And so... frolic!

My favorite place to be

2012-01-23T23:21:00.000-06:00

Welcome to my favorite place: Dragonfly Arts

A whole lot of neat things get made in this room.

A view into Dragonfly Arts from the entrance. There are three zones: scrapbooking/crafts; sewing/machne embroidery; and computer/business. You can see two of the three zones in this shot.

This view is from the sewing zone into the scrapbooking zone. The beautiful wall hanging was made by Sandie Simms- the fiend who introduced me to scrapbooking and then abandoned me for quilting.

This is my Original Scrapbox, one of the best purchases I ever made. If the drawers look like they are bulging a little, it's because they are. The shrine to my past life as a pirate can be seen on top of the Scrapbox. When fully opened, as now, the Scrapbox is nine feet wide. Mine is seldom closed.

Here you can see the sewing/machine embroidery zone. The mannekin is wearing my latest apron design. I have a Janome sewing machine that I love. On the cabinet is one of my favorite lamps, and 16 drawers of buttons, assorted by color. Yes, I actually sat down and did that.

My Brother embroidery machine. Too cool. I like having the ironing board set up all the time. And, as you can see on the sideboard, I have the one absolutely indispensable tool for all crafters.... a coffee pot.

My cousin Valarie came for a visit after Christmas, and I am afraid I put her to work. This layout is her design and it works like a dream. Val is a professional seamstress, among many other artistic gifts, and her advice has been invaluable. Thanks to her, I may actually be able to launch my scrapbooking service this summer.

I guess now that I have two machines I'm just an old sew and sew.

How can this be sibling rivalry when he's a cat and I'm not?

2011-10-17T02:17:00.001-05:00

I have no luck with my parents' pets. They don't like me.

The feeling is mutual.

When my mother was alive, she and my dad had a brindle cairn terrier whose fur was a weird shade of purply brown. He was so tiny as a puppy that he fit into my brother Pat's shirt pocket. Full grown, he was the size of your average cat. His real name was Spartacus, but we called him Sparky and my folks adored him. My mother fed him hot meals. He slept in their bed. They fought over who it was the dog loved best.

I hated the little shit. Where was all that adoration when I lived at home? They took more pictures of that dog than my baby brothers. He traveled with them. Dad took him in the car whenever there was banking to do or fast food runs to make. Sparky rode shot-gun. If you happened to be invited along, Sparky still rode shot-gun.

He was the favorite. He knew it. He rubbed our noses in it. My folks had five kids they didn't particularly care about and one majorly spoiled dog. Whenever Mom fed him, he'd look over his shoulder at me and sneer. He was having beef tips. I was having peanut butter and jelly.

I used to feed him gummy bears just to watch him try to open his jaws. Until Dad caught me doing it. After which I fed him marshmallows. He would drool and foam at the mouth when he ate them. I tried to convince my folks he had hydrophobia but they were on to me. "Poor Sparky", they would coo, "did that bad person give you (fill in the blank) to eat again?" He would look at me malevolently and nod. Snitch.

Twice he pooped in my shoes. Once I was wearing them at the time.

But he's dead now, so I got that going for me.

Except my Dad now has a cat. Snoopy. Snoopy weighs 480 lbs. He looks like Puss in Shrek Four, only Puss is orange and Snoopy is black and white.

Dad is killing him with kindness. He lets Snoopy drink out of his milk glass. He hand feeds Snoopy all sorts of people food, along with the cat food he gets too much of, and bribes affection out of him with high-calorie cat treats. Snoopy looks like a tick about to pop. He's so fat that no one can lift him. Also, he hisses, bites, scratches and generally demonstrates his assholery if you even try to pet him. I don't even have to do that to get hissed at. I just need to exist in his presence.

I am currently visiting with my dad, where I usually sleep on a rollaway bed. Dad is in the hospital, so I decided to sleep in his bed for tonight. Snoopy would have none of it. He picked a spot on the bed and defended it against my interloping ways as if I were the antichrist.

So I beat the crap out of him with a (very) soft pillow and claimed the bed. Then I felt so guilty I couldn't sleep. Snoopy is curled up with his favorite toy, looking pathetic. I am on my way to the rollaway now.

Mom (and Dad) always loved him best.

Thomas Jefferson was right... we need a revolution every 50 years

2011-07-31T02:26:00.000-05:00

   I am so completely disgusted with our "Congress" that I am ready to fire them all and replace them with people whose names have been drawn from a hat. I mean, think about it. What harm could it do? Even the mentally disabled could do a better job of husbanding our resources than the bozos in Washington now.

   If they allow our nation to be globally humiliated by a default, they better not show their faces to their constituents ever again. You remember the concept of constituents, I assume... the people the bozos are supposed to represent and protect. Congress doesn't seem to have much of a memory of the concept.

   I want to know how this present Congress can be said to be representative. Where are the businessmen, the educators, the doctors and scientists? Where are women, who make up 51% of the population but only 17% of Congress (17 /100 Senators, 74 /434 representatives)? Where are the social workers, the sales clerks, the manufacturers? In a population of 124 million workers, only 6% are lawyers, but 45% of Congressmen are lawyers. Where are the young people? The median age of the US population is 32.9 years. For Congress, the median is 53 years. Where are the African Americans, Hispanics, Asian Pacific and other groups that make up respectively 12%, 9% and 3% of the population (24% in total), while Congress is 87% white males?

We should fire them all immediately. Failing that, we should repeal their right to set their own wages. Force them to use the same health care system the rest of the country must endure. Slash their pensions- put that money back into Social Security and take Social Security out the general funds. AND DO NOT PAY THEM FOR THIS TERM! The lazy do-nothings owe us ALL their back wages. And while I do not agree with Dick the butcher (Henry VI Part 2 Act 4, scene 4 71-78) that we should "First, kill all the lawyers, I DO agree with the following quotations.

"The people are the rightful masters of both Congress and the courts, not to overthrow the Constitution but to overthrow the men who pervert the Constitution". Abraham Lincoln

"The only difference between death and taxes is that death doesn't get worse

every time Congress meets".

"This country has come to feel the same when Congress is in session as

when the baby gets hold of a hammer".

Will Rogers

"Congress: Bingo with billions".

Red Skelton

"We have the right as individuals to give away as much of our own money as we please in charity; but as members of Congress we have no right to appropriate a dollar of the public money".

David Crockett

"You can lead a man to Congress, but you can't make him think".

Milton Berle

"Being elected to Congress is regarded as being sent on a looting raid for one's friends".

George Will

"Talk is cheap - except when Congress does it". Cullen Hightower

"Members of Congress must live according to the same laws as everyone else".

Bobby Jindal

"Reader, suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress.

But I repeat myself".

"There is no distinctly American criminal class - except Congress".

Mark Twain

And now, representing thinking women everywhere...

I say throw the buggers out.

Kate Lapczynski

Back to school... in JULY??!!

2011-07-26T01:01:00.000-05:00

I did not get to spend any time to speak of with my granddaughters this summer. I feel frustrated and cheated about that. And all the "Camp NeeNee" things we had planned to do are not going to happen because, for my grandgirls, summer is over.

My summer ends on August 30th, when my general biology class meets for the first time. My girls will have been in school a month by then.

I can't imagine trying to learn in 100 degree heat, or when the bright sun from outside distracts me from my books. My childhood summers were too long- out from mid-June until the day after Labor Day in September- but my girls' summers are too short.

The weather was against me this summer. Though my pool was opened on May 23rd, our first swim did not come until early July. I remember summers past when my girls and I cavorted in the pool like the dolphins we are. This year, only Emily and Delaney have been in the pool with me. Twice.

Granted, I have been spending a lot of time in Michigan, caring for and visiting with my Daddy, who is 87 and failing. Granted, the pool company opened my pool and then did NOTHING to it until my return home in late June, at which I fired them and hired someone who has turned out to be a miracle worker. (Her name is Rhonda Loop, with is pool backward). Granted, I have been puny on and off this summer. Granted, my girls have spent most of their time with their other grandmothers. (Apparently the equal time clause has lapsed)'

But if the summer wasn't so !$^#%*%# short, none of that would matter. Sigh.

So, here I am, all geared up for fun in the sun, chock full of ideas for things to do with my girls, chomping at the bit for some QFT (quality family time) and it is all for naught.

Sending kids back to school in July. Whose bull-shit idea was that?

My world...and other stuff

2011-03-04T00:48:00.000-06:00

   After the tornados, and rains, and snows of this Tennessee winter, the weather has finally turned lightly to spring. So what do I do? I head north, where it is still winter and where there is still snow on the ground to visit me Dadums over my spring break. Wish I could convince Daddy to move South. (Excuse me a moment while I get over this fit of hysterical laughter at the thought of convincing my dad to do anything.        Okay, I'm fine now.)
   I really don't like going to Michigan. There is no easy way to get there and I must leave my cozy little home, my family, my friends, my church, my sisters in the Order of the Daughters of the King, my beloved GFWC Tullahoma Woman's Club and all the wonderful women who are a part of it, my cats, my grandkids, my bed, and, this semester, my job. It means a lot to my dad though, so I go. And it's only for a week this time. (Next visit will have to be longer- and hopefully, I won't go alone).
   I hope when I am 86 that three things are true: that my mind is still sharp (unlike Dave's mama), that my body allows me to be relatively mobile with relatively little pain (unlike my Dad) and that my kids are as good to me as I am to Mama and Dad. I am taking odds on each of those, if you are interested.
   I will post again from the pleasant peninsula, as soon as my fingers thaw out.

IT"S 2011??!! When the hell did THAT happen? Let the RANT begin!

2011-02-10T01:27:00.003-06:00

   My New Year's resolution was to post to my blog at least once a week.... and it is now February 10. So much for that. My One-Month-Into-The -New-Year resolution is to post to my blog at least once a week...

   So, let me start with a rant.   Or two.

Part one: Bull-shit advertising.
   I think everyone in the country should boycott and chastise Groupon until they pull those hideously offensive anti-environmental ads off the air. The whales are facing extinction- let's party! The Amazon is being deforested- let's get a bikini wax! Shame on everyone involved. Who thought this was funny?

   Now, mini Darth Vader turning on the car with the Force (and a little help from Dad)- THAT'S funny!

Part two.   Higher Education in Tennessee.
   Dedicated, educated instructors and professors in Tennessee have gone without raises, cost of living increases, or any sort of monetary improvement in their salaries for FIVE YEARS, and have been told they can expect none any time soon. Administrators, of course, have not had to suffer the same economic fate because, as you know, schools NEED administrators but can get along just fine without teachers.

   And NOW there is talk about abolishing tenure. Most of the population would probably agree with that action because they have been deliberately and historically misled about what tenure really is. It is NOT a guarantee of employment. It IS a guarantee that teachers cannot be fired on a whim without due process.

This from Wikipedia: "Academic tenure is primarily intended to guarantee the right to academic freedom: it protects teachers and researchers when they dissent from prevailing opinion, openly disagree with authorities of any sort, or spend time on unfashionable topics. Thus academic tenure is similar to the lifetime tenure that protects some judges from external pressure. Without job security, the scholarly community as a whole might favor "safe" lines of inquiry. The intent of tenure is to allow original ideas to be more likely to arise, by giving scholars the intellectual autonomy to investigate the problems and solutions about which they are most passionate, and to report their honest conclusions. In economies where higher education is provided by the private sector, tenure also has the effect of helping to ensure the integrity of the grading system. Without tenure, professors could be pressured by administrators to issue higher grades for attracting and keeping a greater number of students."

Higher education is theoretically based on the concept of SHARED GOVERNANCE, which means that administrators and faculty are equal shareholders in the mission of the school, and have shared rights and responsibilities regarding curriculum and the distribution of resources.

The reality is that cynical lip service is given to shared governance by administrators. Faculty are involved in decision making to this extent - faculty are required to serve on committees (Financial Aid, Student Affairs, Academic Affairs, Budget, etc.), required to attend discipline meetings, department meetings, Faculty Fora and Faculty Orientations, without any additional remuneration for the hours they spend in these activities.   The presence of faculty on committees is touted as evidence of shared governance- but if one voice can consistently drown out all others, what, exactly, is being shared except time and space?

   So, think about this. You, in your job. You haven't had a raise in five years. Gas prices, food prices, utility costs have all gone up. The value of the dollar has gone down. You are not living at the same level you were living five years ago, you have lost ground.  You are not appreciated and you know it. When you ask for a raise, you hear "You're lucky to have a job". How long would it take you to start looking for a better job?

So why don't educators go do something else?

They think that what they are doing is important. Too bad Tennessee doesn't.

Walt Disney and Pixar made me the woman I am today... so stop blaming me

2010-10-26T21:14:00.002-05:00

I have grown up and grown old with feminine role models that somehow lack a certain reality. No, I don't mean Donna Reed or the Brady Bunch mom. No, no, my role models are literally fantastic. And/or Incredible. I see bits of them in me, so I am sure I have been influenced by them. Mainly, they helped establish my unshakable belief in magic, in imagination, and whimsy, and have inspired me to try to be both more powerful, more self-possessed, and brave. Here they are. Thank you, Uncle Walt, and all my friends at Disney. And thanks to my new friends at Pixar. Now if I could only identify with REAL women.

Elastigirl/Helen Parr. I admire her flexibility.

Maleficent. Oh, to be a powerful bitch! She only wants one thing in life... her own way.
(And she's a bird lover, too. Love the hat).

The Queen of Hearts. It's good to be the queen. She's not particularly attractive, but so few tyrants are.
She certainly gets HEARD! I especially like her relationship with her hubby. What a broad!

Hmmm... I'm seeing a trend here. Another queen. Maybe I secretly hunger for power.
Either that, or I want to look like Gloria Swanson.
Look her up.

Okay, time for some good faeries. Meriwether, Fauna and Flora.
My love for faeries dates back to my first meeting these lovely women- powerful, loving, fearless and wise.

Mrs. Potts. I figure if I am ever transformed by magic, I will probably be a teapot.
I'm always spouting off and yet I am very breakable. And I am short and stout.

Edna Mode, AKA E. I love her aesthetic. She is a true artist. she never looks back. It distracts from the now.
I wish I had her focus.

.

There they are. My heroes. Bet that explains a lot, huh?

DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME!

2010-09-28T07:07:00.000-05:00

My daughter-in-law Becca sent me a link to a gross and bizarre video on YouTube of a guy having a HUGE boil on his back lanced and drained.

Why, you may ask, did she send this to me?

Who the hell knows?

Not one to be outdone, I snooped around YouTube, looking for something even grosser to send back to her, and of course, I found it, so I win the Gross-Out War. Still, in looking for that perfect make-you-want-to-vomit image, I came to the realization that an awful lot of people seem to be fascinated by the subject matter. I mean, some of the "zit" videos had almost a million hits! Strange.

I realized as well that most of the people who were suffering from the zit/boil/cyst problem were tatooed. Tattoo on the back.... boil on the back... tattoo on the face.... boil of the face.... tattoo on the wrist.... cyst on the wrist... I began to suspect a cause and effect relationship.

Some of the surgeries were performed by doctors or health professionals in a sterile environment. (Why they allowed video-taping of the procedure is beyond me). Most were not. The thing that really astonished me was that most of the lancings were performed at home by moms, wives or girlfriends who were not nurses and used things like safety pins, Xacto knives, razor blades and needles to perform the surgery. Most didn't wear gloves or any kind of protective eye-wear. A few wiped the skin down with antiseptic before opening the wound, but none lavaged or packed the abscess when the "surgery" was over. Dumb. Dangerous and dumb. And of course, the abscesses make a big mess when they erupt. Nothing like having to disinfect the entire house to make you feel you've been useful.

As much as I try to understand the delighted adolescent reaction to anything that pops messily, I don't get the whole surgery-as-social-interaction thing. Yes, I know that many people don't have health insurance and that most of the folks taped trusted the person with the scalpel, but let me just say one word about that. MERSA! Hello! In fact, let me add a couple of other words as well. STAPH! BLOOD POISONING!

My precious cherubs, should something large, painful and pulsating erupt on your face, run, do not walk, to the emergency room. Sell something if you have to to pay the bill, but don't let Buffy come at you with a kitchen knife and a roll of paper towels to get rid of it for you.

Thus endeth the lesson. You may resume your normal activities.

Oh, to be in Michigan, now that summer? fall? is here...

2010-08-28T11:25:00.003-05:00

I am in beautiful Plymouth, MI, chillin' at my dad's beautiful apartment, looking out at the beautiful garden and lawn, and if I wasn't sweating like a prizefighter after a championship bout, life would be beautiful. While it is considerably cooler here than in Tullahoma, it is STILL in the high 80's here- WAY too warm for me, but just about perfect for my 86 year old dad-ums. There is a nice cross breeze but it's a warm breeze, so the days are a bit sticky for my taste. Fortunately, the nights are cool.

Daddy with Snoopy, taken about 5 years ago. Snoopy has no use for me whatsoever.

It's strange to be back in the Detroit area again. Until May of this year, Dad was living on the west side of the state in a sleepy little town called Stevensville, away from the sounds of planes, trains and automobiles. Here, he is just 15 minutes from Detroit Metropolitan Airport and moments from Edward Hines Parkway. Plymouth is a railroad town, so vehicular sounds of all descriptions disturb the peace. This is the ambience I grew up in, which merely reinforces my opinion that I could not ever return to live in Michigan again.

Daddy (standing) with his brother Dick. Daddy is the last survivor of his nuclear family/

Still, being back in my natal state is a bittersweet experience. Michigan is gorgeous in the late summer/early fall. If I had driven here with my daughter (which I now regret not doing), I would take a day tour to Lake Huron to the site of the happiest moments of my childhood. "Up at the Lake" every summer until 1970, when my grandparents sold their property and our heritage. Well, it was theirs to sell, but it is ours to remember and mourn. Even after 40 years, the memories of up at the lake are the sharpest, the clearest, the most pervasive and happiest of my life. Thanks to memory, I can go back any time I wish.

Daddy during WWII. He enlisted at the age of 17, so this picture was probably taken in 1941-1942.

Last time I was here, Dave and I found the East Detroit (now East Pointe) homes of both sets of grandparents and the house I grew up in at 24841 Rosalind. It surprised me how distorted my memories of distances are. I remembered walking FOREVER to get to school... and, it turns out, the school is only two and a half blocks away from the house. Well, I was a very short kid with polio stricken legs, so maybe it WAS a long trek. Still- TWO BLOCKS!!??

My dad is frailer than the last time I was here, but somehow stronger, too. He is more mobile than he was, and his balance seems a lot better. Still, he is showing his age in many subtle ways. His memory is unreliable and his hearing is failing. He is toothpick thin and the last fall he took has deprived him of most of the use of his left hand. He can't live alone, so Dave and I are providing home care for him. I met his care-giver yesterday and she is very nice and actually likes Dad, which is a plus (and a minor miracle).

Across the hall from Dad is a lovely woman in her late 70s who he dated about 20 years ago, after my mom died. She keeps herself beautifully, always well coiffed, hands manicured, her trim figure flatteringly dressed to emphasize her assets... I think she has her eye on Dad and so does Dad, and he's not interested. It's kinda fun watching the two of them interact. Hey, it ain't over until it's over, which gives me hope.

What is neither functional nor decorative and lives in the middle of my face?

2010-08-23T01:32:00.003-05:00

My nose. I have a very large nose. If the size of the nose is an indication of intelligence, then I am a super-genius. I was teased mercilessly about my nose my entire childhood... and beyond, really. It doesn't help that I have a small head and relatively small features. My eyes are small, my mouth is small. Even my shell-like ears are small.

And then, there is my nose. It starting growing faster than the rest of me when I was about 10 and there has been steady growth ever since. I was born with a deviated septum, which you can't see, of course, but which makes me a mouth-breather a good part of the time, especially in the winter and summer, the two seasons that love my nose the least.

When my son was a toddler, he accidentally whopped my nose with his hard little head and broke it. I reset it myself while it was still numb to save the cost of a doctor visit. Big mistake. The left half of my nose collasped making the honker asymmetrical. It has a decided larboard list.

A few years ago while I was minding my own business and sleeping peacefully in my little bed, my cats got the rips and came careening into my bedroom. They leapt onto the bed and launched themselves at each other off my face, ripping my nose in the process. I screamed, which woke up my hubby, who was initially peeved at me - he hates when I wake him up by screaming- until he saw the blood. I now have a scar and a pit on my nose, which wasn't a particularly attractive appendage before the cats mauled it. Note to self- keep your bedroom door closed.

Over the course of innumerable colds and bouts of hay fever, chronic nose-blowing has burst many of the tiny little blood vessels near the nares so that it looks like I have written on myself with a fine tipped red pen. I have yet to find a concealer that really conceals those fine red lines. I am an almost total tea-totaler but have the schnoz of a boozer. How fair is that, I ask you?

Now August is nearly over, and I am battling my annual summer cold. I cannot breathe through my nose. Nothing as massive as air can penetrate the swollen membranes. And yet, my nose is running. Constantly. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? I am going through a box of Kleenex a day, so my nose is red. And I have been swimming, so my nose is sunburned. As I type, I am trying to figure out how to blow my nose without touching it because it is chapped and sore. I hope I figure it out soon. When something this size hurts, it's a BIG damn hurt.

All my life, I have prayed for a nose job. (Most of my life, I have also prayed for a boob job, and lately, a tummy tuck has entered my petitions to the plastic surgery gods). I know that cartilage never stops growing, and the nose is mostly cartilage. It doesn't bode well for an attractive old age, does it?

Any plastic surgeons reading this... call me!

Necessity is a mother

2010-07-26T23:15:00.003-05:00

Here's the original plan: we make a few improvements to the house on Mac's Lane so that someone can move into it; you know, new carpet, a little paint, done. Then we convert the garage into a studio for me (and Dragonfly Arts) and we build a shop for Dave. The room I am currently using as a craft studio reverts to being a guest room.

Here's what happened: The facelift to the Mac's house turned into a full reno- an undetected leak had eaten away the joists and the subfloor in the kitchen and diningroom, which had to be replaced before the new flooring could be laid; the kitchen had to be gutted and rebuilt from scratch; every wall required repair and paint; the duct work needed to be replaced; the house needed new windows and new doors and a new roof... need I go on? So much for new carpet and a little paint making a house a home. Sigh. My son and Mike Singleton have made the old house absolutely beautiful. Of course, it required a big budget. A really big budget. A no art studio, no shop budget.

SO... I have had to rework my small craft room yet again. It now contains not only my scrapbooking material but my computer and office, and a small fridge. Strangely enough, this present configuration is the best and most efficient arrangement to date. Everything is at my fingertips.

My cutting station is to my left. My Cricut and its Jukebox are on the Scrapbox table.

I reorganized my bookcase, and moved the small fridge into a nook on the office wall.

Next to my "office" is the back of the door, which holds my ribbon and my aprons.

On left, the sewing cabinet and my wonderful Janome. To the right, the cabinet for embossing, all my Xyron equipment and my woodworking material.

I reworked my closet. It may look over-stuffed but I can see and get to everything quickly and easily.

I moved a shelving unit into the corner to hold my albums and upholstery fabric, among other things.

I used a craft table to hold my stamping pads, my tools, and both my cutting machines. Under it I have bins and drawers for my punches, fibers, brads and specialty paper. All of this is within arm's reach of my craft chair.

My work table. NOTHING lives on it now. I have my drink holder/scrap bag to the right. Under my table are all the accessories to my Cricut (top drawer) and extra cutters and matts (bottom drawer). There is still plenty of leg room.

The Scrapbox folds closed, so there is space behind this black panel which was being wasted. The next picture shows the panel opened.

Looks messy, but no one sees it but me.
I store folding chairs behind the panel on the other side.

Well, guess I will close this mess and go make something wonderful. Serendipity- the need to compress everything into one small space made me utilize every square inch. I didn't get the studio of my dreams... maybe someday... but I got a very workable space.

April showers bring...damp

2010-04-20T11:50:00.000-05:00

April is the time of year that the trees leaf out and spread their pollen. Doesn't sound like much of a big whoop unless you a) have allergies, b) like to breathe or c) value the paint job on your car. My black PT Cruiser is currently wearing a yellow coat of tree pollen about an eighth of an inch thick. Very attractive.

April is the time of year when vegetation literally LEAPS from the ground. I think it's because of the showers. I left for San Francisco, where all was cool and damp and gloomy, and less than two weeks later returned to Tennessee Flora on Speed. There are buds on my peonies. My monster hosta, feared killed by the yard dudes, has returned from the dead with a vengeance. Only my sorry azaleas continue wan and mopey. They need to be transplanted- to San Francisco, where they will fit right in.

April is the month when we open our pool. Yes, you sad Northern readers, it is true. We open our pools in April down here in the South. Of course, we spend most of April and May fishing pollen and seeds out of the pool... but nah-nah anyway.

There is no place on Earth more beautiful than Tennessee in the spring. Spring may be a short season, caroming into summer all too soon, but while it lasts, it is glorious.

The Olympics,facial hair and other mysteries

2010-03-04T15:18:00.002-06:00

So the Olympics are blessedly (and blissfully) over for another two years. Sports. I just don't get the interest in them. Though I must say, I truly enjoyed the ice dancing and the women's figure skating. Also the short track speed skating. Apolo Anton Ohno. Do they come any cuter?

Or any stronger, braver, or crazier?

I was amazed to hear during the Olympics that his mother abandoned him! What kind of mother abandons her child? Well, her loss, really. While I was appalled that some commentators were insensitive enough to ask him about her, I liked his answer. He's 27 years old, he doesn't need a mother, she is not a part of his life, and he doesn't miss her.

GOOD ON YOU, APOLO! You have a great dad, a great talent and a good life. And some really strange facial hair.

Maybe THAT'S why his horrible mother took a powder. Apolo was BORN with that weird semi-beard and it freaked her out.

OR... maybe he's a secret member of the Sohma family, and when his mama picked him up, he turned into a rabbit, or a rat or some other extra-zodiacal creature.(yes, to my shame, I read the manga "Fruits Basket". What can I say? I like reading things backward), and she wigged out, as so many of the Sohma mamas did.

Which got me to thinking.. how do men take care of facial hair? Do they just wash it when they wash their faces, or do they shampoo it? What about conditioner? Since their faces are covered in hair, does that now make their faces scalp? Can a guy get dandruff in his beard? Are they ever tempted to take a curling iron to it? (Cascades of pretty little ringlets- much better than that rat's nest on Brad Pitt's face).

And what about mustaches? How do they keep from getting food and drink clinging to it all the time? Do they ever accidentally chew some of it off, and, if so, do they even notice? Just wondering. Like you do.

I don't much care for facial hair myself. It makes me look too butch.

HOW CAN IT BE FEBRUARY ALREADY WHEN I HAVEN'T BLOGGED FOR JANUARY YET??!!

2010-02-09T03:59:00.002-06:00

Yes, it's true. I have once again let an entire month pass without updating my blog. I'm not sure that anyone really cares one way or another, but my New Year's resolution was to update my blog on a biweekly basis. And in only 39 days, that resolution is moot.

Travel is settling into a routine now. I spend two weeks in San Francisco and two weeks at home. Of course, it's not that straightforward- I spend the last week of one month, and the first week of the next in San Francisco- so technically I was in California January AND February of 2010. And I am going back in February, to return to Tennessee in March. Since I am temporally dyslexic to begin with, I never know where the hell I am. My world... and welcome to it.

Somehow, in all this travel, I seem to have been targetted as a threat to national security.
Every time I go through security at SFO, I am pulled aside and frisked. Nothing starts a journey better than a full body pat-down. People, this is what I look like.

Puh-leeze! I am only a threat to plastic flamingoes. I am too old, too fat, and too adorably cute to terrorize anything. Yet still, without fail, I get spread-eagled and manhandled every time I try to leave the Golden State. The airways have been protected. Tennesseans can rest well in their beds, secure in the knowledge that the Kate Lapczynski threat has been neutralized. Sigh. Makes me really want to rush home, you know.

That, and the fact that in Tennessee I have Obligations and Responsibilities. I have O's and R's to my family, to my friends, to my church, to the GFWC Tullahoma Woman's Club, (of which I am President); to the Highland Rim DIstrict of the General Federation of Women's Clubs of Tennessee (of which I am outgoing president); to the Order of the Daughters of the King; and to my cats. That all these O's and R's are also the great joys of my life helps to diminish the stress, but life is more stressful in Tennessee than in California.

In San Francisco, I don't have stress. I have housework. No friends, no family except Dave, no cats. I cook, I clean, I do laundry, I grocery shop- in short, I do all the things I pay other people to do for me in Tullahoma. I suggested a housekeeper for the apartment in SF but Dave somehow found the idea preposterous. Here was his reaction to that suggestion.

Men. Do they really think women LIKE to do housework? I know somebody has to do it, but why does it have to be ME?? I have always HATED housework. I've been doing it for 42 years now and it still sucks and it ain't likely to go away. While in San Francisco this last time, I did 30 loads of laundry. That's right, you heard me, 30 FRIGGING LOADS! How does one man generate that much laundry?

But I digress.

There's never any urgency in San Francisco but, sadly, there is way too much in Tullahoma. I live my life on a permanent two week deadline, which makes my life at home hectic. For example, this week, I have to finish the reports that go in to GFWC every year, due on February 15th. On the 10th, I have my TWC Board meeting. On the 11th, I have a luncheon date with the woman who will be succeeding me as District President. That evening, I have a meeting of the Daughters of the King. On the 17th, I have the general meeting of the Tullahoma Woman's Club. The 19th is Becca's birthday. Did I mention that I am also teaching two on-line biology courses this semester?

I go back to SF on the 20th. It will be restful and boring.

The one upside to SF is that while I am doing the dishes, I am looking out at Mission Bay. This past week there was a small scale Spanish galleon in the bay. Which doesn't suck. And I do a lot of walking, since the grocery store, Starbucks, Panera, Borders, Walgreens, Wells Fargo, an IMAX theatre and many other wonderful things are all within three blocks of the apartment.

And, of course, that is where my husband lives now. It's nice to see him every couple of weeks. He's a pretty good guy. He just needs an attitude adjustment re domestic help.

Now... about those stowaways

2009-12-27T01:52:00.000-06:00

Frank Sinatrat usually hangs out with my daughter Kelly. Lion L Messi usually hangs out with Anne-Geri'. SOMEHOW or other, they ended up hanging out with me and David in England. Yes, they stowed away in my luggage, the little devils. I didn't even notice them until I unpacked in Horsham.

Yes. there they are, in among my undies. Messi looks a little... messy, but Frankie maintains his Chairman of the Board cool. (Figures they'd end up in the underwear drawer.)

Like all of us, the guys were looking forward to a nice bath and a couple of drinks after the long trip. Fortunately, our hotel room had a bath tub just their size. I think they called it a bidet.

A little refreshment was called for.

Lion L is a tea-totaler. Frankie is not.

After a toddy or two, they were off to scope out the hotel (and look for babes.)

They found a goody locker right off the bat.

And they found a "babe" without too much trouble. They both overwhelmed her with their charms.

Back at the room, they investigated the tea caddy... and ate all the cookies.

But in the end, they settled on a good cuppa Joe.

After a good night's sleep in the most comfortable bed known to man, they were ready to head out and explore.

First, they borrowed some wellies.

In stomping around the 96 acres upon which the South Lodge Hotel sits, they encountered a rabbit hole. Messi was all for diving right in after the rabbit, but cooler heads prevailed. "Man, don't you remember what happened to that Alice chick when SHE followed a rabbit down a hole? Don't be a schnook!," was Frankie's advice. It took some convincing, but Messi finally listened to reason.

They took some pretty good pictures of the hotel grounds.

They made themselves very popular when they decided to pitch in and help the staff during a rush.

The boys accompanied us to London after three wonderful days in Horsham. David and I set off to Poole to visit with our friends the Bryants, but Frank and Lion L decided to stay behind. They claimed they were too pooped, but I think it was because they discovered room service.

When we returned, the guys joined us in a bit of sight-seeing.

Outside the British Museum.

Inside the British Museum. Those are some of the Elgin Marbles in the background.

At the Sherlock Holmes Museum, 221b Baker Street, London.

At the Victoria and Albert Museum- where Messi was recognized, but Frankie was not! A little tension there for a few minutes, but all was soon well.

They LOVED the Science and Technology Museum. They posed with the symbol of the Museum, Dan Dare, who was deliberately created to compete with and offer an alternative to American comic book superheroes- which were (and are) too violent. Lion L was very impressed with Dan Dare.

Frankie called him a wuss.

All in all, the guys were good company. Lion L 'got' England a little more than Frankie did. In fact, at one point in our journey, Frankie turned to me with a skeptical look on his mug and asked, "You gave up Hawaii for this?" To which the only answer is... DAMN STRAIGHT.

And now my travel journal comes to a a close. Dave and I had the most wonderful time in England. We both love the country, the people, and the style of living. The Brits are just good folks and England is everything you ever dreamed it would be, no matter WHAT you dreamed it would be. I could go back tomorrow. Sigh. Oh, well, ta ta for now from Tullahoma. Happy New Year to all.

The game's a foot!

2009-12-16T21:52:00.001-06:00

Dave humored me by taking me to 221B Baker Street. A devotee of the British, the Victoria and Albert, and the British Science and Technology Museums (all of which we visited, by the way), he needed convincing that I was serious about wanting to go there. A museum dedicated to a person who never existed located at a place he never lived for the amusement of readers of Victorian fiction? Not his cup of tea. It suited me right down to the ground, though.

I bought a copy of this print while in the gift shop. This is how we imagine 221B Baker Street... and, absent the carriages and attire, this is how it looks.

I don't think this sign is original, however. (Note Lion L. Messi and Frank Sinatrat on top of the sign; more on these stowaways in a later blog).

After passing through an outer door, a short foyer, and an inner door, I climbed the steps to the "first floor" lair of the great detective. Oddly, he was not in. However, Dr. Watson was at home, and was most gracious.

Watson in his chair. (Is this a cake job, or what? The actor portraying Watson gets to sit in a comfy chair in front of a warm fire and meet fascinating people like myself for a living!) The study is perfect. I felt like I had stepped into one of A. Conan Doyle's stories. Here are some more shots of the study.

A Holmesian homage to Queen Victoria: the intitials V.R. tatooed into the wallpaper. Holmes created them by shooting his pistol one afternoon when he was bored. The settee is barely discernable beneath, while the dining table peeks in from the left.

Holmes' chair and corner desk/laboratory. His violin is sitting atop a pile of papers and sheet music. I sat in this chair. I also wore Holmes' deerstalker hat. The things you can get away with when the host is not at home.

What passes for a dining room faces the street. Notice how it is jammed into a corner so that only Holmes and the doctor can dine. I imagine the room could be reconfigured whenever they entertained guests. It's amazing when you see the attention to detail the curators have brought to this room. All the Victorian flourishes and overcrowded rooms, tables and desks thrilled me beyond words. I was ready to move in.

Holmes' bedroom is off the study on the first floor. His rogues gallery assures that he goes to sleep with villains he has defeated glowering down on him. The bedroom is spartan, compared to the opulence of the study.

Up a flight of steep narrow stairs, and the rooms of Dr. Watson can be seen. They are a bit less austere but oddly, the curators chose not to set up a bedstead for the good doctor.

Yet another flight of steps and voila! It's like stepping into Madame Toussad's. There are vignettes of many of Holmes' most famous cases, beautifully done and wonderfully maintained. Of course, no museum vignette would be complete without the two arch-rivals themselves, Holmes and Moriarty.

Watson, Lady Frances Fairfax, and the great consulting detective himself.

Professor Moriarty.

And, to end, I must tell you that there is, in fact, a bathroom at 221B Baker Street. You just need to go up 3.5 floors to find it.

No tub. No shower. LOTS of pans and tubs. Okay, I take back my previous statement about being ready to move in. Back down the 3.5 flights, and out the door.

Off to Mrs. Hudson's rooms (now a gift shop) and her fabled kitchen (now a tea-room).

SUCH FUN!

Meet the Bryants and other treasures of the British Isles

2009-12-09T18:53:00.002-06:00

Nigel Bryant and his wife Jackie (or Jack) have birthdays in July, one day apart. They have been married for roughly 30 years and have two beautiful and accomplished daughters Rachael and Hannah, both in their 20's. They are an interesting couple. Nigel is in constant motion, full of energy, mischief, bombast and knowledge. You can't help but learn a thing or two when you are with Nigel. Jack is also a knowledgeable person but on a more serene scale. She has a talent for making people feel comfortable. They are great folks. They actually live near Eastleigh, but about a year ago, bought a vacation condo in Poole right on the water. I don't remember if they are on Poole Harbour proper or on Holes Bay, but wherever they are is an estuary and quiet area protected by the National Trust. We spent lots of time just enjoying the view of the tides and the birds from their French doors. We went sightseeing by car on Saturday and spent a day on the quay on Sunday. I have written about them bass-ackwards, I realize as I edit this mess. Well, that's me. Temporally disadvantaged. Sigh.

We visited the Poole Museum which was too cool. This logboat that was excavated from the Poole Harbor is over 2,000 years old. All sorts of incredible exhibits and works of art. I spent a pleasant half-hour in the natural history interactive, learning about the local waterbirds.

This 2,000 year old logboat was cut from a single tree. It was amazing watching the

interactives on its excavation.

We spent a happy hour in the Poole Pottery shop. Follow this link for a real treat: http://www.poolepottery.co.uk/contents

If the two days with the Bryants have sort of intermingled in my mind, it's probaby because we almost didn't make the trip; I was as sick as a dog with the cold from hell: but neither Dave nor I wanted to miss seeing our friends. I don't think I was as engaging as I can been when I am well, but I was engaged. I just hope the Bryants didn't catch my cold. Dave sure did.

Here I am with Nigel and Jack on the Quay in Poole. [Aside: in England, the word q-u-a-y is pronounced "key". Don't ask- they don't pronounce "quake" as "cake" or "quaint" as "caint" or "quail' as "kale", but "quay" is "key"...).

Nigel recently lost 50 pounds. Guess who found them. Hint: it wasn't Jack.

This snap does not do justice to Jackie, as Dave faced us into the sun, in a high wind.

A few views of the Quay, which is alive with vacationers in the summer months. We are here in December and the crowds are thinner... and not as scantily clad.

Side by side pubs, the Jolly Sailor and the Admiral Nelson. Nothing is better than a good English pub, unless it is two English pubs.

Me and the old man strike a pose. Take a closer look at this marker. Even when the history is history, the Brits commemorate it.

The "unfortunate duke" was the acknowledged bastard son of King Charles II. (King Charles II had 14 illegitimate children, of which James Scott, Duke of Monmouth was the eldest.) Monmouth (a Protestant) was executed for treason for leading the Monmouth Rebellion against James II (a Catholic) in 1685. Family feuds. They're a bitch. Or bastard, as the case may be.

The Bryants took us on a tour of the area in Nigel's Mercedes. We took the ferry to the Sandbank Peninsula, which was and may still be the most expensive plot of real estate in Europe. It's where God would live if He could afford it. We saw Swansea and Bournemouth, but I must admit, my favorite locale was Corfe Castle, a keep from the 11C. in the county of Dorset, near Swansea.

These are not my photographs. I found them online. The fog was too thick to get a decent shot of the wonderful relic, and, in any case, I am not a photographer. I take snapshots. The following are from Wikipedia. (Please contribute to Wikipedia with your knowledge and your financial support.)

Can you imagine being a kid and having something like Corfe Castle as a part of your daily landscape?

It's a big hike and bigger climb to approach the castle, and in my health, I didn't attempt it. But you really feel as if King Arthur and his knights could materialize out of the mists at any time. What a country for the imagination this is! The more I see of England, the more I fall in love with it.

Back to the 21st Century. Sunday on the Quay, we had a traditional English Sunday roast dinner, with both boiled and roasted potatoes, like you do, at a lovely old pub, and then Dave and I headed back to London. We had such a good time, and the Bryants are such gracious hosts.

I hope that Nigel and Jack will let Dave and I return the favor sometime soon. It's just that, since Nigel retired from Cubic, they have been cruising. No, not in the American sense; they've been going on world cruises! They are just back from a cruise that lasted over 100 days! Nigel packed three tuxedoes! Who owns THREE TUXEDOES??!! Nigel Bryant, that's who.

Good friends. We're blessed to know them.

Next blog: I join the Baker Street Irregulars. Ta ta for now!

Hello from Poole..and Corfe...and Bournemouth...and Swanage..and Sandbank Peninsula..and, oh yeah...London

2009-12-07T16:58:00.002-06:00

Actually, London came first...and THEN last. Dave and I left Horsham after having a wonderful visit; the staff there are aces, the food is spectacularly delicious; I was even able to borrow some Wellies from the South Lodge cache and clomp about the grounds. What an extraordinary place. I would love to go back someday. But after a few days of rich food and magnificent lodging, I found myself perversely wanting a sandwich (how French!) and "I longed for a bungalow", as Eddie Izzard would (and did) say.

The driver showed up 10ish and drove us in style to the Rubens at the Palace Hotel just down a road a bit from Buckingham Palace, which is the palace Rubens at the Palace Hotel is at. And here it is.

Doormen. Concierges. Lovely (but surprisingly small rooms) with comfy beds and all the mod cons, like high speed internet. Of course, everything here is wired for 240 volts so unless you like fried electronics, remember to buy an adapter. Here's our cozy little nest.

That's padded fabric on the walls, not paint or wall paper. Really beautifully done, too. Next, our equally elegant if Lilliputian bath.

There may be diabloical reasoning behind the relative smallness of the room. Yes, tourists and business travelers will be gone from their rooms must of the time, either touristing or businessing, but still, at the end of the day, one does want a comfortable place to spend the hours between dins and bed. May I introduce to you the Cavalry Bar?

Ah, the happy hours we have spent in the Cavalry Bar, enjoying the art, the drums, the regimental regalia, the wine, the Pimm's Cup, the Long Island Iced tea. Hey, we both have had hideous colds! Alcohol kills germs.

We left our London haven to travel to Poole to visit our dear firiends Nigel and Jackie Bryant. Nigel is an ex-Cubic high mucky-muck, a right mixer and a great guy, and Jackie is grace and poise personified. Dave and I spent the weekend with them (at this time, only I had the cold), and we had the best time. They deserve their own story, which will be my next posting. Sunday night we were back in London, and Dave was succumbing to the rhinovirus from hell.

No matter. We crammed our pockets with hankies and tissues and trekked to the British Museum. OMG! What an indescribably incredible place. We saw the Rosetta Stone and the Elgin Marbles. (Lion L. was surprised by them; he'd expected them to be smaller... and round.) None of my photos can do the British Museum justice, so check out http://www.britishmuseum.org/. Prepare to be amazed.

Our colds and their attendant coughs and sneezes made us feel like Typhoid Mary in duplicate so we hied on back to the Rubens to partake of the most brilliant and wonderful of British inventions, afternoon tea.

Notice our view? It is the back of Buckingham Palace, an area called the Palace Mews. We watched people and carriages come and go, and saw young palace workers hanging out the window, getting a breath of fresh air, or cooling off. England temps are problematic. Outside is cold and damp. Inside is hot and damp. It's a lot like San Francisco, where you can find yourself really cold and sweating like a pig at the same time. Thanks to our life in Frisco, we were actually adequately dressed for London. Here's a shot of the Palace Mews.

Not a bad view at tea-time, eh?

I really love England.

Tomorrow, in homage to my friend Marcia Kribs, reader and Holmes enthusiast extraordinaire, we are going to 221B Baker Street. The Sherlock Holmes Museum is there, set up exactly as described in the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Cannot wait! Then off to the Victoria and Albert, and the Science Museum. We will probably miss tea-time. Darn! That means we will have to repair to the Cavalry Bar for solace. Cheers!

Hello from Horsham

2009-12-02T14:13:00.009-06:00

There is a sheep on my desk. He's very cute and his name is apparently Lord Sussex (Minty to his friends). Lord Sussex guards the door to our room at the South Lodge Hotel in Horsham, England, should we not want to be disturbed. He has become great friends with Frank Sinatrat and Lionel Messi, two stuffed creatures who made the trip with me as stowaways. My daughter Kelly and her wonderfully fey friend Anne-Geri started the flat stanley variant with these two dudes when Frankie got left behind in Tennessee on one of Kelly's visit, and Lionel found his way to San Diego somehow. It's diverting. They each have their own page on Facebook... Frankie and Lionel, I mean... though the girls do as well, I believe.

Those who know me know I hate the process of travel. I like being in other places, I just abhor what one must do to get there. Here are a few observations, born of my 18 hour trek from Tullahoma to Worsham.

   1.   It's the pits living an hour and a half from the airport. I grew up in the suburbs of Detroit, and spent most of my life not 15 minutes from the airport. I took it for granted. What a dope. Living in Tullahoma means that every trip begins with a trip.

   2. American Eagle mega-sucks. People were not meant to be shipped like parcels. (Actually, packages are treated with more care and respect than American Eagle passengers.) If we are going to be treated like baggage, we should be charged as baggage.  Fortunately, the flight from Nashville to Chicago was under 1.5 hours. Even so, it was bruising.

   3. The flight from Chicago to Heathrow lasted almost seven hours. The seats were comfortable and conformable to the average human body. Didn't help ME much, but most aboard seemed to have no trouble fully reclining and nodding off.   I couldn't manage it, so decided to play with my Nintendo and/or read. All was well until they turned off the lights. No probs- MOVIE TIME!    Except... the "entertainment" system had gone belly up. Seven hours is a long time to be sleepless and diversionless in a chair traveling 30,000 feet in the air at 700 mph... all you are left to do is dwell on the fact that YOU ARE IN A CHAIR TRAVELING 30,000 FEET IN THE AIR AT 700mph!!

4. Deplaning at 6:30 AM UK time (while you are still on 12:30 am CST) is bad enough but at Heathrow, you are then treated to a mile forced march to baggage claim and customs, followed by a half-mile trek to the exit.

Now the good news:
We were met by a chaffeur and driven to Horsham in a Mercedes. Such luxury.

We were deposited here.

Don't you just hate roughing it? The South Lodge Hotel, Lower Beeding, Nr Horsham, West Sussex sits on 96 acres with spectacular gardens renown for its camellias. The largest and oldest Camellia in England is said to reside here. December, of course, is not the best time to enjoy the garden, but the hotel itself is a treat. It's an old manor house with fantastic woodwork and plastering and is everything you expect from British luxury from everything you have seen on the BBC. The restaurant is named for the famous Camellias. the South Lodge is considered a "small" hotel because it only has 45 rooms to let. Imagine owning a house with 45 bedrooms- it must have been wonderful being rich. (What do I mean "must have been"? )

We had a lovely breakfast, tucked in for a nap, and then joined the Cubic contingent in the bar for a wee drinkie and then repaired to the dining room for an amazing meal. So much for day one.

Day two, Dave went off with the Cubes and I gave in to jet lag. When I awoke, it was 3 in the afternoon. The bed and pillows here are just wonderful. I haven't slept this comfortably in years. I had a lovely dinner (alone) in the room as Dave is here on business, after all. I picked a good day to doze, though, as it rained heavily all day and I left me Wellies at home.

England is such a lovely place. I wish you all were here. The OLM is definitely going to have to plan an excursion to London soon, while we all can still walk :)

Off for a Pimm's cup. Ta ta!

Phobias: 1 Kate: 0

2009-11-14T23:01:00.001-06:00

I did not go to tea at the Crown and Crumpet. Sigh.

Mazeophobia beat me. I could not for the life of me figure out which mode of transportation, going in which direction, I needed to take to get to my beloved tea room. I stood at the train station thinking I needed to take a bus, and couldn't remember where the bus stop is. When I finally remembered, I actually walked to it. Once there, I realized I didn't know which bus to take, and that I wouldn't know how to get home again even if I did, so I just went back to the apartment. Had a nice, invigorating walk in the process.

I prefer coffee anyway. Starbucks I can find. It's right across the street.

Fears, phobias and public transportation

2009-11-05T18:36:00.000-06:00

Here it is, November already! My youngest granddaughter, the baby, just turned 6. How is that possible? The years are just flying by now. It stinks. Summer was way too short, and now we have to slop through another winter. I'm against it.

I am very much against the stresses of this time of year. In winter, all I want to do is wrap up in a blanky, drink hot coffee, and read. And sleep. Mostly sleep. Instead, I must prepare for yet another Thanksgiving and Christmas, holidays that will be interrupted this year by a trip to England. Yes, I hear your violins playing for me. What a hardship, going to England.

Well, England in November is no Palm Beach. And the first few days of the visit, I will be on my own since Dave is going there for business purposes and I am excess baggage until Thursday. Which means I will have to amuse myself and get myself around solo in a strange country. Kinda like being in San Francisco, only a much longer flight.

Most people who think they know me don't know that I have been battling two powerful phobias for most of my life. The first, and strongest, is mazeophobia. Mazeophobia is the fear of getting lost. Since I have poor vision and no sense of direction, it seems logical that I would fear getting lost. Time, experience, and a GPS have damped this phobia down a bit, but it comes raging back to life from time to time... usually because of my second phobia- neophobia.

Yes, I am afraid of new experiences. While getting lost is NOT a new experience, going someplace I've never been before is. Which is why I usually go with someone or have someone else drive whenever going someplace for the first time. That will not be an option in England.

Nor is it an option here, in San Francisco, now that my guide (daughter Kelly) has obsconded to Tennessee for some ungodly period of time. I have not yet been able to overcome my phobias to venture any farther afield than the bookstore on the corner. I left my GPS in Tullahoma. I am doomed.

I haven't figured out the public transportation system yet. There's so much of it, and it is so varied. Trains, light-rail, cable cars, buses... lions and tigers and bears, oh my! I could take a cab anywhere I want to go, but really don't want to take out a mortgage on the house just because I've been outsmarted by Bart, or am appalled at Muni. (There's a pun in there but only the very old or very movie literate will get it).

ANYWAY, I have spent my whole life overcoming my fears by confronting them, and so tomorrow, I am going to brave the perils of city transport and go out. I intend to have high tea at the Crown and Crumpet in Ghirardelli Square if it hare-lips me. Wish me well. And say good-bye now. Don't know when - or if- I'll be back.

Tho' much is taken, much abides

2009-09-18T02:47:00.004-05:00

I was born in 1949. I am sixty as of September 12. I am now the age my grandmother was when I was born. I was her first grandchild. If I follow the projection of my grandmother's life, I have only 16 more years left before the end.

If I follow in my mother's footsteps, I will be gone in 4 years.

On the other hand, should I model myself after my grandfather, I have another 29 years ahead of me. Aside from deafness and a terrifying inability to drive safely, Grandpa was healthy until the day he died. I share two of the three characteristics listed. You figure it out.

Or, if I track my dad, I have another 25 years to go. My dad went off to WWII at the age of 17 and saw and endured things that marked him for life. At one point, he missed his boat which went down with all hands. Another time he was in a PT boat with blood up to his ankles. He was sealed off in a flooding compartment with about half a dozen other sailors and was the only one to emerge alive. I believe he's suffered from survivor guilt his whole life. He never expected to live to 40. He never believed in the future, and is both astonished and rueful about being 85. He is convinced he is going to hell when he dies, and so has decided not to.

You can't help thinking about things like this when you reach landmark birthdays. Life moves faster as you age and life changes faster than you can comprehend or embrace. You can feel yourself becoming obsolete. When the children are grown and the career is over, it is easy to feel unnecessary and to wonder, not if your life has any purpose, but if it ever did. What has been the point? The meaning of life, if there is one... is it nothing more than just the day to day living of it? This is how our thoughts turn when we are no longer young. We must grow philosophic as we approach the unescapable unknown ending.

Bette Davis said that old age ain't for sissies.
Woody Allen said he didn't mind dying, he just didn't want to be there when it happened.

The certainty of one's death tinges everything when one reaches a certain age. Is it any wonder that the majority of the elderly suffer from clinical depression? It would be so easy to succumb to the darker thoughts and primal fears.

But you can't dwell on these things. There's more to life than death. Life is too sweet even as it is too short to let the shortness of it eclipse all else.

So I will take a page from Alfred Lord Tennyson, and end here with a quote from my favorite poem of his, Ulysses. Ulysses is speaking to his surviving comrades at the ebb of his life. He is chafing at the limits of his strength and the burden of his responsibility. Ulysses was a hero, but I think the sentiment expressed in these lines is appropriate for all mortals. Here is the excerpt that most speaks to me:

...you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.

Death closes all; but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Have you heard the one about...

2009-08-06T01:18:00.002-05:00

I can't tell a joke worth beans. I love a good joke, but half the fun of hearing one is passing it on. I can't do that. I mean, I can pass it on but when I'm done, it's not a joke anymore. Sigh.

I am a very funny person, really, in a conversational, quick retort, punny, smart ass sort of way. I make people laugh all the time. Just not when I am telling jokes. Sigh again.

So I will tell you a couple of stories instead.

These two involve Christmas. I know it's only August, but, God as my witness, CRACKER BARREL already has Christmas stuff for sale. (They have Halloween and Thanksgiving stuff as well. People, we're talking early AUGUST here. It isn't even autumn yet! I despise the blantant cynical merchandising that is forcing the holidays on us earlier and earlier every year). But I digress. I feel comfortable telling these stories because they're humorous and I'm not selling anything.

Let us now travel back, back, back in time to 1983. A whole century ago. (I'm not wrong about that. 1983 was in the 20th century, 2009 is in the 21st...). My darling husband has been disappointing me gift-wise for about 15 years. Every year at the appropriate time, I give him a list of things I want for my birthday, or for Mother's Day, or for our anniversary, or for Christmas. Every year he apparently shreds the list and buys me something practical. Like a toaster. (I asked for Obsession perfume for every occasion for FIVE STRAIGHT YEARS before I finally just broke down and bought it for myself. Think about that. I asked for it at least 20 times and he didn't take the hint).

So, my birthday rolls around in September, like it does on an annoyingly annual basis, and once again, the Clueless Gifter strikes. I open my present and nod resignedly. Yep. It's a Dust Buster. I am beyond disappointed this time. I am pissed. "I don't know why it is, but you never give me what I want. You only give me what you want me to have," I snarl. "Do me a favor. Forget about getting me anything for Christmas this year. Don't put yourself out."

That was a very ungracious thing to say. Saying it was a mean thing to do. Damn, it felt good.

Anyhoo, Christmas starts looming on the horizon and the hubs starts asking me what I want for Christmas, and I rub salt in the wound. "Why ask me? You never get me what I ask for, so why set me up for disappointment?" Later queries are met with the set reply "I don't want anything."

Christmas day dawns and the cherubs are up at the crack of it, tearing and shredding their way orgiastically through the wretched excess that is Christmas in the Lapczynski home. Dave unwraps and is pleased with his gifts. There is nothing for me under the tree.

There is nothing for me in my stocking, either, which hangs forlorn and anorexic all by itself. The bloated stockings that were filled for Dave and the kids have long since disgorged their bounty and are scattered amid the debris. Mine just glowers at me, empty and humiliated. "Big mouth," it says to me in a rather wooly, sarcastic voice. "Idiot. Well, you got what you asked for. Moron."

I do not respond. I have enough emotional turmoil going on, I don't need to get into it with a snarky sock. Nor do I cry or make a fuss. In fact, I do my best to act as if I am oblivious to my giftless Christmas. I am just struck by the irony that the first time the man ever gives me what I have asked for is when I have asked for nothing. I sit on the couch in a brown mood, watching the kiddies and trying not to think about putting anti-freeze in Dave's coffee.

Then, from behind me, a gorgeous strand of pearls descends into my lap. And another. And another. "Babe, I didn't intend to be mean. I just wanted to shower you with pearls this year."

Boy, did the man get laid that night. Merry Christmas to all.

Jump ahead to 1990. My beloved son is in the high school band which is in the Christmas parade. My hubby and I are watching the parade with another married couple and we wind up in front of Arnold's Furniture Store. The band passes us by and I turn to look in the window and see the most beautiful painting in the most beautiful frame I have ever seen. I nudge my girlfriend and point it out to her. She agrees that it is stunning. We both bring the picture to the attention of our husbands, who make the required and insincere murmurs of praise and accord.

On the way home, I tell the hubs that all I want for Christmas is that picture. I have been completely captivated by it. He nods. Christmas morning comes, and of course, I do not get the picture. Hubby apologizes in a rush when he sees my well-disguised disappointment; he had gone to Arnold's the very next day after work, but the picture was already gone. I was disappointed, but I also was sincerely touched that he'd made the effort. AND he had gotten me a very, very nice gift, so I didn't want to seem like an ingrate.

Later that day, we go to see the married couple with whom we had gone to the parade.

Yep. You guessed it. SHE got the picture for Christmas.

I can't begin to describe the combination of rage, jealousy and shame about the rage and jealousy I felt at that moment, but I can relive it at will.

Jump ahead yet again to the year 1993. By this time, our married friends have divorced. My girlfriend is in need of cash and calls me. "I know how much you love the picture. Would you be interested in buying it?" Hmmm... let me think. Do I want the picture? Hmmm... I have been avoiding her bedroom for three years for fear that seeing it would compel me to strangle on the spot. I have plotted several burglary scenarios which I abandoned because the picture, being the only thing taken, would be a dead give-away... and my friend was in and out of my house all the time, so where would I hang it?

"I might be, " I say cagily. "How much are you asking?"

She sells me the picture for $50. And you say there is no Santa Claus. (yes, you do, I've heard you).

Here's a picture of the picture.

Now, really, weren't those amusing stories? Aren't you glad I didn't tell a joke?

Home Sweet Home Away From Home

2009-07-08T01:03:00.000-05:00

Imagine this whole space filled to the window sills with packed boxes. Sadly. I don't have to. I may have been spared the packing, but the unpacking more than made up for it. We were downsizing from three bedrooms to two, and yet, miraculously, in about a week we were able to cobble together a comfortable living space.

Here is a shot of the livingroom/ office area of the great room. Dave's office is the lower left hand side of the photo. My little office space is hiding behind the first pillar. We have some really great views. You can't see from this shot, but the Bay Bridge can be seen through the second window from the right.

And here it is, the Bay Bridge. It is so cool watching boats and ships leave and enter the bay. Below is the view from the kitchen side of the great room. That's AT&T Park, home of the Giants, a view that makes Dave SO happy.

Looking down toward the street from the diningroom end of the great room. We watched the 4th of July fireworks from this table and had an absolutely perfect, couldn't-be-better view of the pyrotechnics.

This is the view to the left of the diningroom. There is usually a flotilla of sailboats out in the bay. Not when I am taking pictures, of course.

Dave's office was still a work in progress when I took this. There is a balcony out the sliding glass doors.

This is one of the views from the balcony. If I'd panned left, I would have seen the Twin Peaks. They really do look like earthwork boobies.

Part of the hallway leading to our bedroom. To the left (unseen) is the laundry room. Behind me (unseen) are the bathroom and linen closet.

Our bedroom, also at this point a work in progress.

San Francisco is a wonderful place. Our apartment is a wonderful place. Our views are so wonderful the movers took numerous cell phone pictures of them. The view from THIS window is of... AT&T Park. GO, GIANTS!

Chocoholics of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your figure.. your teeth...

2009-06-15T02:46:00.000-05:00

Chocolate is good. Milk chocolate is REALLY good. White chocolate isn't chocolate at all and is deserving of our contempt. Dark chocolate is supposed to be good for you; since it doesn't taste anywhere near as wonderful as milk chocolate, that's probably true. I have had just about every kind of chocolate in the world and can say with complete confidence that there is no such thing as bad chocolate.

1. Forget the snobbery of European chocolate. Ditto Whitman's and Stovers. Hershey chocolate is the best in the world. Period. My mom would buy the really huge bar and she and I would surreptitiously break off and share chunks of it late at night when everyone else was asleep. Cherished memory.

2. Another cherished memory involves a hot summer night with Mom and I in our filmiest nighties watching Johnny Carson and trying to stay cool (we were both night owls), and a Good Humor truck, looking spectral as it moved through the muggy weather, a haze highlighted by street lamps surrounding it and the two of us dashing into the night to buy Chocolate Eclair Ice Cream Bars, nibbling on them slowly to make them last. That is the run-on sentence from hell, but memories should have a stream of consciousness quality to them, I think.

3. The most over-rated chocolates in the WORLD are Belgian in general and Dove in specific. Don't get me wrong, I'd eat them in a heartbeat. I mean, c'mon, they're chocolate...but they ain't Hershey chocolate.

4. Purity Dairy makes the world's best chocolate milk. AND the second best chocolate ice cream.

5. The world's best chocolate ice cream was/is? made by the Stroh's Brewing company. Yes, yes, a brewery in Detroit. Here's a link to the Wikipedi article, which is pretty darn interesting.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stroh%27s_Ice_Cream

I love ice cream. I think it is the most perfect food especially when it is chocolate.

6. The second best chocolate in the world is Ghirardelli. It's so good that San Francisco actually has a "shrine" to it called Ghirardelli Square. You can get the world's greatest hot fudge sundae there. FYI: fudge is a form of chocolate. It is entirely edible.

7. Nestle's makes the best semi-sweet chocolate chips, and their Tollhouse recipe makes the best chocolate chip cookies.

8. The best chocolate in a Whitman Sampler is the milk chocolate caramel.

9. The best chocolate in a Russell Stover candy box is the milk chocolate caramel.

10. All the best candy bars are combinations of milk chocolate and caramel.

Being a diabetic has seriously impeded my chocolate consumption. However, since I am a diabetic, I know the nature of my demise. It will literally be death by chocolate. I shall kill myself with kindness...and as much Hershey's chocolate as it takes.

And awaaay we go to San Francisco

2009-05-27T15:34:00.000-05:00

Our lifestyle confuses people. Living in two places at the same time is confusing. Since 2004, Dave and I have bounced back and forth on a semi-regular basis between a house in the south and an apartment on the west coast, for business reasons. I have had to explain our split domicile way of life, often more than once, to just about everyone.

The explanation goes like this: Our permanent address is our cozy home in Tennessee. Our apartment in San Diego has been our home-away-from-home since 2004 and we go there a lot because corporate headquarters are there.

However, Cubic has a big contract in San Francisco, so, come the third week of June, our California apartment will be in SAN FRANCISCO. We are moving from San Diego to the city on the bay. Which does NOT mean we are giving up our home in Tennessee. It is, after all, our home.

When I tell people we are moving but will still live in Tullahoma, they don't get it. That's because when NORMAL people move, they LEAVE one address and relocate to a different singular address. Normal ain't us.

We have leased a beautiful two bedroom apartment on the 15th floor of this amazing building in the downtown area. We have views of the Bay Bridge and AT&T park from our livingroom.

Here are some pics for you.

See the roundy bit on this building? Our apartment is in the roundy bit.

Here's the floorplan. Notice the roundy bit. It is entirely windows.

This sales model is on the 5th floor, so the view is not so cool. See the pillars? See the windows? This is the roundy bit from the inside. This is not our furniture. I downloaded this pic from the comples' website. Imagine what the view is like from 10 stories higher.

This is a partial view of the kitchen, again in the model.

And across the street: public transportation of every kind, a Safeway, Panera Bread, Starbucks, Borders books, the public library, our bank and a wonderful nail salon. Down the street: O'Neill's Irish Pub. And the ballpark.

GOD! THE SACRIFICES WE MAKE FOR THIS COMPANY!!

See, this is what I don't like about...

2009-04-29T12:29:00.001-05:00

I hate travel. I hate traveling. I don't mind being places that aren't home. I hate the process involved in getting there.

Today is Wednesday. On Saturday, the hubby, the daughter and I will be going from San Diego to San Francisco along the Pacific Coast Highway. It will be gorgeous, the hubs enthuses. The scenery is breathtaking. We'll make a two day road trip of it, see Big Sur and Santa Barbara and Carmel. You'll never forget it.

Since at no time has Disneyland figured into this scheme, it just sounds like two days in a car to me. I hate traveling by car. (Well, in all cases but one of recent memory, I hate traveling by car.
I had a GREAT time when Kel and I drove up to Michigan to care for my father.)

I hear that San Fran is a wonderful town. Tony Bennett left his heart there. I hope it's been refrigerated all this time. I am looking forward to being someplace less desert-like with a wider choice of activities. It should be a nice place to visit, and I will have Kel with me while the hubs works his standard 12 hour day. If it didn't involve traveling to get there, I would probably be excited.

But here's the drill. I have to pack. I have to keep track of my meds, my insulin, my cell phone. I will have to sleep in yet another strange bed in another place that is NOT home, as in there is no place like. I will have to do all that in reverse order to get back to San Diego and almost immediately again to return to Tennessee, where my cats, my friends, and my son's family live. I get to live there from time to time myself. Dave hardly ever does. He doesn't mind travel.

What a dope.

MY DAUGHTER IS TRYING TO KILL ME!!!

2009-04-24T01:33:00.001-05:00

So here we are in San Diego. By "we", I do not mean Dave and I - Dave is either in San Francisco or Seattle, due back sooner or later. I mean my daughter Kelly and I. I haven't been out here since Thanksgiving of 2007, so things here have changed, like they do, and I have forgotten how to get places, like I do. Kelly has been my chaffeur and tour guide. With Dave gone, Kel and I have been Ladies Who Lunch.

This is where the murder plot comes in.

I didn't suspect anything when she took me to a wonderful Italian restaurant in Powway called Domenic's. It's a small place but cozy and charming. And the food... MAMA MIA! We shared a bruschetta. We each had a bowl of impossibly delicious minestrone. I had ravioli. Kelly had chicken parmesan. The portions were spot on; we were sated but not stuffed when we left the ristorante. Que bella!

Look here to peruse the menu fantastico. http://www.domenicsristorante.com/

Okay, I can forgive her Domenics. We were hungry, neither of us had breakfast that morning, and it was early afternoon. We needed to eat. Today, however, her cunning plot to kill me with kindness was so blatant that even I saw through it. She took me to Extraordinary Desserts in San Diego, on Union Street. There I had a glass of tea...

...and a devonshire Napolean. Look HERE to see the (attempted) murder weapon. http://www.extraordinarydesserts.com/

OMIGOD! The bottom layer was strawberries, blackberries, and raspberries and the Napolean was topped with an edible flower and a huge strawberry. It was served on a plate of strawberry and raspberry sauces swirled together.

We're doing Chinese tomorrow. It's been nice knowing you.

Home again, again

2009-04-06T02:48:00.000-05:00

My dad's cat Snoopy, curled up in HIS recliner with his favorite toy on his favorite rug.

Yes, it is his recliner. Hey, the cat has his own room! But he's not spoiled.

Just back from spending a month with my old man. While there, I got new easier-to -negotiate stairs to his front door installed, replaced his lift chair, got home health care arranged, paid off his hospital bills, took him to the dentist for a replacement crown that my brother Bill financed, to the eye-doctor for new glasses, and hooked him up to Contact Life-Line. With tweaking, these arrangements should allow him to live relatively comfortably in his own home with his cat Snoopy for some time, I hope.

And the arrangements WILL BE TWEAKED if my sister has anything to do with them, and she will. But that's all right. I hoped the arrangements would make her life a little easier too. She and Dad need to thrash them out together. They do not need to include me in the tweaking- I am alternately 750 and 2,000 miles away from them.

The month went quickly and Dad and I got along quite well, as we always do. We cohabitate well, which is a blessing. His cat Snoopy and I, however, do not.

Snoopy hates me. He's not fond of women in general, an attitude I am sure he picked up from my dad, but he LOATHES me. My daughter Kelly was able to get him to tolerate her and even play with her. Before she left, Snoopy was even letting her pet him, albeit in that surly condescending sneering way many cats have toward contact with humans. Me, he bit.

Repeatedly.

He also hissed, spit, scratched and slapped.

What a guy. Here are some pictures of the little shit. Enjoy.

Snoopy, draped along the back of Dad's chair.

Snoopy, playing nicely with Kelly.

Snoopy, drinking my water.

...and sometimes your dream crawls on its belly like a reptile

2009-01-27T11:55:00.000-06:00

Dragonfly Arts will happen.

But not just yet.

My 84 year old father fell and fractured four lumbar vertebrae in October. (Those of you kind enough to follow this sporadic blog may remember that I went to visit my dad in October of last year. Due to bad knees and a poorly recuperated broken hip, the man could barely walk).

I wasn't home from Michigan a week before he slipped out in the dead of night to drive across the state to meet up with his drinking/gambling buddies in the picturesque town of Plymouth. He met them in a bar, of course, and they spent the night doing what they always do, migrating from one favorite watering hole to another until they ended at Denny's (or some place like it) for coffee and breakfast.

Apparently, Dad, who still thinks he is in his 40's, was surprised at how painful the trip had been on his ancient body and so popped a couple of pain pills. On top of alcohol. And then he fell down went boom.

He spent Thanksgiving in the hospital and Christmas and New Year's in the physical rehab facility and is there now. If all goes well (or ill, depending on how you look at it), he will be allowed to go home Feb. 20. So I am heading up to MI... in February... to spend a month with him and gauge how well he does at home. All of his children feel he should go to Texas to live with Bill and Anna, who actually want him to do that. It would be so good for him if he would, so I am sure he won't... unless I can figure out some way to get him to see reason while I am up there.

Sorry. I had to step away from the computer for a second. I was suddenly overcome with laughter at that last sentence.

Sometimes your dreams have wings

2008-12-12T20:06:00.000-06:00

I have many, many things in my life that bring me joy. (Notice I said "things"- I'll post about people who bring me joy another time.)

I have my homey "cottage" that we call Parva Domus.

I have my wonderful pool. Closed now for winter, of course, but this last summer, it attracted dragonflies which from time to time would light on the tips of our fingers if we lifted our hands high enough and stood very still.

I thought this was magical. Dragonflies are the familiars of faeries. They travel and live together, and some faeries change into dragonflies to escape detection. You should NEVER ever harm a dragonfly, both for its own sake, and because it might be a transmogrified faerie. Just assume that anytime you see a dragonfly there is a faerie close at hand.

I collect faeries. (Not real ones, of course- I am NOT Lady Cottington, thank you). I collect figurines of faeries. I have almost 150 of the lovely things, and they bring me great joy.

Scrapbooking also brings me great joy. I have made scrapbooks for my father, mother-in-law, husband, daughter, son, daughter-in-law, niece, god-daughter, and all four granddaughters, and am working on three at once right now.

(Okay, Kate, either string these altogether, or get off my damn keyboard.)

Please excuse my computer. It's fallen into the habit of being rude to me on an almost daily basis. Here's the string:

My love of faeries led me to my love of dragonflies. The dragonfly became my personal symbol. It has also been the symbol of my paper crafts, both cards and scrapbooks, made with love for friends and family.

The dragonfly is the symbol of transformation and creativity. It occupies two realms, water and air, and is equally at home in each. The dragonfly is symbolic of the expression of hopes, dreams, needs and wishes.

NOW, it is the symbol of my new business, which is a scrapbooking service. Lots of people just do not have the time to put together a scrapbook. They may even have the book, paper, embellishments and photos sitting in a drawer or on a shelf somewhere, silently reproaching them as dust settles and no pages are made. I take away the reproaches and create works of art. Hence the name of my new business, Dragonfly Arts.

Scrapbooks are labor-intensive projects. Good scrapbooks require good paper, good layouts and imagination. My scrapbooks may be pricey, but they are better than good. They are art. I know this because my clients tell me so.

Need a scrapbook for some special occasion- or OF some special occasion? Let me help. For a fee. You provide the memories. I'll provide the art.

Scampers and Patches

2008-11-21T23:30:00.000-06:00

Since May, my life has had to be severely modified due to the surgery to my neck. The surgery was a success, but I am no spring chicken. To ensure the complete ossification of the bone transplants, I must wear a bone growth stimulator (BGS) 4 hours each day. The device may be stimulating the growth of bone but wearing it is tedious and depressing. The one UP side to wearing this infernal device is that it seems to attract the cats. Even Tiger, who is generally aloof, has been sleeping beside me or on my lap. The device sets up a magnetic field that is conducive to bone growth. It is also conducive to cat cuddling.

I have been mostly homebound since May, so the cat bonding has been both gratifying and comforting. In October I went to see my dad for a week and to help him celebrate his 84th birthday. (The BGS went with me, of course. I am an obedient patient.) Even my dad noticed that the BGS seemed to affect my mood. Not in a good way.

When I returned home, my baby kitty Scampers was sick again. He had pneumonia in August, an abscess in September, and now he was ailing again. He'd been back and forth to the vet so many times he didn't even resist the trip on October 27. On October 28th, he died. The pneumonia had been pneumothorax from a punctured lung. The abscess had developed from the infection from the puncture. The infection destroyed his liver and kidneys. Scampers was only 15 months old when he died. There really isn't a word for how I still feel about losing my little fellow. Heartbroken doesn't even come close.

Today I learned that my calico cat Patches is dying of kidney failure. My once Fat Kitty has been losing weight, which I actually thought was a good thing and the result of changing her diet. Two days ago, she began crying through the house. I took her to the vet. He kept her overnight, and broke the bad news to me today. She will stay in at the vet's over this weekend being treated for renal failure. She can't be cured, but maybe we can buy her a little time. And watch her slowly die at home. She is only six.

Now I feel paranoid about the health of my boys, Hobbes and Tiger. To say I am depressed is to understate my mood by orders of magnitude. I have just finished my four hours with the bone growth stimulator and I spent those hours crying like a baby. I don't think it was the device that was depressing me.

Happy birthday, Bilbo and Frodo

2008-09-23T00:03:00.000-05:00

September 22. Today is the shared birthday of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, hobbits extraordinaire and dear old friends. For years, I have celebrated this august occasion... no, wait, this September occasion... by nestling in and rereading the glorious "Lord of the Rings" trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien. (I was six when "Fellowship of the Ring" was published, which, I guess, makes me older than Middle Earth).

I thought this year I would watch all three Peter Jackson films back to back rather than reread the books. The films are magnificent and I have seen each of them 17 times or more in the theater. On one occasion, I had the theater all to myself and drove home in the dark with my imagination still firmly in Middle Earth. I could live and be happy at Bag End. I would fit right in. I am almost as vertically challenged and nearly as round as the average hobbit.

But I have decided to honor my own tradition and crack out the well-worn books that I have re-read at least 30 times now. I always find something new or rediscover something dear every time I read them. Few works have ever so completely transported me out of myself as this one does.

The last couple of years I have been studying "The Silmarillion". You can't really read "The Silmarillion", you must ingest it. It is a rich, dense cheesecake of a work and must be taken in small bites. Tolkien was a scholar and this is his scholarly back story to the Ring trilogy. I particularly love his creation story "The Music of the Ainur". In it, Iluvatar directs his host, the Ainur, in song. The music they create is miraculous, comprised of not only the sound of voices but the sounds of all things that organize noise into music.

The song Iluvatar directs is full of beautiful transcendent harmonies- and one deliberate disharmony. The disharmony is the work of Melkor. Again and again he derails the song , sometimes leading some of the Ainur to lend their voices to his but more often confusing the other singers into silence.

Iluvatar redirects the song down melodic paths he envisions time and again. When the song is ended, he reveals to the Ainur what their music has created. It is the world. In the beginning was the word - but in this creation story the word is sung.

There is always a discordant entity in all creation stories, perhaps to explain the imperfections of the world and its inhabitants, perhaps to show the exercise of free will. There must be a villain or there is no need for heroes. And like most villains, Melkor does harm but does not triumph. Despite the efforts of Melkor, a place has come into being and this place will serve as home for the children of Iluvatar, Elves and Men, the Firstborn and the Followers.

We meet Galadriel for the first time in "The Silmarillion" and learning her history makes her return to Elvenhome at the end of the quest in "The Return of the King" all the more poignant. We see how dwarves came into being, and Orcs, and Sauron. Tolkien created the mostly fully realized other world I have ever encountered in literature.

Today, however, is September 22, so I will once again invite myself to the long-expected party and wish Bilbo and Frodo, uncle and nephew, bearers of the Ring, the happiest of birthdays. I will gasp at Gandalf's fireworks and refill my beer mug as often as I can get away with. I will eat like a hobbit and put even more meat on my bones, for dark times are coming when food and drink will be scarce, and I will wage war against evil side by side with my friends from the Shire.

But that comes later.

See you at Bag End tonight. Wear your party hats.

The first 40 years are the hardest...or so I hope!

2008-08-29T02:39:00.001-05:00

In our church, parishioners take turns hosting the Fellowship Hour that follows the last Sunday service each week. Early in each year a sign-up sheet magically appears, and it's amazing to me how quickly the available dates get filled. This year, I noticed that one of the Fellowship Hours fell exactly on August 10th, Dave's and my anniversary, and so, like the dummy I am, I signed us up for it.

Did I mention it was our 40th anniversary? A rather significant number, I thought. We married young, obviously, though he is MUCH older than I am (he was born in June, I in September... of the same year.) We missed out on any big celebration for all the five year milestones from 25 to 40. We had planned to go to Michigan to celebrate our 25th anniversary with our families there but something prevented that from happening: I was hired as a full-time, tenure-track instructor by Motlow College. Kinda hard to start a new job in Tennessee if you are in the Great Lake State, so I didn't attempt it. Jeez, was that really 15 years ago? It seems much longer.

Anyhoo, I remember my mom and dad's 25th anniversary party. My sibs and I threw it for them. My sister got us the use of the community room of the apartment complex where she was living at the time. We split the cost between the five of us, and Sue and I prepared most of the food ourselves. Aunts, uncles, friends, neighbors, they all showed up and everyone had a great time. No one got drunk, there were no fights, and for one day, at least, Mom and Dad seemed to really like each other. It was very nice.

I hoped our 25th would be as nice. It wasn't. I missed out on love-fest, which made my new career start off on a bittersweet note. (The purely bitter notes would come later.)

I was not up to travel after the surgery or we could have gone to Michigan to celebrate our anniversary. Instead, I signed us up for the Fellowship Hour. Who better to celebrate an occasion like that than with your parish family and friends?

So I ordered a ton of food from Kroger and actually ordered a wedding cake that kinda sorta looked like the one we had had 40 years ago. We could both eat sugar back then, so we ate our wedding cake. THIS cake we just glared at.

Our daughter flew in from San Diego for the occasion. Several of my dear friends came to the service, as did my son and his family. Kelly and Dave did most of the heavy lifting in getting the food set up. Mama stayed with them in the parish hall while I went to mass.

The only glitch so far had come early in the day when I arrived with Mama and the wedding cake and found two women setting up for fellowship hour. The good ladies had gotten their dates mixed up. Their attitude suggested that they expected me to pack away my goodies and get out of their way, but I explained the realities of perishable, non-freezable foods, an expensive three tiered cake, and that fact that it was my 40th anniversary and I had signed up for this date months ago. They very graciously packed up their goodies and stored them in the church freezer but the whole rest of the day, I felt like I should be apologizing to them. Don't ask.

Once that little snafu was sorted, I left the set-up in Dave and Kelly's capable hands and joined friends and family in the church. Mama did not come with me. Mama stayed with Dave and Kelly.

Marcia and her whole family, looking handsome one and all, filled a pew. Shelia was there. The Gilliams and the Simms were due to show up after the service. I started feeling the stress lifting and fell into the service. I love the service. It helps you get your head and heart straight for the rest of the week.

Time came for communion. I was sitting fairly close to the front, so I was among the first to go to the altar. I took communion and returned to my pew feeling peaceful and blessed.

God as my witness, I did not know Mama had come into the church. I did not see her from the altar as I returned to my pew but I certainly saw her as she made her fragile, pathetic, Sarah Bernhardt approach to the altar. She was calling upon all and sundry to help her up the aisle. She loudly asked for Wilma to help her up the steps, which, God bless her, Wilma did. She went to the altar. She stood to take communion. She turned, sat down in the choir pew, and blithely listened to Nelda on the organ.

Jim, the dapper usher, looked dumb-founded but I was already on my feet, headed for Mama. I helped her out of the choir seat, helped her down the steps, and guided her to my pew. She was, from start to finish, the center of attention, which, of course, was the point. As Father finished feeding his flock, Mama made the periodic comment... "I'm blind as a bat"; I really must investigate sonar for Mama.

No harm, no foul. The congregation is used to, if not on to, Mama. We repaired to the parish hall. That's when it hit me that maybe hosting the coffee hour on your special day is not the smartest thing in the world to do. The hall was packed!

But the hall looked lovely. Dave and Kel had worked almost two hours to set everything out, make the coffee and punch, etc. I had brought from home a decorative ceramic church, and a bride, groom, and minister I had ordered from Miniatures.com to serve as the centerpiece on the cake table. The cake was gorgeous. Three tiers, two of which disappeared so fast I thought Houdini was in the crowd. It was really pretty. You will just have to take my word for that.

Why? Did any of us remember to bring a camera? Of course not. Fortunately, Sandie and Robert swung by after their service ended, and Sandie came prepared so we do have some very nice pictures of the tail end of our "party".

After clean-up and pack up, we all headed to the house and jumped in the pool. Dave grilled steaks and brats and Mama ate like she'd never seen food before. We all had a great time. The only sour note to the day was this: we got no cards or emails or calls from anyone in my family. My dad, my sister, my brothers... not a word from any of them. We did, however, get a great deal of affectionate attention from our kids and grandkids.

We have great friends. We really have made a life here in this tiny little town in middle Tennessee. We have been here 28 of our 40 years together. This is home.

Now, I will share some of Sandie's shots with you. Remember me telling you about the bride and groom, etc. for the centerpiece? Well, sometime during the proceedings, the young thin groom was replaced with George (from my dollhouse).

You will notice the groom is not longer young and slim, and, yes, that is a beer in his hand. One of the little old ladies at the Fellowship Hour was offended by that, but the priest thought it was funny. Who was the jokester, you may ask? Well, I won't reveal her name, but her initials are Kelly Lapczynski.

Here I am, almost done with my part of the clean-up.

Mama, being helpful.

Thank you to all our friends and family- especially Kelly, in her starring role as waitress/scullery maid- for making the day so very special.

No subtle knife, no amber spyglass?

2008-07-20T14:06:00.001-05:00

When the movie "The Golden Compass" was being previewed in theaters, I had never heard of Philip Pullman or his triology "His Dark Materials". The previews of the movie looked so fascinating that I sailed down the Amazon... like you do... and ordered the books. I am so glad I did. What a great read! What a terrific writer! I am motivated now to go back and reread "Paradise Lost". Now THAT'S impact- have you ever slogged through "Paradise Lost"? Well, Pullman did, and then stood it on it's ear in "His Dark Materials".

I love this kind of writing. The wonderful thing about fantasy and science fiction is the genres let writers create and explore all sorts of new worlds and take us with them while they do. The best fantasy/sci fi is written by scholars - J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov- who pull from their knowledge base to add richness and depth to their stories. Often, the best work is catalyzed by a single question, such as "What if...?" The value of this type of writing is that it challenges readers to think about the world in new ways or encounter new worlds in old ways, by way of a ripping tale. Great fantasy challenges you to think.

"His Dark Materials" is great fantasy, and the movie "The Golden Compass", produced by the Brits, was wonderfully faithful to its quirky universe. I loved it almost as much as the book. Others must have, too. The movie did well; despite an $180 million budget, it grossed $364 million worldwide and won an Oscar for best achievement in visual effects.

I have been looking forward with tremendous curiosity to the next installment, "The Subtle Knife", because, frankly, I can't imagine how it can be made into a movie. But there is some uncertainty that the second movie will be made at all. You see, only $70 million of the gross for "The Golden Compass" was made in the U.S. Fundamentalist Christians and the Roman Catholic Church hammered "The Golden Compass" as heretical, unholy, and dangerous and it seems that their campaign against the movie did, in fact, serve to limit the U.S. gross.

It will be sad if low grosses in the U.S. prevent the next two books from coming to the screen, and even sadder if religious reactionaries are responsible. I don't get it. Just what is it they don't seem to understand about the word "FANTASY"? (As in the opposite of reality). Why are they so afraid of the power of imagination?

I hereby advise you all to go out immediately and buy the triology "His Dark Materials". Don't worry about the books destroying your faith. If your faith is so fragile that a work of fiction can undo it, you have none. Do I think the work is heretical? Damn straight. Sometimes a little heresy is just what we need. The work is also beautifully written, extraordinarily rich and thought-provoking. It is also a ripping tale! Go! Read! If God didn't want us to explore all possibilities, He would have made us different than we are.

Heeeeeere's.....MAMA!

2008-06-30T20:45:00.000-05:00

Saturday morning I picked up Mama bright and early. We had a lot of running around to do but needed especially to get to the Credit Union to deposit her treasury checks. She got a $51 tax refund and a nice economic incentive check and was very excited about both. She was wearing blue shorts, a teal shirt, yellow socks and tan shoes. I tried not to notice.

We entered the credit union (which was mercifully empty). Most people go through the drive-through or get their cash from the ATM on the weekend and I had counted on that. I had counted on that because I know Mama needs special handling and because I knew she was going to have to sign the checks. Mama, as she happily told at least 100 people during the course of the day, is "blind as a bat". She told the teller that. She told me to sign the checks. The teller and I told her she would have to sign them. She told us she couldn't write. The teller disappeared into the bowels of the credit union- a not unfamiliar reaction from people dealing with Mama for the first time. The teller returned. Sign or no money. Mama signed, badly. Apparently she is not Mary Richards any more. She is Mary Richabo. No matter, the teller accepted her signature, since she had both ID and an account there. Mama asked for $100, which I put in her coin purse, and deposited the rest in her checking account.

I do not believe that what happened next would have happened if Mama hadn't known she had an audience. A man and two young women were talking outside the credit union as we exited. Mama informed them as we passed that she "is as blind as a bat". They nodded but made no soft murmuring noises. As we got to the curb, I told her that there was a step down. She raised her right foot to knee level and stepped off the curb like Wendy stepping off Captain Hook's plank. I had her firmly by the right elbow but felt her begin to fall and spin. I grabbed for her left shoulder, but she dipped out of my grip, and, with a slow motion rolling fall that would have made Tim Conway proud, she sat down on the concrete. The impact was about that of a butterfly landing on your cheek, but she continued to roll and swivel, as hard to grab as a wet baby in the bath. I got her to sit still and tried to help her up but suddenly she weighed 300 pounds. She couldn't lift her own butt no matter how much I tried to help her. NOW there were soft, murmuring noises from the talking trio and they rushed to help her- surprisingly, THEY were able to get her to her feet- and with many expressions of concern and relief, they helped me get her to the car. She hopped right in, fastened her seat-belt and said "Where are we going now?" I couldn't immediately answer as my heart had stopped.

Mama wanted some new clothes since she has gained 23 pounds since moving to assisted living. (That's a good thing- she was a stick when she first moved in). So off we went to Mama's favorite store- K-MART! She wanted shirts, shorts and one pair of slacks. She couldn't choose anything, since she is a blind as a bat, so I had her feel the fabric and give me her nay or yea based on the feel (and color) of the fabric. We chose three pairs of shorts that varied only in color, three shirts that varied only in color, and a pair of light-weight slacks. Her whole purchase came to $43. She pulled two $20 bills out of her billfold- NOT her coin purse- and dug out $3 in change and paid the bill. Okay, I thought, she had some money squirreled away. Good for her.

She wanted to go to Applebees for lunch. After a very nice meal, she called for a To-GO box and pulled two $20 bills out of a zippered pocket in her handbag-not her coin purse, mind you, her handbag. Obviously she had $80 (at least) squirreled away in her handbag. She insisted on paying for lunch and gave me the two $20 bills.

"I don't need that much money" I told her, trying to give her half back.
"Take it, take it," she said.
"I'll pay for lunch and give you the change."
"No, you keep the change."

No point in arguing. I will slip the change in her purse later, I thought, and then I said "You did very well today. You still have $100 left."
"No, I don't," she said. "I spent it all."
"No," I said, "You had $80 in your purse when we left The Place. When we went to the credit union, you added $100 to that, which is $180. You spent about $40 at K-Mart, and you just gave me $40, so you have $100 left."
"You're crazy."
"Nope."

She stared at me unblinkingly with her owl eyes and then said, "Then you owe me money". I gave her back the $40 and she paid for lunch. The change went somewhere into the mysterious depths of her handbag. I left the tip.

The next stop was the shoe shop to pick up David's shoes. I tried to entice Mama in, hoping she might be interested in a new pair of shoes, but she was starting to tire and stayed in the car. I compensated by purchasing shoes for myself.

We went to Baskin Robbins for an ice cream cone, then drove to the old neighborhood so I could check on the status of our rental property. Mama was tickled as I tooled my PT Cruiser off the driveway and into the back yard to see if all the storm damage had been cleared away. It had. Mama cackled like we were doing something naughty or dangerous or both, so I obliged her with another turn around the backyard and a quick exit back onto the street. If I knew how to do a boot-leggers turn I would have done one. She'd have loved it.

We got back to The Place tired but happy. I helped carry her packages (plus a goody bag I had brought her from home and her doggy-bagged lunch) to her apartment. She looked ready for a nap. I put the food and drink away, pocketed the K-Mart receipt in case we had to return anything, and gave her a big hug and a kiss.

"Love you, Mama, see you soon", I said.

She smiled up at me. "Thanks for everything, David".

Screw entropy!

2008-06-10T21:20:00.000-05:00

I went to see the Indiana Jones movie and hate to admit that it was both very good and great fun. Karen Allen is back as Marian Ravenwood and damn, it was good to see her on screen again. She left the Biz and started her own biz making beautiful clothing out of cashmere. You can check her stuff out here http://www.karenallen-fiberarts.com/home.php

I was skeptical about the making of a fourth Indiana Jones movie. I mean, it's been 19 years since "Temple of Doom" and our hero was no spring chicken THEN! (Remember a past rant about "Geriatric Jones"? The one where I posted a recent picture of Harrison Ford? No? KEEP UP, PEOPLE!!! OK, here's the pic again).

"You're not the man you used to be" (sic) says Marian to Indy at one point in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" to which Indy replies "It's not the years, it's the mileage" ...and we all laughed. It was a funny line. And is was true, then. Now... honey, it's the years.

It is not kind what time and gravity do to our bodies. The older we get, the fewer traces there are of us as we see ourselves when there are no mirrors around. We are worn away by time, crushed by gravity. It's as if we desiccate and droop and then fade; our hair fades, the color leaves our eyes; our skin pales; and slowly we fade to black.

Paul Newman, at about 30. So beautiful! With youth he had fire and intensity; he had flesh and juice, smoothness and suppleness, and a sexuality that was primal, immediate, and devastating.

Paul Newman, at 82. You can see vestiges of his younger self still. but would hearts have swooned if he had come to the screen at 82 rather than 30? Being semi-geriatric myself, let me answer that. No. We are attracted to all the things that time and gravity take from us slowly throughout our short lives.

And I guess that is one of the things I enjoyed most about the new Indy film. Shia LaBeouf was on hand to provide the heart-throbs, but Harrison Ford and Karen Allen stole the film. Ford is not as fast or as resilient as he was 19 years ago. Who is? Karen Allen is carrying a tad more weight and a few more lines, but is still beautiful, still endearing. Despite the passage of time and the ravages of being mortal, the chemistry between Indy and Marian is still there, still strong, still believable. So much for "Geriatric " Jones. I came away from the movie feeling there is still time for one last adventure and one last love for all of us.

Throw away all mirrors.

What we are abides and can be seen if sought.

Paul Newman is still beautiful.

Hello, I must be going...or coming out, I can't remember

2008-05-19T00:37:00.000-05:00

Hello, I am back after surgery, and on the mend. Thank you for continuing to drop in while I have been laid up. I can't believe it has been over a month since I last posted. Been busy. End of my semester- hectic- ; preparing the Spring meeting of the GFWC Highland Rim District; gearing up for Spring convention for the GFWC of TN. April is a busy month and this year, it all became a literal pain in the neck. Hence the surgery on my cervical spine that has had laid me up and laid me low.

Being laid up as I have been has given me time to think. It hurt, but I did it. And here are the thoughts that have occur ed to me in between hallucinations, sleep-walking and other interesting drug reactions.

I have decided, at this late stage of my life, to finally out myself. Yes, dear readers, it is true. Like Rupert Evert and Lance Bass, I do it with men. ( Well, one man, anyway.) I am sorry to shock you in this manner, but I figured if Doogie Houser can announce to the world his predilections for men, it is probably safe for me to do the same. I hereby pronounce with pride that I am a raging heterosexual! Always have been. Always will be. I am not in the least interested in having sex with women. Lunch, maybe.

Now, if this is more information than you wanted about my sex life... GOOD! Sex is supposed to be intimate, private, based on affection and attraction, and NO ONE ELSE'S BUSINESS. I don't care if Jodie Foster and Neil Patrick Harris are gay. I don't even know these people. I don't want to know when they take a dump or piss like a race-horse or blow their noses. Biological processes are not topics of polite conversation.

I have no idea why this rant popped into my mind. Maybe the man in the bowler hat who has been at the edge of my peripheral vision since I was put on muscle relaxers has something to do with it. Something about a bowler hat just screams man-lover to me. Maybe he's Alec Guinness. I hope he's not Ian McKellen or he'll chew up all the scenery.

But I digress. This sad, fat old heterosexual has been left in the care of the man she loves. Make that left to the mercy of her man. One thing for sure, should I die from complications of this surgery, I will not be killed by kindness. He means well, but he has no bedside manner, groans and rolls his eyes every time I ask him to do something, and bullies me ceaselessly. Apparently, being a bully is the ultimate expression of loving concern. He is trying. He is very tiring. But he means well. Fortunately, he will be back at work tomorrow.

I am going to close this mess now, and try to get some sleep. I am a bit concerned about the goats grazing on my houseplants but feel confident the man in the bowler hat will round them up before they do too much damage. Of all the things to hallucinate about! Do I get Johnny Depp or Gerard Butler? No, I get British solicitors and living cheese factories

Off to get hopelessly lost en route to my bedroom, Better living through chemistry.

Wherein spring arrives and my throat is slit...

2008-04-05T23:47:00.001-05:00

Spring is trying to spring in Tennessee, as it always does, with sudden leaps backward into winter and tantalizing forays into summer, with much rain in between. After the drought, you would think the rain would be welcome, but this is Tennessee spring rain, which means flash floods, and people having to boil their drinking water. HUZZAH!! No gift lacks a punishment in this state where spring truly is the cruelest month.

But, hey, spring is the season we live for. Winter wears on grayly and coldly until one despairs of the sun- and then summer comes and again we despair of the sun which now, instead of being absent, is all too present and trying to reduce us to cinders. Spring is the gentle month when the birds return, the trees and flowers bud out, and hope is as thick in the air as chlorophyll and pollen.

So it is in this hopeful season I shall have my throat slit. Alas, a throat cutting seems an inevitable end for an old pirate like myself, but I have hopes of surviving this one. An extremely competent- one might almost say ostentatiously competent- neurosurgeon is going to attempt to repair 30 years of disintegration in my neck (one too many hangings, perhaps- it's a rough life being a pirate), and possibly put an end to the pain. Eight years ago this surgical solution to a drastically deteriorated cervical area would not have been possible. Now it has become almost routine. Frankly, I am more than a little hopeful that all will be well in the end.

Imagine being able to raise my arms over my head, to lift something that weighs more than 10 pounds; imagine no longer having a gooseneck, and horrible muscle spasms. What if the feeling returns to my hands? I have so many hopes and very few fears.

That hasn't stopped me from writing a new will. Hey, I am a realist! But this is the season of hope.

Spring!

This is the blog wherein I channel Andy Rooney (or some other curmudgeon)

2008-03-15T00:05:00.000-05:00

Did you ever wonder why Court TV became Tru TV?

Suppose it was so they could endlessly air mindless, sensational shows like "Most Daring" and "Most Shocking" to amuse adolescent males who are into watching car chases, crashes and people getting maimed?

Did they call it TRU TV rather than True TV because they have a soupcon of shame? If they wanted to be TRUthful, they would have called it "Shock" TV.

Who came up with that obnoxious motto: "Not reality - actuality!" God, it's aggravating. One more moronic corruption of the language. Can something be real without being actual? Or actual without being real? According to the thesaurus, these words are synonyms.

Did you ever wonder why Vincent D'Onofrio can approach the size of a grey whale with no negative consequences, but when Delta Burke got fat, she was driven off the air?

Does Harrison Ford look like the 3,000 year old man, or what? I can't wait to see the final episode of "Geriatric Jones, and the Quest for the Fountain of Youth". Did you ever wonder why male actors can find work until they're older than dirt, but a female actor's career is pretty much over at 40?

I think I may be watching too much television. I am actually (really) bringing to care about this crap!

The flu stayed but Mike flew...

2008-02-24T14:19:00.000-06:00

I want my money back. I paid perfectly good US currency for a flu shot and got the flu anyway. Can't imagine why they call it "flu". Flux is more like it. And it does not fly, it drags on forever. I have been sleeping on the couch to protect my hubby from infection. I have been keeping my distance from my students. I have been resting every possible moment. Every time I feel like I am getting better, I seem to relapse. I am sick of being sick. I am sick of the flu.

Hope I didn't give it to my baby brother.

Last Sunday, my wild and crazy little brother Mikey stopped in for a whirlwind visit. He was in Huntsville for business and drove up to see us. I was so excited and so was my granddaughter Emily, who had never met Mike but was looking forward to my "baby brother" showing up. I am sure she was anticipating a playmate. The minute Mike walked in the door, Em was outraged. "NeeNee," she said with that majestic disdain only a four-year-old can manage, "THAT is not a baby brother. That is a grandpaw!"

Not strictly true. Mike is just-turned 50 and has two kids in college, but neither one of them has made him a grandpa yet. Hope I live to see that day, though, because Mike will be a hoot as a granddad. He's basically just an overgrown kid as it is- give him partners in crime, and he will be right in his element.

The visit was wonderful but frenetic and way too short. Once Emily recovered from her disappointment that Mike isn't four, she and he seemed to hit it off. They have so much in common. They are both high energy people- Mike makes hyper-kinetics nervous- they are both the center of attention wherever they are, and they are both (forgive me, bro) more than a little vain. Kindred spirits!

Mike accomplished the impossible by getting hugs from the older girls as they left for home. Maybe calling them "mugwumps" helped. Of course, being as strong as an ox and refusing to take no for an answer didn't hurt- he overwhelmed them, as Mikey does to most people. A force of nature, that kid. Even the flu abates before him.

God, I love him so.

The rules always change when it's my turn...

2008-02-01T19:40:00.001-06:00

When I was a kid, I had two grandmothers. My maternal grandmother S. loved me unconditionally and I adored her in return. My paternal grandmother H. didn't like me and was invariably unkind to me. It was easy to be polite and respectful to my mom's mom. It was very hard showing the proper respect to my Dad's. I have never known why Grandma H. disliked me so but I can honestly say that she inflicted a lot of emotional harm with her unkindness toward and neglect of me.

And yet, like most kids of that era, I was trained from birth to display respectful behavior toward my elders and there were painful consequences for any lapse. My grandmother H. may have been a bitch (and she was: she referred to me as "the ugly one" and "the cripple", and went out of her way to belittle, embarrass and torment me) but I never entered her presence without speaking to her. I never refused to answer her questions, or engage in conversation with her, no matter how unpleasant it might be. She got the quota of hugs and kisses she was due as the mother of my father despite the fact that we did not love or like one another. She was my elder, and her age alone secured for her a high level of respectful attention.

Flash to the present, where I am the grandmother, and compare my behavior toward Grandma H. to my eldest two granddaughters behavior toward me. Focus on the age differences between us. They are pre-teens. I am pushing 60. By the rules I grew up with, I should now be getting my propers as an elder. Hey, I've waited long enough for it, and I have earned it. And even if THEY don't think I have, I believe that if I could behave respectfully to a grandmother who hated me, it should be easy for them to show the proper respect and affection to a grandmother who has always been good to them. That would be me.

But once again, the rules have changed when it's my turn. The girls are surly, rude, silent and deliberately hurtful and only part of this hateful behavior can be attributed to raging hormones. If I had treated either of my grandmothers the way I am being treated, I would have felt the back of my dad's hand across my face. Unless my mom got to me first.

Not that I am advocating slapping children, though, believe me, I have been sorely tempted here lately. I am just sorry there isn't more parental intervention and instruction on the proper care and feeding of aging grandparents who DESERVE respect and affection.

On a much happier note, Pixie and Pookie, the two youngest girls, are still happy to see me and show no signs of casting me off in the immediate future. Hopefully, when the horrible hormones hit the little ones, they will remember me rightly and give me my propers. Hope springs maternal.

List, list, O list.... remember me

2008-01-13T12:14:00.000-06:00

My hubby doesn't get blogging. He thinks it's vanity. He nevers reads my blog or those of his children, so really, we could say anything we wanted to about him with impunity - and yet we don't. A person has to be very circumspect in a blog, even if significant others aren't peeping in, because you never know who is.

Case in point: I had a very pleasant surprise over the holidays. A dear family friend who lives in England left comments on two of my blogs, including the one I wrote about him in 2005 (Dinner with the Nige). I can't tell you how tickled I was that he'd found my blog and that he'd enjoyed what I had written, even though it was written quite some time ago. All the more reason to be circumspect- old blogs never die, they linger in cyberspace.

Someone once said "The Internet is forever". Of course that's not true, but it may be true enough. In fact, that may be the reason I blog in the first place. Forever sounds pretty good to me.

Perhaps because of perilous health in childhood and too-early experiences with death, I have been alive to the certainty of my death since the age of four. I can honestly say that a day never passes where I don't think about death in general and my own in particular. I know that I am temporary and insignificant.

But like all people, I would like to be remembered. I would like ME, the way I really am, remembered. I will never be famous, will never be published, and will never have much of an impact outside my small, parochial sphere of influence.

Yet I feel connected to the whole of creation. I love being alive, and I love this beautiful blue marble I live on. I love people, and music, and words, and birds, and works of art and I want to be remembered for that.

I am funny. I am smart. I am a good woman. I know these are small accomplishments and yet I think they should be memorable. Maybe I am wrong.

I may live to be 100, but I know I could be gone tomorrow. When I am gone, I will really miss this wonderful planet. Is it wrong to want it to miss me in return?

Look! The tree is dancing!!

2007-12-23T00:26:00.000-06:00

Fluffenella and Scampers, my two baby kitties who, along with two brothers and a sister who have moved on to new owners, were born on 07/07/07. That makes THIS their very first Christmas. If stress really can kill, it may be my last.

Kittens are pretty demented to begin with, but just bring a tree into the house and watch what happens. It isn't pretty. The only decorations left on the tree are alive, furry, and peek out of the branches. I can't tell you how delighted they are that I set up a tree just for them. And the ornaments? Just too much fun! Knocking them off the tree, chasing them around the room, batting them under the furniture, shredding the garlands to bits - just too damn cool, from a kitten's perspective, anyway. Even Hobbes, who is almost three and should know better, has gotten into the act. Our poor tree- Hobbes is a big boy and the tree sags dramatically wherever he has chosen to nest. Sigh.

It could have been worse. We opted for a down-sized Christmas this year due to Dave's travel schedule and our going to San Diego for Thanksgiving. Those two things completely put the kibosh on the over-the-top extravaganza that is normally Christmas in our household. Dave usually pulls the 3,000 boxes of decorations out of the attic and spends the Friday and Saturday following Turkey Day setting up the tree while I decorate the rest of the house- and the porch- and anything that isn't moving. Think Macy's without the restraint and that's our house at Christmas.

But this year, I bought a small (6') pre-lit tree and bought inexpensive, unbreakable ornaments for it. For the FIRST TIME IN ALMOST 40 YEARS, I did not have to move a single piece of furniture out of the living room to make room for the tree. That's the upside. The downside is that the tree was rather wan looking to begin with, and now, after being gleefully ravaged by wild beasts, looks lopsided, disheveled and terribly sad. (Think Charlie Brown's Christmas branch with a glandular condition).

Still, I have gotten some cute pictures of kitties in the tree and the ornaments I bought take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. At least the kitties are not devastating our huge, move-the-couch-out-of-the-livingroom tree or destroying my beautiful collection of breakable ornaments. (Think Rockefeller Center or the White House, only gaudier).

Well, I must close now. The tree is moving... again. I wonder where it will end up this time. I think they are aiming it toward the kitchen.

Merry Christmas to all!

No more college for cats!

2007-12-12T22:57:00.000-06:00

For as long as I can remember, there have always been Motlow cats. (No, that is not the name of the teams- they are the Bucks and the Lady Bucks, which, if you think about that last one, is an oxymoron of epic proportions). The Motlow cats are a population of feral and semi-feral cats that have lived off the detritus of a concentrated mass of humans for generations. The cats are a part of the Motlow history and heritage.

Granted, they have not always been a positive part of history and heritage. I am a cat-lover, as readers of this blog may have guessed, but even I have had ambivalent feelings about the cats from time to time. Especially after one of them had a litter of kittens on the roof, and each baby fell to its death, one after another, over the course of several days. The up-side to the cats is, even though the college is nestled in the woods and sits on the edge of pastures, there are no mice to speak of. Score one for the cats. And it a pleasant thing to see the sweet creatures lurking about. They scurry away from all but a handful of people, and seem as harmless to Motlow as are the ducks of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis to that august edifice.

Several of the good women who work for Motlow have "adopted" some of the cats, which is to say they feed them and provide them with water. A couple of the good women spend their breaks with the cats, who allow themselves to be petted and cossetted. Score another one for the cats- stroking cats alleviates stress, and Motlow is a stressful place to work.

Some time ago some one of these good women took it upon herself to capture all the cats and take them to a vet to be neutered. There have been no cascading kitties since that time.

But now the college has decided that the cats, rather than controlling vermin, are, in fact, vermin themselves and has ordered them to be trapped like skunks and removed from the campus. Where are they being removed TO, you may ask? Well, that's the question, isn't it?The pound won't take them, and neither will the Humane Society.

They better be removed more than three miles away, because removing cats from the campus- one cat at a time, mostly- has been tried before, and they tend to come back. One made a three mile trek to get back. Maybe his new "owner" shouldn't have named him William Wallace. At the first opportunity, he regained his FREEDOM!!! (The cat was not drawn and quartered for it, though).

At least not that time.

I know about the cat round-up because good hearted people have been calling to see if I would adopt a cat. I wish I could. My house, sadly, has a four cat maximum (as life with Binx and her babies has shown). I provided a few names of folks who might want a cat, but people who love cats generally already HAVE cats- notice the plural- so the good women probably have an uphill battle on their hands.

What a lovely Christmas present to the staff, faculty and students of Motlow. The end of a tradition, the dismay of kind-hearted people, and a bitter and sour end to the semester of 2007. Hope the college isn't phobic about squirrels... or birds... or students.

Merry Christmas, y'all, and if you want a feral cat, let me know.

Is San Diego burning... again? You betcha!

2007-11-21T02:26:00.000-06:00

My daughter has lived through the fires of 2007 which had most of San Diego County, CA, in flames. I got a small taste of how scary it was today when I witnessed a 2-acre fire that spread like... well, like wild-fire... up the side of a hill about 2.5 miles from our apartment complex. We watched as home owners on the top of the hill hosed down their houses as they waited for the fire department. Kel took some fantastic pictures, which I have incorporated into a PowerPoint presentation which you can access via the link below. Just click on it, and give it a little time. I hope you find it interesting.

http://katelapczynski.googlepages.com/TheTierrasanteFire.ppt#256,1,Tierrasante,

Raider of the Lost Amazon

2007-11-07T21:06:00.000-06:00

I am a pretty good mom, and I tend to indulge my children and grandchildren, particularly when it comes to books. I love books and encourage the love of books in my progeny. To that end, I provided my kids with the password to my Amazon.com account so they could buy books whenever the mood struck them.

However, you may have noticed that the Amazon has flowed into venues other than books recently. (I say recently though it has been a matter of a couple of years, but it seems recent to me- I was one of Amazon's earliest customers. I'll tell you how long ago it has been since I first sailed down the Amazon; they were so grateful for my business in the early days that I got Christmas gifts from them. Now that everyone shops online and they are a retailing giant, they have forgotten all about me... isn't that just the way it goes? Where would they be without me?)

Anyway, while I was in Michigan, visiting my dear ole daddy, hubby accessed my email account. He wasn't snooping, he was helping troubleshoot why I wasn't able to get email on the laptop I had taken with me. He couldn't help but notice the 553, 000 emails from Amazon.com, either confirming a payment or the shipping of an order.

"Kathleen, my sweet, I think you are being far too indulgent, allowing the children to use our account in this fashion. I think it would behoove you to change your password, and not give it to anyone at the earliest opportunity", he said.

Or words to that effect.

Actually, what he really said began with "What, are you nuts??!!" and ended with "Good grief, woman!"

So I changed my password and the kids were very mellow and cool about it; very appreciative of the past use of my account but completely sanguine about being cut off from future purchases. All was well.

Except...

I got an email from my son that read "Will pay you the $10 for the book when I see you later this week."

What book?

An email from Amazon.com told me what book!

I shot back an email to my son. "How did you do that? I changed my password!!"

I almost immediately got a call from him. He sounded pleased as punch with himself for having subverted my restrictions. "Tell me how you did that," I demanded. He just chuckled. My son is a charmer, with a great chuckle and adorable dimples when he smiles or laughs. I was fondly visualizing those dimples when he said "Go check your email".

I set down the phone and went to the computer... where I found an email TO myself FROM myself. "AWK! What the hell?" I bellowed, and from across the room I could hear him laughing on the other end of the phone line. "Just playing with you, Mom", he laughed and hung up. He did not tell me how he had done that either.

After work, I received a text message from him to give him a call, which I did.

"Just thought I should tell you. I've changed your Amazon password," he said.

"WHAT??!!" I seemed to be saying that a lot today.

"Yeah, I was going to let you find out the hard way, but decided that was too mean."

I just stood there silently for a few seconds, then asked with a sigh, "Okay, what's my new password?"

I could HEAR his smile. "It's 'damnitjake'" he said.

Crafty crafts and crafts

2007-10-30T22:10:00.000-05:00

This is the door to my craft room.

I went to yet another scrapbook convention, and all I got was this.

It's called a Scrapbox.

It folds up to a 3' x 3' x 6' armoire.

I doubt it will ever be closed.

The table folds up and is enclosed when the Scrapbox is shut.

It took one day to assemble the Scrapbox- thanks, Melinda and Rebecca.

One day to install the shelves and assemble the storage boxes- thanks Melinda and Marcia.

One day to get everything out of my diningroom and Dave's office and the hall and the kitchen and the livingroom into the Scrapbox- thanks, Dave.

One day to make labels for the boxes. Thanks, myself.

The rest of my life to play. Hurry back, Rita!

So much for crafty crafts. Now for crafts of another type.

Avast, me hearties, yo ho!

What is the link between pirates and crafts, you ask?

Don't ask.

But look at THIS!

Dad-ums

2007-10-21T23:03:00.001-05:00

My dad, Loveable Bill, during WWII. I am the twinkle in his eye.

I am back from my Dad's, where I had a good time, and was actually useful for a change. My old man is now 83. A WWII veteran, he never believed he would live this long. In fact, his 40th birthday was such a shock that he disappeared for three days with a gang of his pals, certain his last days were upon him and wanting to go out with a bang. If anyone then had told him he'd be around for another 43 years, scoffing would have been the least of what he would have done.

Loveable Bill at 83, sitting in his diningroom.

Dad has survived a world war, polio, liver disease, pneumonia (multiple times), several car accidents and, in his 80th year, a shattered hip, so if he is looking a little frail right now, he is entitled. He's getting around pretty well with just a cane though, which is a huge improvement over the last time I saw him. As was the weather!

The weather, the last time I visited. It was in the 70s and 80s this time.

I hope I have as many loving friends and family as he has when I am his age, but I doubt it will happen that way. In my experience, men get taken care of by the women in the family, and the women end up in homes. Dad, being a man, is being well cared for in his own home. My baby sister sees him almost every day and is his right-hand gal. My brother Bill visits every couple of months (from Texas, no less) and is the indispensable man. This summer, he helped Dad paint the house and repair the decks. Dad bragged about what good kids they are every day I was there.

Dad and I always have a good time together. We could cohabitate very easily if the need ever arose. I had a great time cooking for him, and we enjoyed each other's company. I had hoped to get back to see him a lot sooner than I did, but life, mother and a broken arm intervened.

Turns out that the timing of my week stay was very timely because while I was there, Dad's washer died (early in the visit) and the sewer lines backed up (end of the visit). I am glad I was on hand to help. Sis and I pitched in to get him a new washer, but cleaning up after the sewage disaster was a solo act. (Mine, not my sister's. She handled the last disaster single-handed). It was kind of a shitty way to end the visit, and really pissed me off, but everything flushed out fine in the end, and I left his bathrooms sparkling and aseptic. I can still hear them thanking me.

We went out to eat several times and Dad took me to a casino, the first (and second) time I have ever been. I cleared $165 the first time we went, and lost almost all of it back to the casino the second. I had a really good time, though, and can see how gambling could become addictive. Casinos are exciting places.

Of course, I spent a week being alternately snubbed and attacked by his cat, Snoopy. Snoopy is a one-man cat. I am not that man. Here he is, deciding whether or not to pounce on me from a great height.

The only draw-back to visiting my dad is like it is like falling into a technological black hole. I keep forgetting how interminably and frustratingly SLOOOoowwwww dial up is. And trying to get my email was an exercise in futility. I did manage to RECEIVE a few, but was never able to reply to the ones I received. I came home to 131 messages. I was using Verizon's National Broadband Access, which is better than a sharp stick in the eye.... but only marginally.

Anyway, I am home now, and if you haven't heard from me in a week, now you know why.

If I can remember, I plan to rant about names in this blog

2007-10-06T23:53:00.000-05:00

I don't know why this popped into my head... things are ALWAYS popping into my head, which makes it very noisy in there, and distracts me from sensible thought. But I digress.

As I do. I digress. All the time. I think it may be related to the things constantly popping into my head. I am easily distractable, and what with one thing and another popping into my head, it only stands to reason that other things pop out. Like why I came into this room. Wait a minute, I'm typing, so this must be my blog, in which case, I wanted to write about the most recent in-popping. Which was....????

Okay, I just looked at the title of this blog, and remember that I had been ruminating about names. It started when someone in this strange movie my husband is watching on the other side of the room said " They cremated her. Your Uncle Dick took her ashes back to....." and it suddenly popped into my head that every Dick I have ever known was one. Do NOT name your son Dick.

Or Les. I've only known a couple of guys named Les, but they most definitely were.

Another name to avoid is Peter, which in the long form (Peter) is the name of the male member (and why males feel compelled to name their members is beyond me) and in the short form is a smelly way to heat a cottage.

Willie ain't much of a name for a boy, since it, too, is an anatomical moniker.

I'm not fond of unisex names, like Chris or Pat, for example. There is this person who works in a store here whose gender was a mystery to me for a long time. There are no overt signs of female development, but neither are there any overtly masculine traits. There are no reliable clues to gender. This person has a short hair-cut (that could be worn by either sex), pierced ears (which used to be a female indicator and isn't anymore) and wears the uniform of youth- trainers, jeans, and shirt (in this case, a golf shirt with the workplace logo on it). I kept trying to get a glimpse of the name on the name-tag, and when I finally did, it was CHRIS! Do not give your children unisex names. Give them a gender-specific name so that even if nothing about their gender is immediately specific, folks having to deal with them will know what they are dealing with. This Chris, by the way, is female. I asked one of the people she works with.

I just ended that sentence with a preposition. I know better, but c'mon already, who really says "one of the people with whom she works". It may be grammatically correct but it is like writing a sentence from the middle toward both ends.

But I digress.

Never give your daughter a boy's name. It may seem cute to name them Michael but it is mean spirited and insensitive, and sets them up for a lifetime of explaining themselves to other people, most of whom will continue to think they are weird even after the explanation. GIVEN NAMES SHOULD BE GENDER SPECIFIC. If you really can't live without giving your daughter a boy's name, make it her middle name. Now THAT'S cool- I know, because I have a boy's middle name and I love it. And none of this changing the spelling to indicate girliness. A Sidney by any other spelling (Sydney) sounds the same.

Come to think of it, don't name your son Sidney, either. Or Walter. Or Alfred. But these are just personal prejudices on my part, and need not be considered one of the cardinal naming rules.

If you love funky names, own multitudes of pets and give them all funky names. Unless you are Frank Zappa, who is dead, so you probably aren't him, never name your child Moon Unit or Dweezil. Or Roxie Crimefighter. (That's the name with which Penn Gillette, of Penn and Teller infamy, saddled his baby daughter. As if it isn't awful enough having Penn Gillette for a father!)

Episode IV: How I came to run a cat-house

2007-09-22T14:43:00.000-05:00

Kitty bowling

Remember that old saying, "No good deed ever goes unpunished?" Bear it in mind as I tell you how it is that I came to run a cat-house.

Once upon a time, a little cat wandered onto my front porch. She was starving. She was thirsty. She was pregnant. I took her in. She promptly delivered a litter of five.

She did it so fast she didn't get a chance to get to know and love Hobbes and Patches, my previous rescuees, before she became a mama. And, once the hormones kicked it, she became Uber-Mama and began to kick ass. Technically, she began to bite and scratch ass, but however you look at it, she terrorized Hobbes and Patches with her Tasmanian devil impersonation so thoroughly that Patches now glowers from the craft room and Hobbes has removed himself to the garage.

Once her kittens became mobile, they joined in the fun of Hobbes and Patches baiting.

Patches, backing away from Tiger- who is only one-sixth her weight. Terrifying!

Scampers and Fluffenella- off the drapes for a change.

I used to have drapes.

I used to have carpeting in my bedroom.

I used to have moments of quiet and calm.

Wide world of wrestling championship, kitten-weight division.

Now, I have furry furniture, Airwicks in every room, a bottle of Febreze on every flat surface, and legs that look like I shaved with a chain saw thanks to kitty claws.

I was able to find homes for three of the kittens, but it turns out that kittens are a lot like kids. They leave, but then they come back. It happened like this. The time had come for Binx (mama) and her three sons (Hiro, Scampers and Tiger) to be rendered reproductively incapable. The boys were also due for front claw declawing. (The girls will have their turn in about three weeks). Scampers had a hernia that required repair. It just seemed logical to me that Becca and Yvonne should bring their kitties to my house so that I could take all the cats to the vet at one time and get it over with in one fell swoop.

And so the babies came to Grandma's for a visit. It was a joyous reunion for the kitties! Hobbes and Patches were less than amused, as was Binx, since the visiting kittens tried to pick up where they had left off and nurse once again for old time's sake. The absence of milk didn't seem to deter them.

When Becca dropped off Tiger, she also brought Miss Pusskins.

She thought the two girl kitties could keep each other company while the boys and Mama were away getting clipped, snipped and made ship-shape. I thought that was kinda cute- a kitty sleep-over. Fluffanella and Pusskins staying up all night, watching TV, meowing into the wee hours of the morning about school and fashion and boys.

This was Wednesday morning. Fluff and Pusskins were no trouble and it was fun having time with Miss Puss again. Funny how you get attached to the little furballs. They, however, still have claws.

Friday morning, bright and early, I went to get Binx and the boys. Everyone seemed to be doing well, even little Scampers whose tummy surgery ended up being a bit more extensive than expected. Home I brought them all for yet another joyous reunion (minus Hobbes and Patches, of course) but this time, I waded in to protect Binx from the milk-sucking horde, as she had just been spayed and didn't need to be kneaded and drained.

Oh, the fun! Oh, the frivolity! Oh, how I wish Sunday would come, for that is when Pusskins, Tiger, and Hiro go back to their respective homes. Yes, we are having a week-end long sleep-over with all five kitties reunited and of one mind, intent on their search and destroy missions, committed to inciting cat fights between their mother and my two beleaguered buddies, and having a great time throwing shredded paper litter at each other.

Hiro is staying to protect him from a small child who is spending the weekend with her grandmother Yvonne. Pusskins and Tiger are staying because the kids are coming into town on Sunday anyway, so they will pick up their babies then.

In the meantime, I just try to stay out of their way and not step on them or shut them in doors. Or refrigerators, for that matter. I am out-numbered 8 to 1. That is WAAAY over the maximum cat density for any home.

Dave is coming home Sunday. I sure hope he can find me under all the cat hair.

The same but different

2007-09-07T21:05:00.000-05:00

I have finished my second week teaching after a four-year "retirement" and it has been weird in these ways.

It is weird to be teaching in a "dumb" classroom- no computer, no web access, no way to do PowerPoint presentations. Most of the classrooms have long since been converted to "smart" classrooms, except, of course, the one to which I have been assigned in McMinnville. So... I have been teaching the old fashioned way... and enjoying the hell out of it. My students seem to be handling it all right as well.
It is weird to be an adjunct at the teaching site where, for 10 years, I was the sole biology faculty assigned there full-time and was the lab supervisor as well. It isn't "my" lab any more, but it looks great and the new kid is doing a bang up job being the new me.
After years of bitterness about never having a proper office - cubicle hell does nothing for your status as a professional- I would now give my eye-teeth for a cubicle; the MCMI center is being expanded and the adjuncts have been shifted to the library.
It is weird having to get up in response to an alarm again. I like to sleep in.

Being back in the saddle is also wonderful in these ways:

It is wonderful to be working among the good folks at the MCMI center, and with my beloved biology colleagues Bob, Marcia and Jackie.
It is wonderful to be interacting with students again. I have missed that, and I have two extraordinarily nice sets of students with whom I really enjoy interacting.
As funny as this may sound, it is wonderful to be doing the class-room prep work again. It is time consuming, but it is also stimulating and satisfying.
And it's wonderful to get paid.

So, while my hubby cavorts down under and my grandchildren continue to snub me, it is good to be doing something I didn't really know I loved until I stopped doing it.

AND NOW... the TOP TEN reasons why it is better to be an adjunct than full-time faculty.

10. You don't HAVE to teach anything unless you want to. The administration can't arbitrarily assign you wherever they please and NOT pay you for travel. Teach a class in Smyrna?! I think not!

9. You don't have to work full time. (I am putting in a grueling 10-hour week. I'm EXHAUSTED!)

8. You don't have to keep office hours, (which, seeing that I don't have an office, is a good thing).

7. You don't have to accept any committee assignments. (While I was full-time, I edited the Stall News, served on Faculty Council, Academic Affairs, Financial Aid, Post-Tenure Review, SACS, the Science Discipline Grant Application Committee, and several text-book selection committees, to name just a few I can remember).

6. You don't have to attend any meetings. (Most meetings left me feeling angry, frustrated, abused and resentful- and those were just the discipline meetings).

5. You don't have to sponsor any activities.

4. You don't have to work registrations.

3. You can pick and choose the hours you teach. (Remind me NOT to accept a 9:25 class in MCMI ever again- I like to sleep in. I hate alarm clocks. I am being redundant).

2. You can bitch all you want and don't have to worry about being politic.

1. You get to focus on just the part of the job that you love- WHICH IS TEACHING!

Fluffenella... she's everywhere, she's everywhere

2007-08-30T00:31:00.000-05:00

It is VERY early in the morning. Rushing around trying to get ready for work, I absent-mindedly close doors and drawers to keep kittens out of them while I am away. As I put the final touches to my make-up, I realize that the cupboard under the sink is mewing. I open the door. Fluffenella tumbles out.

I rush into my closet to find shoes that will fit on my going-barefoot-all-summer widened feet. I find a semi-decent pair that doesn't require that I wear hose, put them on, and shut the door behind me. I grab my purse and head out the door. Columbo-like, I come right back in again, as I have left my keys on the bed. While I am back in my bedroom, I realize the closet is mewing. I open the door. Fluffenella scampers out.

I suddenly remember that I haven't taken my insulin, so I pull it out of the fridge and shoot myself with it. I return it to the fridge, and then grab my purse once again, feeling a tad frantic now because I have a 50 minute drive ahead of me, and I should have left 5 minutes ago. That's when I realize the fridge is mewing. I open the door. Fluffenella is in the lowest door compartment, attacking a yogurt. She is very cold, so I take a moment to hold her until she is warm, and thank God that I didn't drive off and leave her in there.

I teach my class, and come home to rest up a bit before the night class I am also teaching. I slip out of my clothes and don a light nightie to cool off. I stretch out on the couch and take a little nap. Later, I rise and go to put my clothes back on. I realize my pant leg is mewing. I extract Fluffenella from my pants, and continue getting ready. As I head out the door, I grab my purse and my tote bag. Off to work again...except my tote bag is mewing. Yeah.

Just now, as I was heading for bed, I realized the drier was mewing. Fluffenella had climbed in and gotten entangled in the towels which will now need to be re-washed. I freed her, closed the drier door... then opened it again to make sure none of the other remaining three kits had also climbed in. Nope. It seems Fluffenella is the only kit who lives dangerously.

Fluffenella is ear-marked to go and live with my brother Bill in Texas. I hope he doesn't read this- he may re-think the whole kitten adoption thing.

Travel/no travel...WHAT WAS I THINKING???!!!

2007-08-20T16:50:00.000-05:00

I was so looking forward to coming out to San Diego, if only for the cool weather. It's been too damn hot for too damn long in Tennessee, so I was thrilled to be heading to San Diego, where it is always 72. Except that it is 95. You heard me. You can't say the weather followed me, either, since it was waiting for me when I got here. 95. Thank goodness it is five degrees cooler here, or there would have been no point in coming.

I am only here for a week because... wait for it... I am teaching this semester. I know, I know, how stupid it THAT?- but I find I can be guilted/flattered into doing almost anything. I was supposed to teach a genetics class, and was praying it wouldn't make. And it didn't! So, in a moment of weakness brought on by the joy of NOT teaching genetics, I agreed to teach two other things. These things can't keep happening to me without having something to do with me!

One general biology, one anatomy and physiology, two campuses, three days a week... ah, well, it will pay for the carpeting I will have to replace once the kittens have all been claimed by their new owners. All the kitties are staying with Jake and Becca while I am here. I hope all is going well. Tiger and Pusskins will be remaining in their new home when I return, and I will miss them, but the remaining three babies, Scamper, Hiro, and Fluffanella, and their Mama Binx will be back to destroying my bedroom carpet on Saturday.

The carpet is not the only thing that has been destroyed this summer. 100 degree heat for weeks and weeks on end- and in the midst of the heat wave, our freezer in the garage flipped its breaker without our noticing. Odd smells started permeating the house. I, of course, blamed the cats. Carpets were cleaned, refrigerators were moved, floors were scoured, kitty litter was dumped and refilled, windows were opened to let fresh, 100 degree air into the house, all to not avail. It took us awhile to realize that a freezer full of meat and veg had begun to rot malodorously. I hate the smell of decomp in the morning. Just a little taste of the smells forensic scientists must deal with. At least we didn't have to autopsy the stuff. Still, Dave couldn't shake the smell off his skin and hands until he remembered something from a "CSI" episode, and bathed with lemon juice. Store that away for future use: if you ever stink from exposure to decomposing flesh, lemon juice will save the day. Don't say I never give you good advice.

So, even though it is hot here, San Diego has this going for it right now- there is no rotting meat, there are no fighting cats, and there is a complete absence of Febreze. Life is semi-good!

Lions and tigers, no bears, OH MY!

2007-08-08T03:03:00.000-05:00

Question: Can I go to the mall by entering my bedroom?

Answer: Yes, as long as mall is spelled m-a-u-l.

I am being mauled daily. There are five wild, mobile, aggressive beasts in my bedroom. Ankle biters. Clawing their way to the top - of my legs, of my bed- with their needle-like claws. They are chewing on my toes with their razor teeth. They are wearing my clothes. They are eating my socks. They wrestle with each other, annoy their mother, and attempt to escape the room every time the door opens.

There is no respite even in the bathroom. Whenever pants are lowered to use the facility, the pants are instantly filled with demented babies. I kid you not. I thought I had shaken them all out. I was mistaken. I have been clawed where no cat has gone before.

Kittens are so soft, so sweet, so ruthlessly spiky. Pleasure is always accompanied by pain, as with roses. Kittens are like mink coats with thorns. Like cockleburs, they attach themselves to laundry baskets, to clothing, to rugs, to shower curtains.

They sleep in David's shoes.

Miss Binx's litter is now almost 5 weeks old. They are out the their box, litter-trained, and starting to eat solid food. Binx is still terrorizing Hobbes and Patches but I hope that will settle down once she has completely weaned the catkins. Then THEY can terrorize Hobbes and Patches.

Here are a few recent shots of my lions and tigers in miniature. They crack me up- and are destroying my bedroom!

Notice how they are going in different directions- divide and conquer mode.

Sometimes a guy just needs some privacy; sadly for this little fella, that's out of the question. All four of his siblings are under there with him, out of camera range.

Looking right at you is Tiger. Tiger is the runt of the litter which means, of course, he is the ringleader. His sister Pusskins (black kitty) and he are going to live with my son and his family. The dark charcoal baby snubbing me is going to my god-daughter Kat. The "escape artist" is one of the twins, who look so much alike it's like... well, it's like they are twins.

Here are the "twins" looking at you. As near as we can determine, there are three males and two females in this litter. Apparently Pusskins is the only kit that looks like the Daddy.

I am so in love.

In Memoriam

2007-08-01T00:45:00.000-05:00

Adiren M. Neal

Beloved child and mother

August 3, 1977 - July 28, 2007

May light perpetual shine upon her.

I'm so charming, it's alarming

2007-07-25T21:13:00.001-05:00

I'm an obsessive kinda gal.

(NEWSFLASH to those who know me).

I obsessively collect teapots, faeries, cats, unicorns, miniatures... OK, so I am spoiled.

My latest obsession is Italian modular charms.

I blame Melinda entirely for this obsession. OK, Marcia helped- but it was mostly Melinda. Sweet Melinda used to work for a high-end gift shop, and it is she who first introduced me to the lovely things. In fact, she and her mother gave me my very first charms. I really loved charms even back then, but they were $12-$18 bucks a pop, and the average bracelet is comprised of 18 charms... well, you do the math.

AND THEN I FOUND THEM ON eBAY!!! Mega cheap! Job lots even ! Oh frabjous day!

Not that I went nuts or anything.

I did assemble some nice jewelry, though.

So... what I am presenting today are four works of art. The first two are entitled "Let's Focus on me" and "Quality Family Time". Let's focus on me is about... hmmm, let me think. You may recognize the photo charm as the same shot on my blog. Hey, I am not photogenic, so when I get a picture I like... Anyway, this bracelet celebrates my various interests, hobbies, past lives (pirate), personality (sarcastic smarty pants) and Happy Bunny enthusiasm. Notice the Old Lady Mafia charm to the right of my lovely head.

"Quality Family Time" is a family in-joke. This bracelet celebrates myfamily- my marriage, my kids, my daughter-in-law, and my grand-kids. The top row consists mostly of our various names, while the bottom row consists of various configurations of birthstones (initials for the guys, butterflies for the women, and little girls for the little girls). Of course, it is also a watch- hence the "time" part of QFT.

Now, for your consideration, two bracelets honoring two of my greatest obsessions- faeries and cats.

Bracelets like these make wonderful gifts. It's like giving someone a biography they can wear on their wrist. Mine are double stranded with mega links holding the two strands together, but most of the ones I have created as gifts are single strand and have been very well received.

Looking for the appropriate charm for a person is great fun. My sister called her son "Bamm-Bamm" when he was a baby, and sure enough, I was able to find a "Bamm-Bamm" charm. I found charms of Orlando Bloom, Daniel Radcliffe and Johnny Depp for my adorable god-daughter, who is in love with all three. Dave's sister has been accepted into nursing school- so I found charms of Miss Piggy and Betty Boop, among others, dressed as a nurse.

I could go on, and generally do, but must go. There is a cat-fight going on in the next room; apparently Binx has taken a break from teat-feeding the Five Little Peepers and is attacking Hobbes again. Gee, I hope she isn't a man-hater. Hobbes is NOT the cat who got her pregnant.

Off into battle with the spritzer I go!

By the way.... would you like a kitten?

Hits on the Old Lady Mafia, and the end of the travels of little Mama

2007-07-25T13:36:00.000-05:00

It's been a tough summer for the OLM.

Capo Allesandra sold her house after it was on the market for 15 minutes and had to quickly move into a much smaller rental house ASAP. NORMALLY, the OLM would have been right by her side helping her.

Nothing has been normal about the summer of 2007.

In June, da Godmother (me) broke her left arm tripping over her own big feet. (This on the day Mama was moved into assisted living.... more on that later). No pushing, pulling or lifting for Dona Kate until mid-August.

Yvonne (AKA the Enforcer) had emergency surgery on her neck. I have seen the x-rays- what a mess! The doctors fused four cervical vertebrae together and sent her home, where she is making a steady recovery. No pushing, pulling or lifting for her until mid-August, if then.

Consigliore Marcia has been in pain for a week. Lesser beings would have been to the doctor days ago. It looks like her gall bladder has gone belly up and will soon sleep with the fishes. No pushing, pulling, or lifting for her until WHO knows when if she needs surgery.

I knew but didn't know how much we all depended on one another until this bizarre summer. Yvonne and I have been able to help each other out, Yvonne more for me than I for her, but for the most part, it has been every woman for herself in terms of help from the OLM.

Fortunately, we are all blessed with other helpers; Yvonne has her hubby and Kat, a junior OLM, who have taken very good care of her; Sandie has her hubby to help with the move and aftermath; Marcia has her wonderful daughter, Melinda, also a junior OLM. And I have my PA Stephanie, my son and daughter-in-law, Yvonne, and even had the help of my daughter for a couple of days, so we have all come through all right. Still, I can't remember a time when we were ALL laid low at the same time. Hope it NEVER HAPPENS AGAIN.

In the meantime, God bless us, everyone.

Now, back to the continuing saga of Mama: she had a stroke in April and was in a convalescent home until we could make arrangements to move her into an assisted living facility. When I say we, I do not mean Dave. On June 14, while Kelly was in town, we got Mama moved into her new digs- and I broke my arm. (Thanks to Kelly, Becca, Kendall, Haley, Delaney, Emily, Yvonne and Kat for all the help, by the way. We really got the place looking fantastic!) Mama seemed to love her new apartment, and we were all delighted.

Of course, it didn't last. Mama fell into a deep depression and began acting out- BIG TIME- and then she fell ill and ended up back in the hospital, severely dehydrated, completely delusional and disoriented, with dangerously low blood pressure. She had lost weight because she was refusing to eat. As soon as she regained her physical health, she was sent to Winchester to Senior Advantage, in hopes she could be restored to mental health as well.

She spent almost two weeks there, and is now back at the Assisted-Living facility, where she is doing very well. She is eating properly and taking her medications, she is making friends and "going visiting" with her fellow residents, and her sense of humor has re-emerged. She is suffering from moderately advanced dementia, but the meds they have her on seem to be a god-send. The other day, Mama was trying to figure out how many people lived there with her, and she was using the dining arrangements to make the determination- 4 people per table; she began counting by 4s- 4, 8, 12, 16, clearly trying to visualize the dining room as she counted, until she finally said "There must be at least 36 people living here". I was gob-smacked, grateful and relieved to see her figuring things out. She also explained her schedule to me, rather than the other way around, so... cross your fingers, light a candle, say a little prayer. There may be some good days ahead for Mama. Her daughter Rita is coming for a short visit early in August, and it would be wonderful if they could have a really good time together.

Gotta go. Waiting on repair men and estimates. Sigh.

OH, BY THE WAY... want a kitten?

Binx and my grandkits

2007-07-09T22:41:00.000-05:00

I don't know why stray cats always end up on my porch. I must have some weird magnetic field that only felines can sense. Two years ago come November, a sweet little gray tabby nestled into the cushion on my swing and ended up in the house when the temperature dropped below freezing. Someone had abandoned him in the woods near our house, which sadly happens alot. We took the little fella in so he wouldn't die from the weather and he has been with us ever since. Dave named him Hobbes, and, being responsible pet owners, we immediately took Hobbes to the vet where he got his shots and lost his balls. If people would just neuter their pets, there wouldn't be so many abandoned domestic animals being euthanized in "shelters".

About three weeks ago, a dainty little cat with huge green eyes and a slightly exotic face showed up on my porch. This time, hot weather, not cold, brought out the rescuer in me. I started leaving water out for her. Then food. Then my PA Stephanie noticed she was pregnant- the cat, not Steph. Off to the vet we went. I will be honest with you- I was hoping that it would be early enough in the pregnancy to end it.

No such luck. Don't get me wrong, I adore kittens, but it is hard to find homes for them and I really don't want any more than I already have- which is now THREE, since I plan on keeping my dainty, exotic queen Binx. The vet gave her a thorough exam, cleaned her ears, dewormed her, treated her for fleas, gave her her shots, and told me to expect babies in about 10 days.

The very next night, on 07/07/07, Binx gave birth to five teeny little catlets under my bed. I was hoping to see the babies being born but I slept through it. In fact, I fell asleep on the couch and so wasn't even in the room when the miracle occured. I went into my room when I awoke and almost had a heart attack. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted what I thought was a mouse. Wrong mammal- it was a newborn kitten that had stumbled out from under the bed. I grabbed the cat bed I had for Binx and scooped baby #1 into it. I saw #2 and #3, and did the same with them. Binx then emerged and began taking them back under the bed, so I moved the cat bed under my bench and once again began the cat-and-mouse game with Binx. I had gathered four kittens and thought that was it when #5 started crying for Mama. They are all comfortably esconced in a nest Becca made out of a box and I filled with bedding, with food and water for Binx on a tray nearby and a litter box for her in my bath.

Binx has been so calm, laid back (except with Patches and Hobbes) and sure in dealing with the kits that I am convinced this is not her first litter. It is, however, mine. I am enthalled with the little critters. I find them endlessly fascinating and hysterically funny.

Just like human babies, they are so sweet... when they are sleeping. I anticipate weeks of fun with these little guys/gals (who can tell their gender at this age)? I know Dave (and Patches and Hobbes) will not be amused when the babies become mobile, but I am going to be over the moon! I hope this isn't the start of my descent into my eccentric old cat-woman phase...

My left foot.. no, wait a minute, that was Daniel Day-Lewis...My left arm

2007-07-05T23:41:00.000-05:00

10 things breaking my arm has taught me...

1. It is almost impossible to pull up panties with one hand (probably NOT much of a problem for guys, I suppose).

2. Fastening the seat-belt becomes an experiment in terror. So does turning corners. For your own safety, y'all might want to stay off the roads until I am fully healed.

3. Getting dressed is a challenge with only one arm and no one to help me. It's EXHAUSTING!! But it is the closest thing to a sex life I have right now.

4. Did you ever notice that the left hand does most of the typing? I did. Do you have any idea how hard it is to capitalize words one-handed? I do.

5. Cats are uncontrollably attracted to broken arms. They want to sit on them and knead them and launch themselves off them.

6. If you are used to sleeping on your left side and you break your left arm, you have to learn to sleep in a new position. Excruciating pain when you try to sleep in your normal position helps in the learning process, though.

7. You cannot carry a purse, groceries, mail, and a Starbucks one-handed.

8. You can't carry anything and still be able to open the front door one-handed.

9. After the 356,879th time someone asks you "What did you do to your arm?". do NOT- repeat, DO NOT hit them with it... unless they have asked you 356,878 times already, in which case it might just be worth the pain.

10. Small granddaughters are no respecters of broken bones.

Not so much a fall from grace as a fall BY Grace

2007-06-22T04:06:00.000-05:00

Maybe I was born clumsy. Maybe clumsiness is a result of childhood polio. Maybe things just like to trip me. Whatever. I fall down a lot. Usually I get up and feel like a fool. But Thursday, June 14...

Thursday, June 14 was moving day for Mama. Since her stroke in April, she has been first in the hospital and then in the step-down ward. The whole while I worked to get her into an assisted living facility. When I got word that a space had come available in a VERY nice place, my daughters and my friends sprang into action to help me get her comfortably moved in. I hired a local moving company and we got her apartment moved into and unpacked in a day.

The minute she was discharged from the step-down ward, I was there to take her to her home. She was delighted to have her own space again and pleased with the way her little unit looked. She should be-it is "purty", as she says. My house, on the other hand, was a disaster. What a mess! So I went home, pooped, and decided to tidy up my room so I would at least have a nice place to sleep. The movers had moved Dave's desk and office stuff into what had been Mama's room and that had opened up a lot of space, so I started to do a little rearranging. That's when my bed collapsed. That's when I tried to uncollapse it. That's when I got in my own way, fell down, and broke my left arm.

I seem to have a pattern of falling to the left. I have fallen and broken my left arm and left collar bone in the past. Not that I am complaining-better the left than the right- but it seems faintly sinister somehow.

Splint, sling, pain, dopiness from the pain pills, (did I mention pain?) and my home in chaos, but do I get any sympathy whatsoever from my nearest and dearest? PUH-LEEZE! My brother suggested that our parents should have named me Grace. That's the closest to soft, murmuring noises anyone made about my arm.

So that was my June 14.

In the meantime, while I am learning the frustrations of one-handedness, Mama is adjusting to her new environment in fits and starts, with an emphasis on FITS! The first time Dave visited her in her new digs, she pulled out all the stops on the guilt front. She was busting his chops, he knew she was busting his chops, and she knew he knew and still it was awful. ''Why did you do this to me, David? Why did you put me in this jail? I have a room at your house. I want to go home to your house." Knowing it was 80% manipulation, acting, and punishment did not prevent the experience from being heart-wrenching.

After her initial pleased reaction to her new home, she has been determinedly glum. It has been noticed. I have been fielding calls from the facility every couple of days. The Director told me that in the eight years she has been running the place, she has never dealt with anyone like Mama. Imagine my surprise!

The concerns of the facility are many and varied.

They are worried because she is not eating- she apparently has no appetite. (This is a recurring tactic of Mother's for attention. Her little kitchenette is well-stocked. Believe me, she eats).
She has been snookering them about taking her pills- they've found two of her hiding places so far. (I explained how to ensure that she actually takes her medications. I refrained from suggesting cramming a funnel down her throat and just pouring them into her).
They wondered if she has always been child-like and stubborn. (They are experiencing for the first time Mama's "simple" act). The Director really wanted to ask me if she is retarded, I could tell. The answer is no, she is not, but she had a mentally impaired sister and can imitate her perfectly.

Today the cable guy came to hook up her box so she can watch the Western channel. I went to be there while he did the installation so she wouldn't get spooked by a strange man in her room. The handsome young man was wearing shorts and Mama teased him mercilessly about his naked legs. I think he was glad I was there, because he was getting spooked by the strange woman in the room. While I was there, three people, in rapid succession, popped their heads into the room and asked me, "Kate, will you stop by and see me before you leave?"

So I did. I met with the Director, the Nurse, and the Aide behind locked doors. I felt like a parent summoned to the Principal's office about a kid about to be sent to alternative school.

Here's what they told me.

Mama asked for a toaster, which she was told she cannot have for fire safety reasons. Mama does not like being told "no". Mama likes having her own way. Mama always finds a way to punish those who thwart her- in this case, she carried a piece of white bread into the Director's office and started yelling "TOAST! TOAST! I WANT TOAST!" Sadly, the Director was speaking to a prospective client at the time.

Even though she seldom eats anything, she does show up for meals. She has had to be relocated from one table to another. Ms. Lucy, one of her new table-mates, is more than a little bitter about that, as she let me know in no uncertain terms today. It seems Mama came to dinner one night in her robe and slippers. Unfortunately, her robe was open and she was only wearing underwear underneath. When the Aide tried to get her to go back to her apartment to dress appropriately, she made a scene in the dining room, refused to leave, and refused to zip up her robe. Ms. Lucy, who at 80+ is one sharp cookie, apparently finds Mama unspeakably gauche.

It may be behavior like that that lead the Director to ask me "Has she ever been evaluated by a psychiatrist? Has she ever taken psychotropic drugs?" I mentioned a drug her doctor prescribed for her and it turned out it was missing from her list of meds. The Nurse left the room to call Mama's doctor for a new prescription. I have never seen a woman move that fast.

Both the Director and the Nurse seemed almost relieved to learn that mother was missing a medication. Up until that revelation, I had the distinct impression that they felt I had pulled a fast one on them. Mama technically meets all the criteria for assisted living, but hers is definitely a unique personality, and I suspect that if they had known what her personality is like, they might not have accepted her.

Hey, I wasn't trying to fox anyone. Maybe in the future they should include a personality test in their screening process. And they had plenty of opportunity to visit her in the step-down ward to evaluate her before they accepted her. Now that they have her, they think that getting her back on her missing med will calm her down and mitigate some of her acting out. Boy, I hope they are right. I left the meeting marvelling at how adept Mama is at creating problems.

I went back to Mama's apartment and explained to her that, except in case if fire, she cannot leave her rooms unless she is dressed in street clothes. I told her she cannot yell at people, no matter how upset she may be. I reminded her how important it is for her to be cooperative and to take her pills and not play games with her medications.

She looked at my sling and asked "How's your arm?

As soon as it heals, I may beat her over the head with it.

Mama has been in the place one week and one day, and she is already in danger of being expelled. Jeez. I hope the drug helps. Wednesday I take her back to the doctor. I am going to ask him to increase her dosage. Or add Thorazine.

If Mama won't take it, I will.

(It took me 2 1/2 hours to type this with one hand. Forgive any errors).

Perpetual wrongness

2007-06-09T00:02:00.000-05:00

TV, advertising, and even the NEWS help to perpetuate wrongness. Why is that, I wonder.... aside from the fact that this is America which plays fast and loose with information and education all the time.

Words are misused, mispronounced, and generally mistreated by the public media, which is a shame, because most folks get their information almost totally from the public media. There is no respect or love for language anymore. It is a "whatever" sort of world now. Sigh.

Let me share with you a couple of the things the media is driving me nuts with right now. (I heard you say "short drive"! )

My friends, you have heard me say this before, but the word is DISSECT. Look it up, that's the way it is spelled. The two esses are there to tell you that the word has a short "i" sound. It is pronounced "dis-sect", which means to take apart. The word is NOT dye-sect. If there were such a word, it would be spelled "disect" and would mean, like bisect, to cut in halves. If you doubt me, I direct you attention to the words "dessert" and "desert". Every time I hear a supposedly educated person say "dye-sect", it irritates me so much I'd like to give them their just desserts and desert them in a desert.

Okay, yes, I used to teach biology, so it may seem a bit parochial for me to be complaining about a "scientific" word, but it has entered the common vernacular and wrong is wrong! Where is Edwin Newman when we need him? (I guess, at 88, he has given up on correcting people. Too bad, he was good at it).

There is an ad showing a woman signing up for a variable rate loan, and as soon as she does, she has a monkey on her back. Only it isn't a monkey, it is a young chimpanzee. How can it be that in the 21st century there are still people who don't know that chimps are apes and not monkeys? [What am I saying??!! There are still people who think Darwin said we were descended from monkeys... wonder if those people can distinguish us from gorillas?]

And don't get me started on the use of statistics. "Two out of every ten women will face cancer", they say... which is bad accounting on two points. They don't report the age range- most women will be 70 or older when they develop cancer- and they don't report the logical reverse to that stat, which is that eight out of every ten women will NOT face cancer. Granted, a 20% chance of getting cancer is nothing to sniff at, but it's also nothing to panic about. I despise agencies that play with statistics to frighten people, usually to frighten them away from their money.

I could go on, and probably will, but those are the examples that are pushing my buttons right now.

Although I also think it is terribly wrong that the guys who play the cavemen in the Geico commercials will NOT be playing them in the new TV series. What kind of a screwed up world is this, anyway?

He may be a caveman, but he can say "dissect" properly. Can you?

Get me the HAL outta here!

2007-06-02T21:48:00.000-05:00

Norton Security is one of the most intrusive and obnoxious computer applications in the world and I hate it. Having Norton on your computer is like trying to work around the Handicapper General.

For those of you who don't know, the Handicapper General was a Kurt Vonnegut character whose job it was to make everyone equal-which made everyone equally mediocre (or dead).

Tired of mediocrity and fearing death, I decided to jettison Norton and return to the McAfee fold. I had McAfee on my old computer but Norton came bundled with the new one, and hey, I'd paid for it... HOWEVER, with 304 days still left on my Norton subscription, I had had enough and tried to uninstall it.

Notice the use of the word "tried".

Tried for over an hour.

I began to feel like Dave dealing with HAL.

For those of you who don't know, Dave was an astronaut in the movie "2001: A Space Odyssey", one of the longest, dullest movies ever made.

Actor Kier Dullea as Dave

Dave was on a spaceship controlled by a master computer named HAL. HAL had a nervous breakdown and started killing everyone.

Dave, beginning the shut-down of HAL

H-A-L, by the way, is a play on I-B-M; one letter back from each of the letters in IBM gives you HAL. Why I know this sort of stuff is beyond me. Why I keep making references I then feel compelled to explain may be a function of age.

Norton was killing me, and, like HAL, it died hard, but, unlike Dave, who became some sort of space embryo, I emerged full-grown and triumphant. I solved the last (I hope) Norton related problem just moments ago when I got the theoretically uninstalled Norton firewall to release the email account it was holding hostage.

I could hear McAfee "tsk-tsk"-ing in the background at each Norton attempted end-run; "See, you should have stayed with me and this never would have happened. Oops, the Norton firewall just blocked access to your e-bank." Of course, McAfee was correct, but it was hardly helpful or constructive for it to be disdainfully sniffing while I was plugging (or unplugging) away at Norton disassembly.

Norton at first sneered at my attempts to make it go away. Software contempt is the worst.

BUT I PREVAILED!!! And I didn't have to climb into the computer to do it. But I swear to you, as I finally uninstalled the very last Norton component, I could hear it plaintively lament "Dave... I'm going now, Dave..."

For those of you who don't know... my name's not Dave.

Red lobster... and I ain't talking about the restaurant

2007-05-26T22:47:00.000-05:00

Ah, Memorial Day weekend! What a great time! You put white back into your wardrobe (if it ever left); you go buy yet another new grill (it's a guy thing, apparently); and, if weather permits, you putz around the yard, clean up the front porch, and hop into the pool. That first dip of the weekend cools you off, soaks away all your stress- AND BURNS YOU TO A CRISP! Well, maybe not YOU, but I look like a cooked lobster with a weight problem.

No swimming for me for a few days. Just as well. Tomorrow is Mama's 79th birthday and we are bringing her home on a pass to celebrate the occasion. Not that she is in much of a mood to celebrate.

I have been trying to gently let her know that she will not be coming "home" to our home; her health is too precarious and her needs are greater than I can meet. Dave and I have discussed her condition with the doctor, and we are all in accord that the time has come for her to move to assisted living. Note that I did not say "old folks home", "nursing home" or "poor-house".

Dave and I went to investigate one of the two facilities in our town and both of us were massively impressed with it. The facility is beyond beautiful, it's downright posh- CLEAN, open, airy, richly decorated, with lots of natural light and a lovely central courtyard with a well-kept garden.

We were shown three different apartments, all of which were very nice, indeed. The apartments vary in size but feature the same basic staples: a sitting room, a small kitchenette, a commodious bedroom with large walk-in closet and a bathroom designed for the elderly. Rent includes three meals a day, either in the dining-room or in her apartment, housekeeping, laundry, transportation to shopping and/or doctor appointments, a wide range of activities that are entirely discretionary, and, of course, assistance. She will have assistance with her medications and hygiene. There is a nurse on staff as well as a dietitian/nutritionist.

We were both so relieved when we saw how nice it is. There were three or four residents conversing in a communal sitting room when we arrived. We were shown the dining room, communal TV room, beauty parlor, ice-cream parlor, and several meeting/game rooms, as well as the aforementioned courtyard garden. So NOT what we thought assisted living would be like.

There is a waiting list, of course, so we put Mama's name on it. Dave actually expected that we would get a call about a vacancy within a week. Silly man. I knew better. We were told that three units are about to be vacated, one due to relocation, one due to health problems that were beyond the scope of assisted living- and one death. In Dave's mind, that meant the rooms would be available, like, NOW! Kinda lets you know how removed from the real world the business world is.

The plan, I thought, was that we weren't going to tell Mama about the plans to move her until we had some concrete information, and until AFTER her birthday, which I didn't want spoiled. In his infinite wisdom, he "suggested" to her yesterday that assisted living was a possible scenario for her future. Don't ask me why he told her off-schedule. Everything with Dave is on a need-to-know basis, and I never seem to need to know.

She reacted very well, I thought. She has been complaining that she wants her own apartment for some time, so I am sure that a part of her was interested, if not excited, about the idea. Still, Mama doesn't like change, so I didn't expect her to be enthusiastic and was pleasantly surprised that she not only seemed to grasp the necessity of the arrangement, but seemed fairly anticipatory. She especially perked up when she learned she can have her own furniture and things (the apartments are unfurnished) and can decorate anyway she pleases. She can come and go as she pleases as well- no day passes required.

We left her in an upbeat mood. I asked Dave why he had told her before her birthday that she "might not" be coming back to our house, and he said his upcoming travel schedule was the impetus. He didn't want me to have to be the one to prepare her for the move. How thoughtful, I thought- though if the call about the apartment comes while he is gone, I will be HANDLING the move.

So, we went to see her today and the nurse met us in the hall. Seems Mama started the day by packing all her stuff, insisting she was going home, and bursting into tears. She carried on the whole morning about our "putting her in a home" and abandoning her, and snubbed us when we walked in. We tried to cheer her up, reminding her about tomorrow and the party, but she was in a foul mood. "Just shoot me," she kept saying. "I'm ready for the bone-yard". She continued in this mode for some time, but Dave finally got her attention re-directed, and we parted on good terms. She walked us to the door.

She will have a good time at her party tomorrow and then will make a painful scene when the time comes to return to the Life Care Center. Poor old thing, I do feel for her but I wish she would have a little faith in us. When in the past seven years that she has lived here have we ever abandoned, forgotten or neglected her? Before her husband Paul died, she saw us maybe twice a year. Since his death, with increasingly rare exceptions, she has had our company 4-5 times a week (when she had her own place the first time) and daily since she moved in with us. Believe me, she has not lacked for company or care since.

Maybe next week, we will take her to see the place. More likely, I will take her to see the place. I just hope she doesn't make a scene when I do. It's all so stressful. Too bad I won't be able to jump into the pool to de-stress for the next few days. What's an overweight lobster to do?

It's my potty, and I'll cry if I want to...

2007-05-17T00:29:00.000-05:00

So I have this image in my mind of how I want the master suite bathroom to look... and I share that image with my partner in crime Becca, who thinks it's a good idea. The plan is that I will buy all the stuff, and, while I am in Michigan visiting my dad, Beck will do all the work. I will come home to a brand, sparkling, new bathroom, with no effort on my part save swiping my credit card. That's how I like things- easy.

So of course, it didn't work out. Mama had a stroke, which canceled my trip to Michigan. Still, the Beckster was determined to press on. After all, the two of us had just created a truly magnificent craft room. How hard could a bathroom be?

Let me tell you.

First of all, two people cannot work in a bathroom at the same time, which left Beck to do all the dirty work (but I got to play with Pookie, so that was fair).

Second, the builders had apparently secured the wallpaper to the wall using the same adhesive NASA uses to glue the tiles to the shuttlecraft. THREE FULL DAYS it took just to remove the wallpaper. Another day to prep the walls. We entered day five before a single drop of paint was spread. We had finished the craft room in three days total!

All the dark, dated cabinets were sanded and wiped down. Two days. The walls were painted. One day. The cabinets were painted. One day. The doors and drawers were reinstalled. One day. New faucet, new lighting fixtures (thank you, son) and new towel bars . One day. Caulking. One day. (I did the caulking, and I am old and fat, so it took some time). Clean-up. One day. Dressing the room. One day.

I hear you out there, scoffing. "One day for clean-up- pfffft. I could have done it in one hour. Dressing the room? Gimme 15 minutes." Scoff if you must, thou nay-sayers, but verily I say unto you- were you there?? We were contending with tight time frames (dropping off and picking up Sunshine, Noodle and Pixie from school), an active 3-year old, a diabetic, and the countless interruptions for which life in my household is famous. I think that the fact that we got it done in two weeks is a freaking miracle.

Trips to Lowe's- 4,556. Trips to various other stores- 2. Total cost- slightly less than the Taj Mahal.

But it was worth it. It is beautiful. Clean, decluttered, roomier, brighter. I am posting pictures that don't do it justice. Why do I NEVER remember to take BEFORE pictures?

If I am crying, it is from joy. I LOVE working with Becca. So, kisses to you, sweetie, and thanks to Jake and Melinda as well. As to my readers- y'all come over and pee sometime. Ciao!

All my children... and Happy Mother's Day to you, too.

2007-05-11T23:28:00.000-05:00

It has been my blessing and curse to have two extraordinarily intelligent and multi-talented children. I think the blessing part of that statement is self-evident; they have been a constant source of pride, surprise, delight and camaraderie since they were infants. Both have practical and artistic talents. Both love music, puzzles, wordsmithery, and both are excellent cooks. Jake can build anything. Kelly can act anything. Jake is a wonderful father. Kelly is a wonderful aunt. They love each other, so I am blessed.

The curse is that two extraordinarily intelligent and multi-talented people tend to be discontent. With so many gifts, they find it hard to focus on any one, and with so many interests, they are always striving for perfection on multiple levels all the time and often falling short. Neither one of them has any patience with falling short. And both of them tend to bite off more that they can chew and then stress about it. I wonder who they get that from?

And because they are intelligent and logical, the fact that the world is neither sensible or logical exasperates them- at high volume. At any given time, I am listening to rants and complaints about the work-place, the significant other, those in authority, and the general wrong-headedness of most people to whom they must report. I have been there- it IS hard to take direction or work directly for someone who does not share your smarts- so I sympathize with my cherubs. But it sometimes gives me an ulcer to listen to their rants, well-reasoned and sensible as they may be.

Be that as it may, the blessings far outweigh the curses. My daughter pampers me lavishly when I visit San Diego, which is why I am bummed when I don't get to go. She keeps the apartment in top-notch condition, and cooks extraordinary meals for us (or for Dave, when he is there without me). She is good company and my good friend.

Jake spoils me too. Today he installed two ceiling fans, new faucets in the kitchen and my bath, a new lighting fixture in my bath, and cleaned out the gutters. (He also sprayed me with the hose from the roof- and then drenched me when he cannon-balled into the pool).

Both my kids tease me, and rough joking is par for the course. Unfortunately, I was one of those mothers who gave their children freedom to express themselves, which they do without mercy, expressing their strong opinions on their mother- who, by the way, I find to be a completely delightful woman- at every opportunity.

Taken all in all, though, I am pretty lucky in my children. They may be libidinous, they may be all over the place with their interests, they may even be a little bit mouthier that I would like, but they are good kids, good people.

This Mother's Day I realize that no gift could ever surpass the gift of my children. A superlative gift, a gift of great price. Sunday will be my day because these two are my children. I have loved them every moment of their lives, and think I have ample love to last out the next 100 years or so. No gift can be greater than my daughter and my son.

That doesn't meant they shouldn't try to find one.

Wet cats with saddlebags

2007-05-07T00:52:00.000-05:00

Our little chair took first place in Children's chairs at the Literacy Council Fund-raiser and was removed from the silent auction to the verbal auction. All of the children's chairs were charming and whimsical so it was very cool to have been given first place. I think our chair might have brought more money in the silent auction, though, as it was among the last things offered for bids and the crowd had thinned considerably by then. Whatever- a very nice woman got a very nice chair for a very good price. Next year, I will put a minimum bid on my entry. Notice I have committed to doing this again. Hope Melinda's up to it :)

The CK Scrapbooking Convention was so much fun. My buds Sandy and Jodie and I spent two days and one night in the big city, and spent way too much money, ate way too much good food, and had way too good a time. I went nuts, I must confess. Knowing I was going to the convention, I had not purchased anything for paper crafts since Christmas. Almost six months. Now that's restraint, people. So I figured I just spent what I would have normally spent during the past six months in one fell swoop. That's my story, and I am sticking to it.

I have not stored all my loot yet, because I want Becca to see it before I do, but thanks to my fabulous craft room and it's brilliant organization, there will be no probs. I have a place for everything.

We made a lot of neat stuff at the convention, and got a LOT of good ideas. I am so jazzed, I want to get to work on about fifteen different projects at once.

However, if you could have seen us after two days on our feet (on concrete floors, no less), toting about 6 tons of stuff, you'd have laughed your dupas off. We looked like wet cats wearing saddlebags. We got over that, thank you.

Interested in the loot I brought home? Look no further, here is a shot of it.

Here is the grand overview... good thing Dave does not read my blog.

Here are some of the cards I made for the card swap. Some of them aren't too bad. I had never gone to a card swap before, so didn't know I was supposed to make 20 of the same design. I'll know for next year.

On the other hand...

2007-04-27T01:20:00.000-05:00

Mama is doing so much better, she has been moved to the Skills Life Center for rehab. Today she dressed herself and was quite personable. As much as she wants to come home, even she will admit that the past few days have been good for her. Once her strength and appetite return, she may be able to come home.

She really wants to come home. She misses the cats and her room and the Old Lady Mafia, though they have been visiting her and bringing her little gifts, God bless 'em. She hates her room-mate, who, I must admit, makes Mama seem extraordinarily high functioning. I don't know what Miz E's diagnosis is, but I strongly suspect she has Alzheimer's. She talks non-stop, assumes anyone who is speaking is addressing her and takes off her clothes. Several times a day. She's 85- it ain't pretty. They have her hooked up to a sensor that makes one hell of a shrill and annoying noise whenever she gets out of bed because she tends to fall. She also tends to get out of bed every 20 minutes so Mama's room is pretty noisy. All of this is pretty annoying, but Mama's biggest complaint is that Miz E hogs the TV. If Mama is going to be in there for any length of time, I may take a TV over to her.

The stress level around here has decreased greatly in the past few days. I dreaded moving Mama to the nursing home but after the obligatory high-volume fit- which I missed, thank goodness, but her doctor did not- she was pretty cool about the whole thing. She is being cared for by very good and kind people and is improving every day. All to the good.

I am over being pissed off at Dave, mainly because Mama is doing so well. Stress #2 taken care of.

And, with the help of two members of the Junior OLM, I was able to complete two projects that were either interrupted or delayed by Mama's illness.

My most beloved daughter-in-law helped me paint and reorganize my craft room, which is now beyond wonderful and is my favorite room in the house. I will post pictures of it soon- it's gorgeous. Becca is a fantastic painter. We really work well together and even Pookie pitched in. (I'd post an adorable picture of Pookie helping, but my son has asked me not to do that, so you'll just have to imagine a gorgeous three-year old in a Superman T-shirt rolling Hawaiian orchid paint on the walls).

Then my good buddy Melinda brought her substantial artistic ability to the completion of the Literacy Council project that was approaching deadline. I committed to producing a decorated chair to be auctioned off at the Chair-ity Event fundraiser tomorrow night. It turned out to be quite charming, I think.

I designed the chair. Melinda did all the painting and decoupage. I made the fairy figure and the fairy cushion.

I actually made SIX fairies, as the original design called for, but when we started assembling the chair, they were just too much. SO- as per usual - I did six times more work than was required. Less is more. More or less.

We added a "Flower Fairies of the Garden" book by Cicely Mary Barker, and the chair was complete. I had not realized what a stress not having the chair ready was until I turned it in at the Adult Learning Center and felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. I hope people bid on it.

Off to bed, me.

Bitterness alert- read at your own risk

2007-04-21T21:36:00.000-05:00

I have been informed that I am basically a positive person until it comes to the news and Mama.

I have been informed this by my husband.

I admit that I do tend to rant and rail about the crap that passes for news, especially TV news. I tend to avoid the news entirely unless my hubby is home. Avoid, hell, I NEVER watch the news unless he is home, so I think his judgment that I am negative about it is a bit skewed. I'm not negative about it as long as it's not on.

And I don't think I am negative about Mama, either. I think I am reasonably frustrated and a tad resentful, but also I think there is good cause. Mama is a rip-snorter and can turn ANY situation into a no-win one. Dave grew up with the woman, so he knows this. He just doesn't want to hear about it anymore. Period. He wants to abdicate, and resents it when I object to being the abdicatee.

Case in point coming up.

The plans were these:
April 22- May 16: Dave traveling to San Diego, and then to Brisbane.
May 6 - May 16: Kate traveling to Michigan to visit her dad and sister

And then this happened: Mama was rushed to the hospital where it took three days for the doctors to come up with a diagnosis that explained the symptoms that weren't patently faked. (The faked symptoms included laughably sham seizures and phony faints.) The real symptoms seemed indicative of some type of CVA- a micro stroke, or TIA, perhaps.

Tests have since shown an 80% blockage in her carotid artery. This is serious, and some plan of action on how to proceed needs to be formulated. That plan of action may or may not include surgery. It may or may not include admitting her to a nursing home. It may or may not include Mama coming home but needing constant supervision.

In the meantime, someone needs to visit her daily to keep her company, to keep her spirits up and to make sure she is being cared for properly. Someone will have to help her deal with whatever changes to her life are on the horizon, and comfort her if she does not get to come back to the home she wants to return to RIGHT NOW! Should they segue her to a nursing home, someone will have to help her adjust to a new environment and assure her that she is still loved and isn't being abandoned. Someone will also have to handle the logistics, the paperwork, the arrangements, and the business of caring for a sick, elderly person.

So...
The new plans are these:
April 22- May 16: Dave traveling to San Diego, then to Brisbane.
May 6 - May 16: Kate probably not going anywhere.

I know Dave's company is at a critical nexus right now. I know his job requires him to travel long distances all too frequently, and that no one, right now, can do what he does. But apparently, on the home front, no one can do what I do, whether I want to do it or not. It is getting harder and harder, even more so than when our children were young and I was a stay-at-home Mom, to carve out a bit of a life of my own.

For some reason, I feel a little negative about that.

And so... home- which is no frolic

2007-04-05T01:36:00.000-05:00

Early tomorrow, I hop on a plane and begin the long, uncomfortable, and lonely trek from San Diego to Tennessee. Alone, because Dave is in Chicago, though he is headed home as well and will meet me at the Nashville Airport. We don't even seem to live parallel lives anymore. It is the nature of his job to keep him not so much on the road but in the air, and by that nature, to keep us chronically apart. This time, however, I chose to be apart. I did not want to go to Chicago. It is cold in Chicago. I wanted the extra couple of days in San Diego.

Have I ever told you how much I LOVE San Diego? No? Then let me list the ways and reasons I love this town.

1. My daughter is in San Diego, and she is good company.

2. San Diego is beautiful and the weather is predictable- mostly nice, with occasional so-so. It's fun when it rains here- the natives panic!

3. San Diego is very restful, (mainly because all my responsibilities are in Tennessee). I sleep well here, and often.

4. There is a complete absence of Mama in San Diego.

5. Our apartment is light, bright and airy. It does not smell of cats or old ladies.

6. My clothes aren't covered in cat hair in San Diego.

7. Great food!

8. Great shopping!

9. Great day spa where I pamper myself mercilessly.

10. Complete absence of Mama.

I really don't want to go home right now, I am having such a good time and my schedule is so booked between now and mid-May that I won't be coming back in a hurry.

Now, why don't I want to go home? Let me list the reasons.

1. Mama is there.

Oh, well, home I go. Mama will greet us with top-volume pathos and talk non-stop for the next three days. She will repeat herself every 42 minutes. For three days. But I have an Easter feast to prepare, a GFWC convention to prepare for, two fund-raisers and a clubhouse cleaning day to take me to the end of April, and a scrapbooking convention and a trip to my Dad in Michigan in early May, so I will be very busy and may not notice.

Reason 11 for loving San Diego? MY SCHEDULE IS CLEAR HERE!!

Back to busy, busy, busy. See you there.

WHALES IN BONDAGE!! Well, not quite...

2007-04-02T19:48:00.000-05:00

A young SeaWorld trainer on the nose of a pilot whale.

Do not try this at home.

After our open-sea adventure, Kel and I did, in fact, saunter over to SeaWorld today. Having been spoiled by Disneyland and the San Diego Zoo, I was relatively unimpressed by SeaWorld's people management. It took us almost an hour to get INTO the park. It must have been Hire-An-Incompetent Week at the marine park. Well, I shouldn't be too unkind; we did get a $10 refund because of our wait, which they didn't have to do...but really, I don't wait well, especially when there are WHALES just over the fence.

Kel played with the mantra rays (whose tail tips had been surgically removed) but I couldn't help but think of Steve Irwin and kept my hands firmly in my pockets. (Actually, they live there and only come out for special occasions).

We then went to see the dolphin show which was great fun. Dolphins must have devolved from the porcine family because THEY ARE BIG HAMS. One young dolphin named Dolly jumped a hurdle that took it over 16 feet into the air. Gaudy. That's her below, leaping over a yellow rope.

The animals seem to be healthy and well-maintained, and their trainers show genuine affection to them. The marine mammals are regularly groomed and well-fed and have a decent volume of water to patrol. They are breeding in captivity, so perhaps a life of captivity has its perks. I guess that's how we rationalize the captivity of all animals, including our pets- it's a decent trade-off; loss of freedom for greater security, no predation, regular meals and health care. Kinda like having a job for room and board with a doctor.

After cavorting with the dolphins, who joyously soaked the first 14 rows of the audience as their finale, we meandered over to the sea otters. We ended up at Shamu Stadium, where the show was less impressive- killer whales are not the show-offs dolphins are- and more impressive, because it revolved around KILLER WHALES! The top predators of the ocean. In like, nothing feeds on them. In like, should the mood strike, good ole Shamu could have his trainer for lunch. Of course, they feed him 250 pounds of fish a day so that he won't be peckish come show time, but the size differential between the whales and their trainers makes you wonder how it came to be that they were ever captured in the first place- and trained in the second. I mean, really, how DO you train a whale? What do you do if it misbehaves? Give it a good spanking? Take a look at the next picture and see if you agree that only the very young with no sense of their own mortality ever take these jobs.

We had a great time, I have to admit. SeaWorld may be a commercial enterprise, but it is funding and supporting research and education about the other mammals with whom we share this blue planet. Conservation is as important as exploitation, and at least the exploited are respected and cared for. A sea zoo, if you will. Last week, we went into the ocean to see whales in the wild. Today we saw them in a pool. Both experiences increased our knowledge about these mammoth, mysterious creatures- as well as manatees, hippos, beluga whales, and all the other marvelous animals we were able to see first hand, up close, and personal today. It made me feel connected and protective of them. And that, I think, is the point of SeaWorld.

If you go... take a raincoat. The whales and dolphins ARE out to get you wet.

2007-04-01T15:56:00.000-05:00

Friday last my daughter and I took a little excursion. We went down to the harbor, hopped on a small cruise ship and set out in search of whales. We had our picture made just before embarking. Fortunately, some one else took the picture, as I am a mediocre (at best) photographer, so the picture came out well. Here it is.

I managed some decent shots of the harbor, the Point Loma lighthouses, old and new, a great shot of another cruise ship also watching for whales, and lots of shots of the ocean. It's very big and very blue and black, and it was wonderful being 10 miles out from the harbor on a sunny day.

But I didn't get any shots of whales.

We SAW whales; we saw a whole pod of gray whales, and they breached and blew and slapped their flukes for us. It was incredible. They are called gray whales because under all the barnacles and other colorful parasites they carry on their skin, their skin, is, in fact, gray. But when they come out of the water they seem more golden than gray. They seem miraculous, really. Maybe miracles aren't meant to be photographed.

Though distance may have had something to do with the lack of photo ops. The boats are not allowed any closer than 100 yards and may not intercept the migration path so it wasn't like being on a research vessel and being close enough to touch them, but it was certainly close enough to get an idea of their speed and size. They are as big as whales!

The researcher from the aquarium provided us with lots of information and ways in which to track the movements of whales, but for most of the trip out, I just enjoyed being on a boat again, getting a little wind-burned but not sun-burned- I was well bundled and sun-screened- and watching the various sea-birds trailing us in hopes, I guess, that we would throw food at them.

It was incredible watching for kelp and seaweed beds, and identifying species I have only seen as lab specimens in the past. Birds would settle down on them and float for a bit, and then take off into the skies again, some so close that I could have touched them if my reflexes weren't 57 years old.

Sea lions sunbathed on the buoys and raised their dog-like earless heads languidly as we passed. Blase seals. What a world.

There is nothing more relaxing than being on a boat in good weather and on smooth water and conditions were perfect. We were, as I said, 10 miles out before we spotted the first venting spout of the largest gray whale. Thar she blows! Took me back to me pirate days, it did.

The good news is that the gray whale no longer faces extinction, though it was a close call. Their numbers have come up from an all time dangerous low of 4,000 to about 22,000 at last count, a size estimated as the carrying capacity for gray whales. They are baleen whales, and we were given samples of baleen to examine. There were jars of krill, barnacles, and other sea creatures for perusal as well, which we looked at on our way back to port. While in the presence of whales, nothing can distract you from them.

We stayed with the pod for about three-quarters of an hour and then headed back into San Diego Harbor, passing the Midway as we came into the dock.

Kel and I had thought about going to Sea World this week, and may still do so, but somehow, after seeing them in their natural habitat, I'm not sure I can appreciate whales in captivity. Bet I could get a picture of them, though.

2007-03-26T15:41:00.000-05:00

Here I am, in sunny San Diego! Yes, the sun is actually shining, but it is a full 20 degrees cooler here than it is in Tennessee today. It is so nice to be here. I really miss the place when I am gone. And this trip is perfectly timed- smack in the middle of all my General Federation of Women's Clubs stresses.

Saturday was the Highland Rim District meeting, which required a great deal of thought and preparation and a trip to Sparta. (No, not to the 300, but to a little town north of McMinnville). We met in the newly renovated art deco Oldham Theater and what a terrific place for a meeting. The people of Sparta are rightly proud of their historical preservation. The theater now serves as a welcome center and meeting room.

Inside, they have preserved the lobby and ticket booth and the theater itself has been renovated to a very commodious meeting room. It is a wonderful facility and was great fun having our meeting there.

Since the District only meets twice a year, there is great pressure to not forget anything and to get all available information distributed efficiently. We also had a district fund-raiser to pull together, so I was stressed. The Old Lady Mafia drove to Sparta in the Beast- Dave's Ford Excursion- which was packed to the gills with entries for the craft contest, materials for the fund-raiser... and the youngest OLM who was attending her first District meeting and was a bit nervy about it. Her crocheted tablecloth, which she didn't even want to enter, took First Place and Best in Show. She was so pumped on the way home that at one point we were looking for a place to buy a tranquilizer gun to calm her down with.

After weeks of preparation, the end of a big meeting can be a big let-down, but since I was leaving for two weeks the very next day, I didn't have time for one. Turns out to how been a good thing. All the stresses on Saturday, and a smooth, uneventful trip on Sunday, and now I have roughly 12 days of relaxation before Easter and the GFWC Convention in Nashville.

I got home to two emails from friends I had lost track of over the years. There is something very touching and humbling about being remembered. And with revisiting the past. My high-school class is preparing for its (gulp) 40th anniversary reunion; of course, I am sure you all know that, being a prodigy, I graduated at age 12; and there seems to be real excitement about this one, which will be held at a state park in Georgia (even though my high school is in Michigan). The odd and wonderful thing about all this getting in touch with the past is that both of the dear ladies who wrote to me are now living in California, and one of them is right here in San Diego! Even if they miss the reunion, we should be able to have one of our own.

Easter is going to be fun. Jake, Becca, Kendall, Haley, Delaney, Emily, Dave, me, Mama, and the three Cayces are coming to my house for a feast of leg of lamb, Russian salmon loaf en croute, cucumber dip, eggs, ham, homemade bread.... I will be one busy woman preparing the feast, but feasts are my FAVORITE THINGS TO COOK! I love from-scratch cooking. It is going to be so much fun. Care to join us?

Could it be that hubby will sleep with the fishes?

2007-03-15T01:00:00.000-05:00

I have not seen the light of day nor left the house since last Thursday, when me buds and me cleaned the garage. I was battling the first symptoms of a cold at the time but muscled through them. It was worth it on Thursday- the garage was (and is) gratifyingly and spectacularly improved and I was feeling great warmth and gratitude toward my good friends for their efforts. On Friday, it was a different story. I was as stiff as a board and aching from head to foot. Perhaps throwing myself away had something to do with that.

I was smart. I took it easy on Friday. The muscle pain increased, and by Friday night, the GI stuff started, and I am NOT discussing the military. (Though incendiaries did come to mind as I did long tours in the head. EVACUATE!! EVACUATE!! Literally.) Saturday, the cough began and it was all down hill from there. Muscle spasms. Murderous headache. Nausea. On Sunday, I spiked a temperature which by Tuesday rose to 102. Cold sores. Fever blisters. Chapped lips. Sore throat. I was exhausted, and spent most of Monday and Tuesday sleeping. The fever finally broke Wednesday and I began to feel better. I actually left the house twice today, once for groceries and once to buy Mama a hamburger.

It has been a rough week, but things are looking up. Now that the garage is clean, I'm thinking of having my talented son teach me how to use power tools. I would like to build things without sacrificing sundry limbs and wobbly bits. I have a table I want to sand and decoratively paint. I have a chair I want to design for the Literacy Council Chair-ity next month. And there are household repairs I would like to do myself.

Women don't usually get trained on power tools, at least not women of my generation. I can use appliances, but lawnmowers, trimmers, sanders, drills, table saws and routers are as outside my realm of experience as are trips to the moon. I am hoping that is about to change. I think Jake will be a fine teacher. He already knows I am a klutz, so I've got that going for me.

I could be a craftsman, I think. Hell, after a week where I have been discarded, recycled and sick as a dog, I think I could be just about anything except nursed by my husband, who was thrilled by the garage, by the way. He did his part by storing the Christmas stuff and cleaning off his bench, work that was necessary and appreciated, though I must admit that THIS little exchange gave me a bit of a turn:
Mama: (as Dave comes in for dinner) What did you do today, my son?
Dave: I cleaned the garage.

Excuse me... he cleaned the garage? You mean like someone who wipes off the counters has cleaned the kitchen?

I admit, I bristled a bit about that. I'm sure he didn't mean it the way it sounded... Man, I sure hope the Old Lady Mafia doesn't hear about this. I'd hate for them to kneecap my old man. I am too old and too fat to be a glamourous widow. I need a spa trip before they whack him.

The Old Lady Mafia cleans a garage, and I throw myself away

2007-03-08T20:48:00.000-06:00

Just call me "The Godmother".

I made my hubby an offer he couldn't refuse... (mainly because I made the offer psychically, and he's apparently out of the range of my brain waves).

The offer was to clean the garage.

People, this was no small offer, psychic or otherwise. It has been almost a year since I last parked my car in the garage. Until this morning, it would have been impossible to park a teaspoon in the garage. It contained 10 years of accumulated crap, 300 pounds of empty cardboard boxes from Christmas and beyond, an unusable, irreparable queen size bed, a kaput washing machine, and enough Christmas decorations to do Rockefeller Center twice. An ironing board last used by Wilma Flintstone. Boxes of VHS tapes. Countless plastic plant pots. Paint cans. Gas cans. Multiples of dead batteries, dead TVs, dead computers, dead radios, dead stereos, dead lamps. It was the Garage of the Non-Living Dead. There were also gardening and power tools scattered everywhere. There were books and papers to such a degree that we would have been completely insulated against a nuclear attack.

No more. We are now as vulnerable as everyone else on the planet. At 9 AM, the OLM convened (along with two of the Junior OLMs, Becca and Melinda) to discuss the plan of attack over breakfast. We moved the kitty litter box into the house, blocked the cat door to the garage so that the Great Escape kitty could not escape, opened the garage door and began.

We started by pulling just about everything OUT of the garage and sorting it. HGTV and DiYwould have been proud of us. Slash, trash, and stash, that was our motto. Okay, so it's just a variation on "Mission Organization's" KEEP, DONATE and DISCARD, but our motto is more colorful and more in keeping with the Old Lady Mafia persona.

What amazed me during the whole process was the astonishing amount of traffic our activities seemed to stimulate. I live at the end of my street and usually the only vehicles I see are those of my neighbors and their kids. As we pulled stuff out of the garage onto the driveway and lawn, traffic increased exponentially. We noticed that several trucks driven by old farts kept circling the block, thinking, perhaps, that we were preparing for a yard sale. (I would LIKE to sell the yard, but that's another story). Where did these people come from? What is there about the mere suggestion of a yard sale that attracts these people? What do they do, troll the city, watching for unadvertised yard sales so they can have first pick of the crap? After awhile, we began to feel like vultures were circling us.

About mid-morning, I called the city to schedule a special pick-up for all the stuff we wanted carted out. I live in a GREAT city. At various times TODAY, three different trucks showed up at my house, one for the recycling (mostly cardboard), one for the trash (you don't want to know), and one for the dead washing machine. That truck got here just minutes too late; we went in for lunch, and while we were eating, we saw one of the vultures stop and throw it into his truck. Well, it was on the street so it was fair game, but I felt bad for the city guys who showed up to get it. They stayed to go through the stuff that was out on the lawn to see if there was anything they wanted that I was willing to part with. Nice fellas, all of them.

The garage got as organized as the OLM could make it and got thoroughly swept before we started moving stuff back in. We were putting the finishing touches on the driveway clean-up when, in a moment of mental abstraction, for which I can never forgive myself, I threw myself away. The plain facts of the case are these: as I was attempting, in my fatigue, to move an open trash can- one of the huge city cans that the automatic trash collection trucks grab, lift and empty- I leaned on it too heavily, tipped it over, and tipped myself into it. Seconds later, I hit the ground, half-in and half-out of the trash can. Slightly stunned, I did the only thing a person can do when she has just done something both painful and humiliating. I just stayed there.

Fortunately, my friends recycled me before the vultures could get me AND had the good grace not to laugh at me. Well, not to my face, anyway. We must have been a sight for the neighbors, though, because it took two people and a crane to get my plump self off the driveway.

My car is off the driveway, too. It is in the garage. Damn, we're good!

Quickies!

2007-03-02T22:47:00.000-06:00

Get your minds out of the gutter, they're not that kind of quickies.

Went to Temecula to visit friends last night and had one of the best meals of my life. Olivia and Mike were hosting Robert and Sandie so Dave and I made it a six-some and Olivia, who is more chef than cook, put together the most fantastic Italian meal I have ever had. Good friends, good wine, good food, good time.
Today Olivia, Mike, Robert and Sandie stopped in en route to the Midway and a day in San Diego to see the apartment, and another good time was had by all.
Kelly made us a good-bye supper tonight that was superb! My girl is becoming quite an adventurous and accomplished cook.
I shipped two huge boxes out of here, one to my baby sister and one to myself. For what it cost, I should have just bought them plane tickets!
My son has been installing a new shower stall in Mama's bath and has sent me a picture via cell-phone. That boy can do anything.
Looking forward to seeing my daughter-in-law Becca. I really miss her when I am away. I don't just love her, she is one of my best buddies.
Not looking forward to being snubbed by my eldest granddaughters, but think Pixie and Dixie will be happy to see me.
As soon as I get home, I will have to get into high gear for the GFWC Highland Rim District meeting and the Spring Convention.
Wish I could stay here.

Off to pack. Long day tomorrow. Flying sucks but it beats driving... or walking.

And the Oscar goes to...

2007-02-26T14:17:00.000-06:00

Dave actually won this year's Oscar pool with 12 correct picks out of 24 categories. Kelly was right on his tail with 11. First-time participant Becca had 8 correct picks. I had 7. Seven out of 24. Less than 30%.

God, I am so relieved. My 13 year tradition of NEVER winning the pool remains intact. Whew! I am so glad it's all over. Every year there is the terrible tension about winning; I can't even describe it to you, it is so intense, especially since I do not deliberately throw the damn thing (other than not seeing any of the movies and not reading "Entertainment Weekly"). No, I take pride in the fact that my unbroken string of losses is entirely the result of my uncanny ability to choose unwisely. How many things have YOU lost for 13 consecutive years?

I started out the evening with a win- the very first category, Art Direction- and was on tenterhooks until about half-way through, when it was finally clear that I would, in fact, NOT win the pool again. After that, I could enjoy myself. A bi-coastal Oscar party involves a lot of texting and phone calling and lacks the intimacy of all of us being in the same room at the same time, but it was still a good time. Kelly has only lost 3 times in 13 years, and it took a particularly weird and bizarre Oscar season to knock her out of the winner circle. I take pride in the consistency of my Oscar ignorance. Weird and bizarre did not knock me off my glorified perch as the consummate non-winner. A pristine record has been preserved for another year.

I would like to thank my husband, my children, my friends and the Academy for this honor.