They are sultry sunset-lustered and night-nacred. They are city lights in the rain. They are oil slicks on blacktop after a race. They are a Caribbean adventure. They are the sea just before sunrise. They are the anti-June Cleavers.

And they represent a promise to myself, my black pearls, that I will take me for better or for worse, that I will honor me all the days of my life. And that I will stay true to myself, always.

The simplest things are often the truest.~Richard Bach

Senior Sex(less) and the City-Episode #1

Welcome to my very first post in which I will showcase the various hot senior single men out there! Here we go…DRUM ROLL!...I will start off with this one that I’ll call:


Cool Dude

I’m not sure if he was trying to convey the image of international playboy or trying to get in touch with his imaginary inner black man. He went on and on…and on…about his various trips around the world. I couldn’t tell you about those, though, because my mind kept wandering to his ear. This overly white, 50-something man was sporting gangsta bling in one ear. Only on him it looked a little like he was affixing pieces of Great Aunt Esther’s mourning brooch to random body parts. He was probably a strawberry blonde back when he had a full head of hair. Now the places where the hair had vacated were getting sunburned to a disturbing shade of pink. Note to pink, fleshy men in your 40s and beyond: Nix the earring. Really. You do not look like a rapper dude. You look like a large, sweaty Muppet who’s maybe considering transvestitism but just isn’t willing to fully commit.

Next week: Episode #2, Sporty Skimpster.

Midsummer Night’s Magic

 Here in Missouri there is usually about a week around this time when the lilies and jasmines and phlox and alyssum all bloom at once (with a few other things thrown in), and the summer breeze waves like a gentle baton that orchestrates their various perfumes.

And then there are those magical few moments during summer twilights when the various scents of day and night briefly mingle just as the lightning bugs start to glow and the cicada rhythm pulses and the sky turns a rainbow of sunset-colors. When that time of year and that time of day happen to collide, there is a summer concert of senses so magical that life itself takes on an almost transcendent quality. I think these must be the midsummer’s eve moments of lore, as rare and fleeting and exquisite and uncapturable as fairies. All you can do is sit outside on a glider at twilight and just…breathe, trying to become one with it.

All things are our relatives; what we do to everything, we do to ourselves. All is really One. ~Black Elk, Lakota religious leader

Totally Random Tuesday-Talk

Not only is talk cheap, but insincerity is a theft.

Senior Sex(less) and the City-Intro and Disclaimer

It’s coming, so prepare yourself. It’s—are you ready?—Senior Sex(less) and the City! Can you even imagine anything more exciting than reading about an older woman’s sadly sexless escapades as a single woman about town?!? I know! So hang onto those red hats, ladies, because I am about to put the KABOOM in boomer!!! That’s right—prepare to fan yourself with all that mail that the A.A.R.P. keeps sending me (and believe me, I have plenty to go around because they seem to be confused about my age—silly them!), because…wait, what was I saying? I lost my train of thought again. Oh, yes—it’s about to get HOT in here!

Or maybe that’s just a hot flash?

But first, a serious word. I’m sorry if it’s snarky of me to poke fun a bit. YES, I am aware that there is plenty to make fun of about me. And I have! And fear not, I will continue to do so. So I figure I’m covered there. Time to spread the joy around a bit!

Also. We’ve all heard the saying that there are “no good fish in the sea.” True, at my age that sea has shrunk to a very small dating pool. A wading pool, really, like the ones you had when your children were toddlers? That hold about 3” of warm, greenish water with some leaves and dead June bugs floating around, that the dog thinks is a big water bowl? That one. BUT as simple as Suess, there will always be good fish and bad fish—just fewer of them. So I certainly don’t mean to imply there are no good ones out there! And at some point I may just give those a nod.

But let’s face it, they’re just not as much fun to write about. And who wants to hear about normal?? So every Friday in the coming weeks (or maybe Saturday), I plan to showcase the various older single men I have met. There will be no quotes.

All righty then…enough for today! You have been forewarned!

Coming next week: Episode #1, Cool Dude.

Totally Random Tuesday-Writing

Writing, to me, is cheating. It’s like having a therapist you hope will pay you.

And Speaking of Signs

I have a teen and a young adult at home. We keep this dry erase board on the refrigerator to let each other know where we are, when we’ll be home, etc. My son and his friends think it’s funny. Wise guys.

At least no one said, “Went to the bathroom.”

Do Not Lock This Door! See Smaller Sign Below!

                   This Door Is To Be Kept Unlocked At All Times

                                    
~Sign seen hanging on a door at a local high school

Beware Ye Who Ignore the Sanctity of the Sign

This is my No Soliciting sign. You tell me:  Is there anything unclear about it?  Because I find it’s one of the sad ironies of life that Boy and Girl Scouts are the only salespeople on earth who seem to know the definition of soliciting. And of course they are the only groups for whom the sign is not intended.

I think I nearly have my technique down for those who ignore it. I look for my beloved sign and ask, “Did my sign fall down?” It’s always there, of course, so I point to it. “No!” I say, “There it is!” Then I quietly shut the door.

Because it shocks me how many people ignore the sign. I know people need to make a living and all, but it is generally accepted that we don’t disrespect others to do it.  And I figure my sign pretty much warns them that I am not going to be terribly receptive to whatever it is they want me to do.

According to Dictionary.com, a definition of soliciting is: “To seek to obtain by persuasion, entreaty, or formal application.” I looked it up, because one guy tried to tell me that soliciting only referred to sales, and he just wanted to ask me to change my religion. Or sometimes they just want to ask me a question, which turns out to be do I want to buy their product or service. Once someone told me his sales pitch was a “customer service update.”   Here’s news, Mr. door-to-door Customer Service Updater: poop, by any other name, still stinks.

Then today, a guy who was apparently working for a politician came to my door at the wrong time. I had my headset on to make a phone call as soon as a fax had gone through, which I was hoping to get accomplished before leaving for an appointment that I was trying not to be late for.

He told me he needed to get so many names of people who believed in non-violence. Was I non-violent?

I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic. Really. It just came out. I pointed to the sign, then my phone, and earnestly exclaimed, “No, I am extremely violent.”

He ran. Actually ran! Well, to be technical about it, he stumbled backwards a few paces first.

No Motorcycles

No Chicken Suits

No Exceptions

~Sign from TV show, “My Name is Earl”

Totally Random Tuesday-Charm

I’ve learned the hard way that Charm has an evil twin…called Manipulation.

Summer’s Submerged Treasure

When I was a kid, my friends and I spent every summer up at the neighborhood pool. We’d get up in the morning, swim till we went home for lunch, and then go back. I can remember being so sore-eyed and sunburned and freckled and worn out that I’d go home and fall asleep in the afternoons on top of my bedspread and a tangle of wet, chlorine-bleached hair.

Now my kids are involved with our subdivision’s swim team. When we first got started, my then four-year-old struggled down his lane looking more like he was drowning than swimming. I had to fight the urge to jump in and save him with each bob of his little head.

He grew up to be a lifeguard as a teenager and now runs that same swim team as head coach.

A few years later my daughter decided she wanted to be on the team because her big brother was. You had to be able to swim the length of the pool in order to join. So with her characteristic, iron-willed determination crammed into a preschool body, she plunged in and swam the fastest, funniest little dog paddle I’ve ever seen. Now also a teenaged lifeguard, she seems to slip through the pool with the long-legged ease of a water nymph.

Swim meets last a long, long time. So long that my survival depended on learning to love it all—from the bullhorn to the banners to the warm, heavy honeysuckle musk of sultry summer night air.

But here’s my little secret: it’s the properties of pool water that I really love. It’s weird, I know, but I am mesmerized by the shifting shimmers of color, the shivers of light, the sparkle of a silver splash. I was horrible as a stroke judge. Everything was okay in the beginning of those Monday night meets when I could remain transfixed by the fluidity of movement. But as the sky darkened, I had to fight the hypnotic draw of the movement of fluid instead.

Because the most exotic magic happens at night when the sky turns to cobalt and the pool lights up in that molten-turquoise glow with streams of golden bubbles. Oh, those bubbles! Silver in the day but gold at night—there and then gone, a precious treasure, alchemy of air, champagne of summer nights.

Art, aching to be born, will find a way! ~Karen Greene

Totally Random Tuesday: Marriage

Marriages are about discovering each other by being ourselves. Friendships are about discovering ourselves by being with each other. Amazing how different those two are. That would explain why friendships seem to last longer than some marriages, too—we are infinitely more interesting to ourselves than to anyone else.

The REAL Real Fathers

I was helping in a high school math teacher’s classroom when one of her troubled students stomped out, so frustrated that neither of us could reach him and so angry that I was a little afraid of what he might do. Later I passed him standing with an elderly custodian who was leaning thoughtfully on his broom. I caught a snippet of their conversation as I passed. “Remember,” the custodian was gently coaxing, “how we talked about taking deep breaths and counting when you’re angry….” And the boy, taller than his elder by at least a foot, was nodding, calm now.

I smiled. Thank heavens for father figures. At one time I thought men were the gentler gender, the nurturers. Now I realize how very lucky I was to have taken good men for granted. And they are becoming even more rare. There are women who abandon their children, certainly, but the families without fathers are everywhere, it seems—my home included.

Adults who remove themselves from their responsibility to others are not only impossible to respect, but in a sense they remove themselves from true meaning in life. In the grandest of schemes, deadbeat parents essentially render themselves nothing more than life’s chaff. The most crucial and elemental priority in parenting is loving the children enough to be there. To abandon a child of any age for purely selfish reasons is one of the most abhorrent of all evils.

Child support payments alone, even when paid on time and in the correct amount, are mere attempts to buy off responsibility. Cheap attempts. Trust me: the percentage that goes for child support—at least in Missouri—doesn’t pay for a fraction of the true costs to rear a child. And that’s only the financial costs. To say that money is all it takes to rear a child is ignorance bordering on imbecility. If that were all it took, we could lock children in a room, shove money under the door, and—voila!—the quality of the adult who emerged would depend solely on the size of the money pile.

And then we hear about the vicious: the ones who imitate kindness in order to abuse.

It’s a shame that the deadbeats and perverts seem to eclipse the genuine men, the men who are willing to help guide the young. And they do exist, of course. They are teachers, coaches, stepfathers, members of the clergy, maybe, sometimes a nice neighbor. Or a school custodian. They are fathers to children who are not their own. They are the kind of men who know that only brutes conquer and cowards control. Real men stand up and lead.

This is because real men have more than muscle: they have minds and hearts and souls as well. These are the kind of men who put a paternal arm around the shoulders of our youth because these men possess the inner strength that matters most in life and the wisdom to know how important it is to pass along. They are strong enough human beings to stand up and take responsibility for what lesser men have deserted. Their gift to young people is their gift to the world. And it is huge.

These are the true unsung heroes of life. Yes, they do save lives. And they save the quality of so many more. As long as these men exist, fatherless boys will glean a real man’s character and enjoy the self respect that comes from being one. Fatherless girls will seek respectable men and enjoy the mutuality that comes from loving one. Because of these men, how many lives are improved? These pieces of Self given conscientiously enough will never die, but grow exponentially. On this path, immortality is a given. These men are fathers in the very best sense.

On this Father’s Day, don’t forget to thank a man who gives his time to young people—a father figure. If they are not his children, thank him all the more. Thank the man who is big enough to see outside of himself. Thank him for being one of the many who strives to do a father’s job when a “real” father won’t.

I believe you have a responsibility to comport yourself in a manner that gives an example to others. As a young man, I prayed for success. Now I pray just to be worthy of it. ~Brendan Fraser

The Horror of Haunted Appliances

My TV set is haunted. It’s not that I’m not used to haunted machinery; it’s just that some hauntings are more annoying than others.

In high school, for example, I had an old fashioned, windable alarm clock that used to jump off the night stand. For the longest time I thought I was knocking it off in my sleep because I’d find it on the floor every morning. Until one time I woke up in the middle of the night and watched it jump. I guess a spring was going haywire in there or something, but it was a creepy thing to watch. Like it was committing a nocturnal suicide of sorts.

Now I have haunted stuff that I find sort of endearing, like my printer that clicks and hums at odd times, as if it gets bored with sitting quietly for too long and needs to remind me that it’s there and waiting.

But the haunted TV is too much. It’s not just that it turns itself off on its own. It’s the timing. It has a talent for sensing the absolute climax of a story.

Like on those home shows, just as the people open their eyes to look at their newly remodelled room, and they let out a gasp and the camera just starts to pan so we can finally see the “after” look, and— *PLINK*

So I fumble madly for the remote. If you press buttons enough, sometimes it comes back on. But by the time I get it back on again, all that’s left is a commercial.

Or on mysteries: “Holmes, I must tell you that I believe the killer to be….” *PLINK*

“….Honey, I never told you this, but your REAL father is….” *PLINK*

“….And this season’s winner IS….” *PLINK*

Then the other day, just as the Cute Guy was beginning to emerge from the bathroom clad only in a towel…you guessed it. *PLINK* Like automatic censorship. Or torture.

That does it. I’m all for an appliance with a sense of humor, but that was just mean. No wonder my TV was so cheap. I thought I was getting plasma. Instead I got…ectoplasma!

Overheard at a funeral: “If she could see how badly they did her makeup, she would die all over again.”

Totally Random Tuesday-Games

I think you can tell a lot about a person from the way they play board games. For example, I knew a man who used to cheat—but only if he was playing against family members or little kids. The smaller the child or the closer the family member, the more likely he was to cheat because it was easy to get away with and he wasn’t as worried about securing their approval.

We live in such a competitive society that winning is everything to some people. I’ve watched reality shows where the contestants really don’t seem to care about the prize; they only seem to want that validation of winning.  

It seems to me that the person who really won the game is the one who got the most out of playing it!

Stand

 I was in another teacher’s class at a local high school during the weekly pledge of allegiance and national anthem. It is only said on Mondays at our district now. My attention was drawn to counting. Out of 20 students in the classroom, only four stood. Four. One fifth.

I looked around at their faces and postures. It was clear that it wasn’t their religions that kept them seated. Didn’t appear to be defiance, either. It was apathy. They just didn’t care.

A few short years ago, when our country was attacked, flags flew everywhere. These children wouldn’t remember, but still—what fickle people we are. Does this mean that our country is only great when we are victims?

I deeply admire the one-fifth who stood. It isn’t easy being the non-conformist, least of all when you’re a teenager.

My district has its own high school for children who couldn’t make it in other schools. Last time I was there on pledge of allegiance day, I looked around at the slouching. What gets me is that a lot of these kids join the military. I told them that. I asked them how they’d feel knowing that people back home weren’t even willing to stand for the flag they were risking their lives for. One boy said, “Hey, that’s right. I’m going into the army.” And he stood. Then another stood, and another. And they all stood. All of them.

I felt a surge of pride. Mistakes? Sure. But the beauty is that we’re here because of mistakes that happened before we got here; we’re set up to learn from them. Give us your huddled masses…and we will give them a chance. In all things human, apathy is one of the greatest enemies. And respect is the key to success.

Today I will stand up for our flag. Even if I stand alone, it’s nothing compared to what others have done for me so that I might have the privilege of living beneath it. Happy Flag Day.

The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.” ~Albert Einstein

Yook at de Widdum Bee Bee Bun Bun!

My daughter is a composed, serious-minded girl. And yet, when we see one of the bunnies feasting on the (many) weeds surrounding our patio, both of us let out ear-splitting squeals of delight. I wonder what it is about a baby bunny that makes our voices rise in pitch and compels us to talk baby talk? I never spoke baby talk to my children. In any other situation, it sort of makes my skin crawl. And yet, here I am speaking the most disgusting baby talk ever.

But him is so coot!!! Barely bigger than a hamster, he would just fit into the cup of our hands. And odd that we both have the most curious urge to fit him into our hands—to scoop him up and feel his soft fur. I guess it’s some sort of natural adaptation that gives him a chance to grow into a big, mean bunny who can join the bunny gangs in our yard and spend his days tormenting our dog.

This baby bunny is smart, though. He runs when he sees us. If he knew we only wanted to pet him rather than eat him, would he run?

My guess is he’d run faster. From the baby talk.

“Tell me—like you done before….About the rabbits….Please, George.” ~Lennie in Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck

Totally Random Tuesday-Summer

Winter twilight promises only that the day is over. Summer twilight promises that the night is about to begin.







This picture may not have been taken at twilight, but it is a random picture of brugmansia 'Ecuador Pink' which also happens to release its haunting summer fragrance at night.

A Head Held High

I’ve had several friends who’ve had breast cancer. So I can’t help but wonder how I’d handle the hair loss issue if my turn came.

One friend has Facebook contests modeling different wigs. Some are pretty outrageous. People vote on which one she will wear for the week. So far no one has voted on the hot pink one, but if they ever do, no question she will wear it.

I’ve always thought I would like to go au naturelle. Why hide? It seems ridiculous in ways to wear fake hair. The thing is, though, I would never have the guts. Not to mention how horrible I’d look bald. Shoot, I often don’t like how I look with hair.

Then the other day, for the first time in my life, I saw someone do it. I was walking through the hall at school, and a spunky home ec teacher was practically bouncing along, making eye contact with everyone, absolutely daring them to admire her beautifully bald head. Her message was clear: I have cancer and I AM NOT GOING TO HIDE.

I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself and tell her how I felt, so I gave her my biggest grin that I hope conveyed every ounce of the admiration I feel. And what’s more, she does look beautiful. Truly. If I told her that, would she believe me? I believe she would. More than beautiful, she looks like an amazing woman who isn’t afraid of a fight.

Go, girl. Win. We are cheering for you.

Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear. ~Ambrose Redmoon

Totally Random Tuesday for the Birds

                        
                                Do hummingbirds get diabetes?

Part II - Definitely Doable

 I am pairing the Hot Guy Diet with my Shoe Workout. Much like the doable diets, this is one of the many ways I’ve contrived to work out without actually working out, like the time I decided I would lose weight if I just did everything faster (you have to admit, it makes sense).

With the Shoe Workout, you buy special shoes. There was a time I spent money on shoes that were NOT good for my feet or comfortable. Imagine! But now, shoes must either be extremely comfortable or promise to change my life for the better for me to spend much money on them. Supposedly wearing these is like a trip to the gym. And I can do that! I can wear shoes!

In fact, I am wearing them right now as I sit at my computer. Therefore I must be working out. With Brendan.

Whew. This is so much work, I may have to load up on carbs. Like from a croissant. If I open a program, Brendan won’t see.

And many enthusiastic thanks to Fran, who promptly responded with her own dietary motivator, pictured above. Good one, Fran. And to think I was going to post a picture of shoes.

“Yep. Bobby’s gonna be wearin’ sweatpants for the right reasons.” ~Hank Hill, “King of the Hill.”

The Hot Guy Diet (Part I)

We are trying to go healthier at my house.  At some point, the cookie jar morphed into the Healthier Snack Jar.  And I keep inventing diets that are so much fun I want to stick to them.  I call them doable diets.  Problem is, the doable diets don’t always…do much.

My current one is the Hot Guy Diet, or in my case, the WWBT (What Would Brendan Think) Diet. I have actually had some success with this one before. Since I do most of my eating at the computer, I have a picture of Brendan Fraser on my desktop as my wallpaper, and he is just so darned cute, I really can’t eat in front of him. [I’ve heard Brendan Fraser is lusted after by librarians and English teachers everywhere. I can’t explain it. I do know I once subbed for an English teacher who kept an autographed poster of him in her classroom. If I were a little less honest, she would no longer have it. If I were a little more smart, I would have taken a quick trip to the copy room.]

Just today, I was operating the mouse with one hand while holding a cup of coffee in the other while a glob of chicken-salad-filled croissant oozed from my mouth. When I shut down the program I was working on, there sat Brendan looking all ripply-muscled and philosophical at the same time. Horrors! He didn’t quite look disapproving, but he didn’t look enchanted, either. That croissant was out of there. He even improved my posture a bit. In fact, I fixed my hair a little, too. WWBT?

Part Two to be continued….

They had a hard time miking me in my loin cloth. I mean, where were they gonna tape it? ~Brendan Fraser discussing “George of the Jungle”

Totally Random Tuesday: Strength

I asked God for strength, and I got challenges to overcome.

So I asked for weakness. Really. I was exhausted. I thought I’d somehow trick God into giving me a break. What I got instead was indecision and the painful turmoil that comes from it.

These days I’ve pretty much quit asking God for stuff. If I ask for anything, it’s to be worthy of all I do have. The more thankful I am, the more I find I have to be thankful for.

Ode to a Zit

I can think of lots of good things about aging. Really, I can. Like, there’s a certain power in calling young men “Young Man.” Those are magic words, I’ve found, like a password into the netherworld between Momdom and Scary-older-woman-land. I find they usually look a little bit terrified of me and do exactly as I say.

But anyway, one of the best things about aging is no longer breaking out. Unless you’re me, of course! If you’re me, you get a zit erupting on your chin which is so huge, if the world floods, Noah will at least have a place to land the ark, ar ar.

But want to know what the final cruelty is about having a zit when you’re old and wrinkled? It doesn’t look like a zit. It looks more like a wart, or maybe one of those mysterious facial things that old people seem to get sometimes. Just…a facial protuberance.

Years ago, my sister accidentally jabbed herself with cuticle scissors. The resulting scab looked enough like a picked pimple that she felt compelled to explain to people that it WASN’T A ZIT. REALLY.

Now I’m debating whether I should tell people that IT’S JUST A ZIT. REALLY.

Aging really does change one’s priorities, doesn’t it?

Acquaintance about finding me an older boyfriend: “Don’t worry—we’ll find you someone who’s extinguished.”

Totally Random Tuesday at School

Somebody called me the other day at 8:30 AM and apologized for the early hour. I had to laugh. I was at work and starting second hour. In School World, 8:30 is practically lunch.

When Bunnies Go Bad

It started when Buddy barked at falling leaves. The snowman made his hackles rise. Then a distant rock made him very upset. The vet confirmed that it’s true: Buddy has cataracts.

Now the furry woodland creatures taunt him. The bunny family moved in under the deck and grew fat, then obese. They didn’t used to come near us. Now they lounge around all day as if in their own private resort, eating hosta salads. Going inside our backyard fence used to mean they were entering the realm of a predator; now it means protection from them.

When I let Buddy out, I exclaim, “Run, bunnies! Here comes the dog!” But they ignore me. Why would they care? Even if he manages to spot them, they know they can outrun him. They also know they rarely need to: they just hop a foot or two away and he will lose them again.  You can practically hear their little bunny snickers.

I used to like furry little bun-buns. Now I think of them as sullen and defiant. These are gangs. Bunny gangs. They even let me take their pictures.

I’m wondering if I should be insulted.

Spoken by high school boy (with a mohawk) to his friend: “Dude! I can’t go to the library. Those library ladies scare me. They’re like, ‘When are you going to bring that book back?’ and I’m like, ‘Never.’”

Totally Random Tuesday, but with a Random Picture of Backyard Goldfinches That I Took This Morning Through My Window That Needs Cleaning

If you love something, set it free. And work on those control issues while you’re at it; love isn’t about imprisonment. With all due respect to Richard Bach (or whoever originally said it), if it comes back to you, it still isn’t yours. The only thing we truly own is our choices.

Lilac Time

One of the most magical times of the year for me is when the lilacs bloom and I get to open all the windows and let that exquisitely fresh spring air in. Now is that time. There’s something sacred about it, and even more so when lilac time coincides with Mother’s Day.

I remember handing my mother a fistful of dandelions for Mother's Day when I was really little. I hadn’t yet learned to pick the stems, so they were just the heads. They were crumpled and warm from being smashed in my pocket, but my mother exclaimed over how beautiful they were and carefully floated the whole brownish mess in a jelly jar.

But when I got older, my friends and I would wander the neighborhood looking for flowers to pick for our moms for Mother’s Day. We weren’t supposed to pick them from people’s gardens, but anything growing on a tree or shrub—especially if it happened to overhang a sidewalk or an alley—was a freebie, at least in Kid World. So finding lilacs was like finding treasure.

And they’re still a treasure. There’s something about a vase full of frothy lilacs that would make my heart swoon even if they didn’t make the house smell like heaven.

Happy Mother’s Day to my friends, who, treasures that you are, manage to find ways to let your creative brilliance out even after putting your families’ needs first. May this day be about treasuring you.

Because of our mother we missed out on lots of
things other kids experienced. None of us have ever
been caught shoplifting, vandalizing other’s
property or ever arrested for any crime. It was all her fault. ~Anonymous, from email forward titled “Mean Moms”

Light at the End of a Long Day

Had a very tiring day yesterday thanks to a middle of the night emergency potty break for the dog, plus the lawnmower had pooped out part of the way through mowing Thursday, leaving my daughter upset (she's the resident mower right now) and our front lawn with a reverse putting green smack dab in the middle.

But when I got home from running after-school errands yesterday evening, the dog was better, the lawnmower had recuperated enough to get that oval of very long grass, and…surprise!...several people had emailed me that I’m “Featured Writer” on Tiny Lights!

What a nice thing to come home to!

And how appropriate that the publication uses light as a central theme. Some people have what I call a “writing aura,” and Susan Bono, Editor-in-Chief of this wonderful publication, has one of the strongest. She’s one of those people whose words seem to have a glow about them, so that you just love her after reading one or two sentences. I have no idea how they do it, either.

Becky Povich, one of their columnists, has a writing aura, too. She was the first one to tell me about this lovely publication. Thanks, Becky!

This has nothing to do with the above, but it’s a little exchange I overheard today between two middle school boys, whom I later heard had recently watched an all-school presentation on bullying:
Sixth Grader #1: “You suck:”
Sixth Grader #2: “That comment was toxic. I feel violated.”

Totally Random Tuesday-Love

I used to think that, in order to be loved, I had to be all things to all people all the time.

Now I’m convinced that in the end we are loved not for who we are or what we do— or even for how much we love back. In the end we are loved simply by virtue of the generosity of the hearts that surround us.

So my true friends and loved ones are getting better as I age. If experience is a sieve, what’s left is the gold.

Happy May Day

While taking a break from spreading mulch (a job I dread every year), I realized IT’S MAY DAY!!! I grew up in an old, very Catholic neighborhood in Omaha, where the children traditionally celebrated May Day by exchanging May baskets. It wasn’t until I was grown that I found out other parts of the country didn’t seem to have this charming tradition. Seems to me I read somewhere that it’s Lithuanian in origin.

One of my friends’ moms was a decorator, so her wallpaper scraps were wonderful. You shape them into little cones (or rectangles with sides), glue or staple, and fill them with candy, little bags of popcorn, and flowers...I seem to remember lots of limp violets and dandelions. Add a long handle, hang them on your friends’ front doors, ring the doorbell and hide.

I don’t have a picture, so here’s one of the wisteria brachybotrys in my garden. I love this time of year.

I think taking a coffee break now would add to my stress.......boy, that really sounds silly, but only women would understand that. ~ Becky Povich

Not Speaking of Randomness

This year I have…ahem…a significant birthday coming up. And I believe in looong celebrations. So in honor of the fact that I’ve amassed lots and lots of random junk in my significant amount of years, I’ve decided to start a new feature I’m going to call Totally Random Tuesday, where I plan to pretty much spew out something I’ve noticed that has absolutely nothing to do with anything in particular. Only I’m starting on a Wednesday because...okay, I changed my mind about the days. There will be no quote on Totally Random Tuesday. So here’s today’s.

I’m learning that speaking well isn’t necessarily the sign of a great mind. There will always be those who are easily fooled by, and therefore fuel, those who speak well but say nothing. It’s listening well that’s almost always a sign of greatness.

Buddy the Talking Dog

I used to call our last dog, Griswold, our “talking dog” because of the way he had of making sure I paid attention to exactly what he wanted. If he wanted a walk, for example, he’d get his leash and put it in my lap. And then he’d bark at me until I obeyed. You could tell he thought I was a little stupid, but he was just so good at training his human that he did eventually get me to understand a respectable number of commands.

But Buddy has never talked. Until lately. Or maybe Griswold was right and it’s just that I didn’t understand his particular vocabulary until lately. Anyway, I give “Budward” a dog biscuit every night at 8:00. But he often either forgets that I’ve given it to him or pretends that I’ve forgotten. So I’ve taken to making a big deal of it, making sure he gets that THIS IS IT. Then the other day, as we were going through this ritual, one of the kids passed and mentioned that Buddy says “yes.” And I realized that he does.

So here I go. This is the first time I’ve tried posting my own video footage, let alone adding a title, and I didn't have Griswold to tell me how to do it.

If I could sit across the porch from God, I’d thank Him for lending you to me. ~Flavia

The Big One-Four

Today is Buddy’s 14th birthday. Or at least the day we pretend is his birthday since he was a shelter dog.  It was probably really a few weeks ago, but we liked the date.  And to think I almost didn't get him because of health concerns!  He was missing so much fur that the vet thought it might be mange.  It was a flea allergy and an untreated case of worms.  Hooray for hybrid hardiness. 

I feel so lucky not only to have had our beloved “Budster” so many years, but to have him still in such great shape. And what’s more, he’s inspired lots of writing. Thank heavens Chicken Soup moved their deadline for My Dog's Life to May 31st.  I’ve submitted two stories so far and have two more I’m working on.

We celebrated by giving one of his toys a squeaker transplant (since he positively doesn’t need more toys) and by giving him some PETCO cookies.  Which he promptly barfed up on the dining room carpet because it's not his senior formula dog food.  Sigh.

The older the fiddler, the sweeter the tune. ~Pope Paul VI

A Real Pain in the Toe

Another good thing about blindness is that I can't see my daughter's wounded toe so much unless she waves it under my face. Last week in a theatre incident involving a set piece, her toenail was broken clean off. Only it wasn’t so clean. The nurse wasn’t on duty since it was an after school activity, so her friend had wrapped the bloody mess in something that looked like tissues and tape. And then she had hobbled around like that for several hours. Urk…eww…. 

And all this just as I was settling down to watch “The Office.”  I am not at all good with wounds, either, but thank heavens for those urgent care places. Has anyone out there lost a nail—ALL of it—and can give her some words of encouragement? She read on the internet that it won’t grow back right. And they told her it would be at least six months.

I’ve had sympathetic toe pain all week. It’s going to be a long six months.

“Despair seems to afflict only those whose relation to life is a serious and potentially responsible one.”  From “Mockingbird Years” by Emily Fox Gordon

Fun With Infirmities

Today I've been trying to get various household tasks done, and I actually discovered a few I had completed and forgotten about. Surprise! For me this is the bright side to my dulling memory. It’s like a gift, finding out you’ve completed work that you don’t remember, like having those little phantom elves who cobble shoes for you at night like in the fairy tale.  Only these are the Bad Memory Elves.

And then there was the time I was watching the news, and these women were holding up a sign that said, “NEW BRA.” I thought, shoot, if you have to make a sign about it, isn’t it time to shop a little more often? And then I squinted and realized the sign said, “NEW ERA.”

Oh. Oopsy-daisy.


Spoken by my former mother-in-law: “Ho hum…I need to go to bed. I feel like I’ve taken an aphrodesiac.”

Dueling Peeps and Other Fun Easter Festivities

Back By Unpopular Demand! 10 Things for Losers to Do on Easter:

1. Try dying scrambled eggs instead. Practice making puking noises as you eat.
2. Put marshmallow bunnies in the microwave facing each other with little toothpick swords. Turn on the microwave and watch them blow up and stab each other. (See illustration. Thank you for the suggestion, Nina.)

3. Make an ecologically friendly basket by recycling old margarine tubs. Use dryer lint for grass or better yet, go green by using real grass (and just pick out the ants and wood ticks). Substitute lima beans for jelly ones. I find that dried work better than canned.

4. For an extra special treat, hide the basket a year early so you really don’t remember where you put it.

5. As a creative and festive surprise for children, experiment with hiding other boiled proteins, such as crab legs.

6. All that candy spells u-n-h-e-a-l-t-h-y. Try filling baskets with less sugary substitutions for jelly beans, such as fish oil and flaxseed capsules.

7. On a budget? Instead of wasting eggs, experiment with dying other items in your refrigerator, like bologna.

8. For an amusingly ironic twist, fill children’s baskets with rabbits’ feet. For a REALLY amusing twist, add a sign that says, “Good luck, from the Easter BAHHHHHH!!!” Then sing, “Here comes Peter Cotton Tail, hobblin’ down the bunny trail….”

9. Crash a little kids’ Easter egg hunt, shout “Gotcha, you sum’ bitch!” and club the egg thoroughly with a baseball bat. Hold up the remains and ask someone to take your picture.

10. Mount half an eggshell on a trophy plaque and hang it over your fireplace. Next time someone comes to your door to tell you about their religion, invite them in and keep interrupting with, “Want to see what I bagged on my last hunt?”

Don't judge people by their relatives. ~Unknown

Of Rolls and Roles

Last Christmas, I baked a thing called “Pumpkin Cake Roll” that I found on this lovely-sounding young woman’s blog: At Home with Rachel.  As I’ve mentioned before, I am not much of a cook. I’ve never made anything like this before…but it turned out to be both beautiful and delicious. (Pictured at left with the teacup given to me by my friend Fran and the tea given to me by my friend Becky…and with the cryptocereus anthonyanus given to me by my friend Nancy in the background.)

As I was making it, I was thinking about the people who think to make…and share…such beauty. Which led me to thinking about the entire history of women. What I started writing—and couldn’t tear myself away from—turned into a piece that I’m hoping to submit somewhere. So it truly was the treat that kept on giving.

Which happens to be the theme of the piece. Seeing something as small as a shared blog recipe reminded me that there will always be those whose wise souls who intuitively understand the truth about beauty: It cannot be held. The paradox is that the more freely it is given, the more beautifully it reflects on the one who released it…and the more bountifully it returns.

“[Miss Maudie’s sunhat] was suspended in a thin layer of ice, like a fly in amber….” ~Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

That's the Ticket

I would like to thank Becky for nominating me for this most distinctive and prestigious of awards!!!
Here are the rules:

1. Thank the person who gave this to you. (Thanks again, Bec!)
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
3. Link the person who nominated you.
4. Tell up to 6 outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth. (The key here is the "up to" and the "at least." Some people are just born liars!)
5. Nominate up to seven "Creative Writers" who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies.
6. Post links to the seven blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on the "up to" seven blogs you nominate, letting them know you nominated them.

Here goes:

1. In high school, I started a job at the local Squinky Pinky, but it didn’t go well. First they put me in the deli, but I stank at cheeses. Then they put me in produce. Things got out of hand when I dropped a load of bananas, and they really came to a head in the cruciferous vegetable department. So when they moved me to the bakery and I had that flour incident, I thought I was going to get sacked for sure. Instead, they put me out in fertilizers because they found I could really shovel poo.

2. I was once mistaken for the Exorcist girl on a studio set.

3. My Great Uncle Joe was an actor who was the first voice of Porky Pig. He really did stutter.

4. One of the men I’ve met lately steams out his brain fungus using a vegetable steamer, a tarp, and an ionizer.

5. I once strolled into a store with a date, and a man with flaming orange hair, a flaming orange pantsuit, and a flaming orange personality ran up and planted an impassioned kiss on my date’s mouth. When he finally detached and spotted me standing there very awkwardly, he shrieked, “OH LOOK! You have a girlfriend! A QUAINT little GIRLFRIEND!!!”  The thing that bothered me most about the incident was being called "quaint."  Quaint?  Puh-leez.

6. A friend wanted to set me up with an attractive man who had just broken up with the Bromo Seltzer heiress.  The Bromo Seltzer heiress was married, and her husband wanted to cause this guy more than indigestion. BUT, the friend said that Mr. Former-Bromo-Boy had once been in prison, because someone had sneaked drugs on the private plane that Bromo-Boy was piloting, and “you just don’t turn these people in and live.” So Former-Bromo took the rap and went to prison. The friend wanted to know if that bothered me. Bothered me? OF COURSE it bothered me. I was horrified. A pilot? My former husband was a pilot. Bleah.

I nominate Christy! 

Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't. ~Mark Twain

Let the St. Patrick's Day Celebrating Go On! And On, and On....

Good news!  Okay, good news for ME!  I had a dentist appointment, so I thought these up mostly in the shower to take my mind off going to the dentist (even though I am in fact partially Irish, and I do in fact have plans this evening):

Ten Seven TEN Things for Losers to Do on St. Patrick’s Day!

1. Don’t go to the bar on St. Patrick’s Day. Go to the dentist.

2. Wear a t-shirt that says, “Kiss me, too, I’m Portuguese.”

3. Kissing the wearer o’the green is so trite. Kiss the wearer o’the brown instead.

4. Kissing is so germy. Instead, go up to everyone wearing green and simply stroke their sleeve a bit. Don’t forget to use hand sanitizer afterwards!

5. Beer is so...working class.  If you want to be REALLY classy, sip green wine instead.  Make sure it's an Irish one.  If you want to impress people with your wine drinking technique, gently gargle with it. Smack your lips and exclaim, “Ah!” This is called “embibing in the brogué.”

6. Parades get so darned crowded. Instead, stand on a street corner and wave at random people. When an interesting vehicle or weird looking person goes by, clap.

7. Instead of wearing shamrocks, wear a leaf associated with your ancestry. So if you’re Canadian, wear a maple leaf, and if you’re from Guam, wear a banana leaf, or if you’re from Nebraska, wear a corn husk, etc. Or if your ancestry is really mixed, simply wear salad. Or better yet, wear a fig leaf and explain to people that we’re all descended from Eve.

8. Can’t find your shamrock pin to wear? No worries! Simply wear your “slut” pin instead.

9. Spontaneously giggle at the dentist’s office because you suddenly remembered that you own a “slut” pin. Don’t ask.

10. Take a picture of your “slut” pin for your blog.

May the best day of your past be the worst day of your future. ~Irish toast

The Pluck of the Irish

Sometimes I look around, and there really are people who conduct their lives with virtually no regard for other people—and they get away with it. The injustice is so blatant, it feels like an affront to the soul.

And yet, in the end these types drive away the crucial things that they work so hard to deny others:  genuine love, intimacy, and respect. And because they never take responsibility for their actions, they never truly learn or grow. Even when they pretend to have changed negative behaviors, they’ve really only become more adept at hiding them.

Is that why bad things never seem to happen to these people? Because they’d never learn, anyway, so what’s the point? Do they really only exist to throw destruction into the universe so that decent people can learn to solve problems and create?

Because it really does seem like there are good people everywhere who are truly struggling. I’ve been thinking about all of this lately when along came an email from a great friend. It was called “An Irish Blessing.” Sometimes I feel like the universe tries and tries to tell me something, but I’m dense enough that God just lets out a big sigh and has a friend spell it out to me in an email. Here it is. May you enjoy it as much as I did. And happy St. Patrick’s Day.

My wish for you

I wish you not a path devoid of clouds, nor a life on a bed of roses,
Not that you might never need regret,
nor that you should never feel pain.
No, that is not my wish for you.
My wish for you is:
That you might be brave in times of trial,
when others lay crosses upon your shoulders.
When mountains must be climbed and chasms are to be crossed,
When hope can scarce shine through.
That every gift God gave you might grow with you
and let you give your gift of joy to all who care for you.
That you may always have a friend who is worth that name,
whom you can trust and who helps you in times of sadness,
Who will defy the storms of daily life at your side.
One more wish I have for you:
That in every hour of joy and pain you may feel God close to you.
This is my wish for you and for all who care for you.
This is my hope for you now and forever.

-- anonymous Irish blessing

Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift. – Mary Oliver

Once Upon a Time in 2010

Sign of the times: I was subbing in a 6th grade Com Arts class. The assignment was to have the students read aloud an old Irish fable about a magical dwarf who lived in the woods.

“That’s rude,” one child complained. “They prefer to be called ‘Little People.’” He was clearly incensed. From then on, he insisted on reading about the magical Little Person.

It's easier not to be wise and measure these things by your brains ~Live, “I Alone”

More (Fragrant!) Bulbs...OR...Don't Just Feed a Cold; Suffocate It!

When my daughter was little, one of her first (and only) attempts at gardening was to plant a few cloves of garlic one fall. The following summer, we had a bumper garlic crop so impressive that it would have made any farmer (or vampire slayer) proud. When I asked my daughter what she planned to do with all that garlic, she shrugged. Turns out she doesn’t actually like garlic; she only wanted to see if it would grow. Enter this soup recipe, which requires an impressive 44 cloves. The roasting helps keep it from tasting like Death by Garlic. Really. Still, I’m sure it’s plenty pungent.

Can’t say for sure, though…. A long time ago I discovered that it has marvelous expectorant properties, so I’ve begun making it when I have a cold in order to ward off the evils of congestion. I’m convinced it dispatches those strength-sapping viruses tout de suite. A side benefit is that you can’t smell the garlic at all when you’re that stuffed up. My biggest concern was that the little Girl Scouts might pick this weekend to deliver our cookies and faint at our doorstep. (They didn’t.)

By the way, though it’s many years later, my daughter’s garlic patch continues to produce each year…mainly because we just never pick it all.

Note to Girl Scouts: The air has cleared here! We’re ready for you!!!


Roasted Garlic Soup

26 garlic cloves (unpeeled)
2 T olive oil

2 T (1/4 stick) butter
2 ¼ c. sliced onions
1 ½ t. chopped fresh thyme
18 garlic cloves, peeled
3 ½ c. chicken stock or canned low-salt chicken broth
½ c. whipping cream

½ c. finely grated Parmesan cheese (about 2 ounces)
4 lemon wedges

Preheat oven to 350°F. Place 26 garlic cloves in small glass baking dish. Add 2 T. olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper; toss to coat. Cover dish tightly with foil and bake until garlic is golden brown and tender, about 45 minutes. Cool. Squeeze garlic between fingertips to release cloves. Transfer cloves to small bowl.

Melt butter in heavy large saucepan over med-high heat. Add onions and thyme and cook until onions are translucent, about 6 minutes. Add roasted garlic and 18 raw garlic cloves and cook 3 minutes. Add broth; cover and simmer until garlic is very tender, about 20 minutes. Puree soup until smooth in blender (in batches), or use a hand-held blender. Add cream and bring to simmer. Season with salt and pepper. Can be prepared a day ahead and refrigerated at this point.

Divide grated cheese among 4 bowls and ladle soup over. Squeeze juice of 1 lemon wedge into each bowl and serve.  Serves 4.


"Good soup draws the chair to it." Ghanaian Proverb

Censlus

So I just got a letter in the mail from the U.S. Department of Commerce telling me that next week I will get my census form. Is it me? Or does that seem like a HUGE waste of postage to send a letter…telling me that I’m going to get a letter?

I was subbing for a middle school P.E. teacher. It was right before 7th hour, which is usually the last hour in most of the middle schools in my district, but my notes said there was an 8th hour after that. So I asked another teacher if they had an 8th hour there.

Her reply: “Yes. You’re in hell. It just goes on and on here. And after that class period, you’ll discover there’s a 9th."

Out of the Bleakness

Usually one of my other favorite things in life is throwing open the curtains and blinds on a Saturday morning, especially when it’s sunny out. Not so today. Today I have the cold that’s been making its rounds, and it feels like my head’s been blown full of fiberglass insulation…with a few glass shards thrown in just for fun. My face itches and my eyeballs feel hot and bald. Thank heavens it’s a weekend and I can just lie around.

But when I managed to crawl from my lair of sickness long enough to let the dog out this morning, this is what greeted me. It’s Iris reticulata, always the first flower of the year in my yard.

Ah, hope.

If winter comes, can spring be far behind? ~Percy Bysshe Shelley