Housewives of New York

I don't know if you watch this show or not;  HOUSEWIVES OF NEW YORK, I find it fascinating, I guess because I am so infatuated with NYC, and the back drop to this show is amazing.  However, these women live in such a 'Rose-colored World' their survival in the real world is very, VERY doubtful.  (Of course...I would love to be one of them...is that sad or what?)

That said, Frankie caught me this morning doing something one of the Housewives does on the show, except with a different appliance than my microwave.  Her name is Sonja and she relies heavily on her toaster-oven to prepare most of her meals...well, I suspect all of them...while dining out with friends takes up the slack.

Sonja is in the process of writing a cook book with recipes she has concocted for her oven, which include meals for breakfast, lunch, dinner and even parties.  Wow.  I always thought this woman was very, very....what's good word...creative...unique...unequaled in her imagination when it comes to the ingredients she uses.  Leave it to Frankie to point out I am becoming just like good ole' Sonja.

Here's the thing.

Yesterday my neighbor brought me a small container filled with some raspberries, strawberries and spring peas.  I was not ready to eat them, but did not want them to spoil, so...I dumped the berries into a small glass container, added some sugar, crumbled and mixed in a few graham crackers and put the container in my microwave.  A delicious smell brought Frankie to the kitchen wondering what I was cooking.
She stood quietly by.

When the berry mixture was done cooking.  I dumped the spring peas into a glass bowl, added a tiny bit of Italian Dressing, mixed them together and threw them into the microwave just long enough to steam the peas.   I'm going to warm them up this evening for our dinner.

By now Frankie can no longer contain herself, and tells me I've turned into Sonja, and wants to know when I'm going to come out with a cookbook, pointing out that 'of late' my meal preparations have become creative, unique...unequaled in anyone's imagination.  (I think she's referring to my breakfast of oyster crackers, peanut butter, jelly and banana.)  Okay, I agree that was wwwaaaayyy over the top.

I think Frankie is right... I'm seriously going to consider a cookbook.  I'm going to call it:

 "I Ain't Cookin' No Mores'...Two Minute Meals"
              (Eat this or fend for yourself)


Thanks, Sonja, you've been a real inspiration.

Sign here

Remember as a kid you had an autograph book?  Well, okay, maybe not...but I had one and I didn't really expect to get anybody famous to write in it, it was simply fun getting my friends to sign silly stuff.

One of my favorites was: Yours til' Germany, gets Hungary and fries Turkey in Greece.

Or, how about, Rink a dink, a bottle of ink, the cork fell out and you stink.  Another was, Roses are red, Violets are blue, skunks smell and so do you.

As far as I know no one ever got offended by these little ditties, although today I suspect some litigious parent might well file a suit over writing this sort of thing about 'their child'.  What is this world coming to?  I still try to keep from sweating the small stuff, like 'stinking or smelling like a skunk', because I'm pretty sure some days I do, but without a sense of humor about certain things I would probably just sit in a corner on a stool and cry.

I kind of wish now I had kept that autograph book, because last night I visited some web-sites of folks that had their mother's or grandmother's books and they were delightful.  I do have my 1955 Richland Township High School yearbook, so this morning I drug it out and read some of the entries.

Sandy, To a real swell gal who's lots of fun and real sweet. Luck Always.

May you have a joyous future.

Lots of luck to a sweet girl.  There are a lot of 'lots' and 'bests' of luck.

There are also a lot of 'swells' and 'sweets'.  Was I really?  I hated school...how can a person be 'swell' and 'sweet' when you hate where you are and what you are doing?  Well...my senior year was great...I was editor of the yearbook, and that meant every time something required my attention I was excused from class.  Like days when the photographer came to take pictures, or a meeting of the staff was requires.  Fun times, fun times.

Finally, I was surprised to recall that my class mates called me 'Blondie'...how could I not remember that?  Maybe I blocked that out because in later decades there was a rash of 'dumb blonde jokes'.  Man, I hated and still hate those.  True, I'm not the brightest bulb in a lamp...but still...I'm not dull either.  "I yam, what I yam.", as Popeye would say.

I do have a few autographs of famous and semi-famous people, safely tucked away in my lifetime's worth of scrapbooks, and of course my yearbook, with those even more precious that the famous ones.  For they are the folks I grew up with, they filled a huge part of my life and helped me to become the person I am today.  Thanks, everybody.

Oh...I just thought of a way to end today's blog...

you ready?

...

By hook, or by crook, I'll be the last person to write in your book.

Today's lesson...History

Keep reading I promise you will not be bored.  Frankie says I shouldn't post this, but I'm gonna' anyway.

As some of you might know I've been down with a cold for several days and have had little energy to do much of anything except breathe.  So, I've been laying around, A LOT.

Yesterday I finally began to feel better, I showered, dressed, but still did little.  So, this morning I'm thinking to myself...'Do I really need to shower again today...I didn't even sweat yesterday, how dirty can I really be?'

Then I remembered I had read somewhere that in Early Colonial Days, most families bathed once a week.  Father got the hottest water by going first.  Mom went second, (I imagine the water was still warm); following her were the children by age.  Finally, the youngest came last.  I (can't) begin to imagine how cold and dirty the water was by the time it was his/her turn.  Yuck.  Hence came the old saying "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater."

Now, I don't know if what I'm going to write next is something THEY did, but during the summer while I was growing up, my dad would have my mom keep the water in her laundry tubs so he could bucket it out to his garden to keep the plants a-growin'.  I imagine, the Colonists didn't let their bath water go to waste either. I'm pretty sure it went out to their garden.

But, I digress.

Anyway...I remember reading somewhere, that Colonists, (Including the likes of Benjamin Franklin) would start their day by taking an 'air bath'.  Good ole' Ben, would strip naked and allow his entire body to breathe in the early morning air.  When I first learned of this practice I was disgusted, appalled.

Then...hmmmmmm......

What had I done to get dirty yesterday?  Nothing, absolutely nothing.  So this morning..guess..what..I..did?

Yep, I did, I really did.  Oh my goodness.  I could feel the germs fleeing, I could feel my body healing.  True, it was a bit chilly, but it felt wonderful.  Finally I cleaned my armpits and 'nether-lands' and began to dress; I literally was refreshed.  I think our Fore-fathers were on to something.

I know, I know, this sounds crazy, and you are probably disgusted, too.  And, possibly I am ready for the loony bin, if you thinks so, come get me, maybe I do need help.

Just remember I said this is a history lesson!!!!!!  So, I hope you cut me some slack.  However, I can't promise you I will not ever air bathe again.

"Okay, Frankie, you can come out now.  I'm dressed."

Nightstand

My nightstand is actually a sewing machine that my Aunt Lill got me when I graduated from high school.  Over the years it has held 'its own' in both capacities.  However, quite some time ago I realized I was putting more and more stuff on it so I found a large, left-over, piece of plywood from my remodeling days and covered  it with wood grain contact paper so it has a much larger face surface.

This came in quite handy when I came down with a cold (which I happen to have at the moment).  This morning I actually looked at the clutter.  This is what I found:

lamp,
jar of Vicks,
kitchen towel (to wrap around my neck after I've spread Vicks ((to my neck...not the towel)) ),
bag of cough-drops,
box of tissues,
2 bottles of water,
2 remote controls (1 for the TV, 1 for the cable),
glass case with glasses,
telephone,
clock,
teeth,
devotional guide/Bible
book I'm reading,
the 12 I'm not, and
1bookend.

Now, if this were not enough.... I also had to build (some time ago) a kind of side pocket thingy that slips between the top of the sewing machine, and the compartment that holds the sewing machine itself. THIS holds:
my bedtime meds,
a bottle of aspirin (in case of a heart attack),
my cell phone (in case some bad guy cuts my land line and I need to call 911),
a flashlight (in case same bad guy cuts the power line, too),
hand cream and lip balm, (in case I can't get out of bed, I can lick the hand cream off my hands, and eat the lip balm for nourishment)

Plus at the moment there is a paper bag on the floor between the nightstand and bed to put my used tissues.

IS THIS RIDICULOUS OR WHAT?  

I never use the sewing machine at all any more, it's too time consuming to move all the stuff off the top of it to make any project worth while.  Although it is nice to know I could...if I were ever ambitious enough.

In the end though, (here's the important thing)....I am prepared for the worst case scenario, provided I'm in bed at the time.

NOW, THAT'S FUNNY.

E-I-E-I-Oooooo-Ouch

Here we go again.

Couple of nights ago, just as I was about to dose off, I had one of those 'things they never tell you' episodes.

There I was, finally relaxed, curled up in a tight little ball, when all of a sudden, I could feel it coming...that awful, AWFUL leg cramp.  OMG, they are worse than labor pains.  I hate when they happen.  Literally, I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming.  Paul used to get them, too, he would leap out of bed, and make all sorts of horrible noises as he attempted to regain composure.  I thought he was over reacting and being a big baby over a little pain.

Then, a few years back I began to have them myself.  I (of course to show my deceased partner I'm way...way braver than he, remain prone, try to control my breathing and ride out  the distress).  It's hard.

Once you mention this old age condition to people they suddenly have all sorts of medical advise that will get you through these painful times.  Eat garlic, drink milk, cut dairy products from your diet, exercise, take vitamin supplements, eat red meat, etc., etc., etc.  I've yet to come up with a solution to this problem.

Anyway, the other night, I thought to myself, "not this time" and I immediately rolled over onto my back and stretched out as far as my shrinking body would go.  Oh, I could feel that muscle become confused...it wanted to hurt...I was determined that it wouldn't.  For about 30 seconds I thought it might win, but my will was stronger than the pain, thank goodness.  However, the next morning the muscle was still trying to win, it was on the edge of materializing, but I stood up and began to walk around so that today only a bit of tightness at the muscle end remains (maybe it would have been better to let the pain come and go).  I am quite aware it still intends to win, and some night I know it will.

Probably just AFTER I fall asleep.

So it goes, just another chapter in my book, 'Things they Never Tell You'.

Ah, the good old days

Today I am filled with reminiscent, brought on when I threw a slab of Velveeta cheese on top of my cinnamon bun.  The sweet/salty thing is something I've always, ALWAYS enjoyed.  Oh, that cinnamon bun was delicious.

This in turn brought on the memory of Chipped Beef that still comes in those cute little glasses.  Just the right size for morning juice. As a kid one of my favorite meals was when mom would put the chipped beef in a skillet, fry it up a little, then make a cream sauce to pour over it.  That made a chipped beef gravy that we would pour over toast.  We simply called it chipped beef on toast.  But, I learned when I grew up the the guys in the Service not so fondly called it S--t on a Shingle.  However, I occasionally make the gravy for myself, and still find it an enjoyable meal.  Especially if I have a big, fat, dill pickle on the side.

Then I remembered cereal.  We certainly didn't have aisles, and aisles you find in the stores today.  But, we did have Wheaties, Oatmeal, Cream of Wheat and Cheerios.  Mostly we had Wheaties and Cheerios.  Once, my mom heard of a new way to serve Cheerios, and she surprised us one afternoon with a new treat. She melted some butter, then poured it all over a bowl of Cheerios.  Oh my goodness, we were in heaven.  Good stuff, good stuff.  I'm tempted to buy some Cheerios and make some, but what the heck would I ever do with the left-over box of cereal. I know it would go to waste.  I could give it to the birds, but Bird Lady ruined that a year ago.

Lastly, (and you are not going to believe this one)  I thought about liver and onions.  Growing up we were required to eat everything mom prepared for our meals.  I learned to eat, and actually enjoy a good meal of liver and onions.  True sometimes she cooked it to death, and it was tough, however she did smother both meat and onions in butter and THAT folks made it most palatable.  Of course, by the time my youngest sister appeared on the scene, she decided she absolutely could not eat liver...much less fried onions, so that my mother would prepare her tomato soup on those occasions.  (I can't tell you how angry that used to make me.)

Anyway, there are not many restaurants that prepare that particular dish any more, and when I find one that does I guarantee I order it.  Generally it will come with mashed potatoes and onion gravy and green beans.  I mean to tell you, it takes me back...way, way, back.

No wonder I had a problem with my cholesterol when I grew up.  For years I was very, very good at keeping that yucky stuff under control.  And, Frankie, God bless her, tries to keep me on track.  Sometimes she succeeds, sometimes not.  Like this morning when I had a slab of Velveeta Cheese on my cinnamon bun. Or, last night when I poured some original Frito's on a paper plate and smothered them in Velveeta, too.
Sooo delicious.

I know, I know, I chastise myself all the time...here again, I think the Devil makes me do these things.  Know what?  I DON'T CARE.

So here I am....

...sitting at  my computer.  I have spent the morning trying to create an order form for my up and coming card catalog.

I'm a wreck...I had no idea how difficult this was going to be.  I'm e-x-h-a-u-s-t-e-d.  Plus, I've had WAAAAY too
                                                                                                           
much sweet flavored coffee and a cinnamon bun that I am also ready to j u m pppp 
                                                                                                           
right out of my skin.  Seriously...you know how you've seen clips of those jet powered cars going down the salt flats...that's me at the moment. ZZZZZZZZOOOOOOOO-OOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!

Heaven only knows what will happen when the caffeine and the adrenaline wear off.  You might have to scoop me off the floor with a snow shovel.  


But for the moment.  WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! 

Clippity, clip

You all know the love affair I'm having with the aging process, and how I laugh my way through all the ugly of it. I'm hoping that in some small way my Blog is warning everybody of the little pitfalls and strangeness of it all.

You know I'm compiling a list of the things nobody ever tell you.

Get ready, here comes another.

Bet you didn't know that as you grow older your nails get tough...I'm talkin' tough.  I used to be able to clip and shape my nails with a small, petite nail clipper, and have the job done in the blink of an eye.  Now...oh, mercy, mercy.  I have to use a BIG clipper, and squeeze like crazy to detach the unwanted portions.  My  thumb and big toe nails are especially hard.  No kidding, those suckers are tough as 'nails'.  (Is that a pun?)

On the up side of this, I can get my fingernails to get grow really, REALLY long, so this time I even gave myself a beautiful manicure that I managed to keep pretty pristine up till yesterday, when one nail 'snapped off'...DAMN IT.  You know once one is short the rest are out of balance, so you are required to clip them all back.  DAMN IT.

So it was yesterday with heavy heart, I dragged out a waste paper basket, leaned over and began to clip away.  I could not believe how two layers of polish and a layer of clear coat had thickened up my nails even more. When I clipped my first thumb, the pieces did not gently fall into the basket, but flew hither and yon.  By the time I was done the bathroom floor was littered with bits of shrapnel.  Zorro took two minutes to sniff these tiny bits, but soon lost interest because they (apparently) not edible.

I sighed, now I was going to have to remove the beautiful polish, soon all traces of my lovely manicure were gone.

A couple of years ago I started seeing in my monthly neighborhood news paper the Senior Center was offering appointments for folks to come have their foot nails clipped and trimmed.  I thought that strange at the time.  Why would an old person do that?  Oh...now I know.  After yesterday's debacle, I understand, and I'm kind of dreading the next time I have to tackle my own. Not only because they are indeed tough as 'nails', but, I've discovered I have a harder time reaching them.  DAMN IT!  I used to be so bendable.
Senior Center, here I come.

However, I'm determined to find a silver lining here and end this with an up-beat finale, although my beautiful manicure is gone, I have discovered I type much better with short nails. At peast I ty8hi so>

DAMN IT!

Dark place

This writing is not going to be pretty.  So, if you don't want to hear the story, stop here.

I lived in a very dark place for about eleven and a half years.  The door to that place opened after my husband had triple-bypass surgery.  He went into the hospital the man I had married 20 years before, but came home a stranger.  I had no idea who this man was.

He was angry, volatile, and mean.  I never knew one moment to the next what was going to happen.  It almost seemed as though the fact he had to take early retirement and his illness was somehow my fault and took his frustrations out on me.  I tried to cope, and for my part I have to confess I began to distance myself for what I thought was my own preservation.  Did this act somehow fuel his fire?

One day I suggested that perhaps we needed counseling, oh, bad idea...s--t really hit the fan that day.  And for the first time I felt actual fear of him.  I knew to never approach that subject again.  I really wanted to know how much of this was my fault, how could we fix this?

His anger rose.

His memory began to fail.  This became another great frustration for me.  I didn't know what to do or say. He would tell me something, but when I would remind, or tell him something about that conversation he would say he had never said it.

Everything was my fault, and I believed it was.  I didn't know how to fix this.  What could I change except myself, I further withdrew in order to avoid conflict.  That was wrong wasn't it?

Going out in public became unbearable.  He was rude to store employees, get angry with them to the point I wished the ground would open up and swallow me.  There was one incident where I actually left the building and waited outside.  All along, there were memory lapses.  He prided in his tools, but now I would find them left outside.  He lost his keys.  Could not remember our bank account pass word.

Karen was so distraught she wanted to move to California and I encouraged her to do exactly that.  I'm glad she did, great move for her, she's doing great.  She didn't want to leave me behind.  But I was in it for the long haul.

For better, or worse, sickness and health.

Oh, things did get worse.  I will not elucidate here, except to say it was a slippery slope for me.  In order to keep the peace I further withdrew, he complained we never talked.  I wanted to be truthful and say I would except you find fault with everything I say and each conversation ends in an argument.  But, I didn't because I knew we would argue.  So, I decided I would make the effort to converse...but except for the weather, how he felt, how was work, what would you like for dinner, everything else seemed to upset him.

I began to worry when he left for work, if someday he might not remember how to get home.  One day he forgot I had gone to Lowes with him, came home saw I was not there and sheepishly came back for me.  I
let that one go...I was seething, but knew better than make an issue he had actually made a mistake.

I wondered how he was able to contain his anger and be 'normal' while he was at work, until I came to realize he must have had to work very hard at that because he would come home exhausted.

Things got worse.  He became a maniacal driver, I was terrified to go in the vehicle with him.  Talk about road rage.  Everyone was a stupid driver.  One day I even said did it occur to him that the driver he was having a problem with might have a gun and shoot us.  I guess that didn't matter, his driving habits didn't change.

Finally, there were two times I thought he might actually hit me.  After the second time, I went into my office shaking, realizing I could not live like this any more.  I knew I was going to have to move out.  The only thing I was now concerned about was our four legged creatures. I definitely wanted to take them...but I knew in my heart this was going to be the worse battle of all.  Frankly I was terrified.

I became quite ill, made a visit to the emergency room, and had several visits to the doctor.  I honestly think today that was the start of my panic attacks.  During one of those incidents he left me at the clinic nurses station, and told me to call him when I was ready to come home.  I thought the nurses were going to kill him.  They treated me with great kindness, and I was thankful.

I think somehow my husband knew I had secretly decided I was done.  He became quite ill himself.  There were trips to the emergency room for him.  He continued to work, but I could see him becoming more and more frail, I tried to convince him he didn't need to work, and to retire for good.   For the first time he said he would think about it.

Neither of us had any more time to 'think about it'.  So, on that fateful Saturday night, I knew he was ill and I tried to convince him to call his employer to find a replacement for him at his security job; and he did, but apparently they told him here wasn't one and he left for work....he never came home.  I got a call around noon on Sunday from his employer saying he had passed away during the night.

I felt awful he had passed away in a huge, dark, building alone.  If only he had stayed home.  Funny, that.  I had always joked with the kids he would die at work...darn if he didn't.  None of us were surprised.

His Will made everything very simple, we had years before donated our bodies to science.  There was to be no funeral, memorial service.  Financial things were taken care of, house repairs had to be made, I adjusted to single life.

Finally I moved the dark place to the farthest corner of my memory and closed the door.  But...then...some days...like today.  The door to that corner of my memory cracks open, and the darkness temporarily returns.  I think perhaps to remind me that I lived my married life with two men.  The one I married, and the monster he had started to become.

I know he is here in the house...I've heard his footsteps, he sat on the bed with me once.   I occasionally smell his pipe.  And he talks to me in my head...I hear his voice.  Do you think he is trying to tell me that he's sorry?  I do.

Once upon a time...

...there was a piece of land, it was quite lovely, park-like.  It had tall shade trees, lush ferns, a tree house, tire swing, two other swings, a sandbox, creek, gazebo, two park benches, wood pile and shed.  Did I mention lots and lots of tall shade trees?  It was beautiful.

One day one of overseers of the land, got old and passed away.  The other overseer was in deep distress.  She loved the land, but since she had become old herself she knew she would not be able to oversee the land alone, and made the decision it was time to turn the land over to new, young overseers.

Oh my!  The new overseers decided to build a castle on the land. At first the old overseer was not concerned, there was room for the castle and the trees, although she knew some of the park things would have to go.  Woe, woe, one day large, yellow, rumbling, loud machinery appeared and much of the natural landscape disappeared.  Gone was everything but the creek, a few trees, the shed, the gazebo and two park benches.

The old overseer knew she had made the right decision to sell the land, but mourned the loss of the lands beauty.

Up went the castle.  Over the years different overseers held the land and castle.  Some beauty came back to the land, save for a tiny, misshaped triangle.  Slowly, quietly, years passed, the triangle became overgrown with ivy and blackberry vines...that eventually reached the old overseers fence, and it became her job to slay the dragon-like berries and vines to keep them from invading her tiny parcel of land and old cottage.

Then, one day, she saw a man walking the crooked triangle, and inquired if he needed assistance.   He was in a 'huff' like the wolf of old fairy tales, seeming annoyed that the old overseer had interfered.

Time passed.  Suddenly, one morning, the old overseer heard a noise, and she, although old, had not lost her sense of community, (she was nosy) went to see what was going asunder. Low, there were four men, with saws, clippers, and various other garden equipment...soon the triangle was cleared.  Old overseer was stunned, aghast, down right amazed.

A few days later the old overseer (could actually see) and spoke to the young overseer of the land, and was told he got a decree from the powerful lords of the kingdom, that since he had built a patio abutting an 'environmentally protected area' he was required to clear his parcel of 'invasive greenery'.  Fearing the lords of the kingdom, he had made it so.

The old overseer was filled with delight.  As good fairy tales go, old overseer is hopeful for a happy ending that the misshaped triangle will remain open, filled with seasonal color and be like an unexplored 'pirate island' where the new overseers heirs might play.

Old overseer can dream, can't she?

The end.

Things they never tell you, Part???

This morning I'm sitting at my vanity applying a healthy dose of makeup, and I do one of those quick suck in your breath things.  What the heck is that?  I lean in closer to the mirror and suck in my breath again.

Noooo! There is a huge, long, thick, black thing receding into my nose each time I breath in.  I lean in closer.

"FRANKIE!!!!!!!!!"

She quickly appears at the bedroom door.

Frankie:  "What?"

I point to my nose.  "Do you see that?"

Frankie:  "Sure, I've seen your nose since the day I moved in."
Me: (I'm becoming pretty agitated by now) "Not my nose, the thing hanging out of it."
Frankie:  "Oh, you mean the 'hair', Yeah, I've been watching it.  Ugly little rascal isn't it?"
Me:  "You've been watching it grow?  Why didn't you tell me?"
Frankie shrugs, "It's no big deal to me.  Besides I didn't want to embarrass you "
Me:  "Well it is a big deal to me?  And now I'm even more embarrassed that you knew and didn't tell me."

I want that, that...THAT THING gone and I want it gone now.  How many people have seen it, were they disgusted, giggly, appalled?  I was except for the giggly part.  This was definitely not funny.

I start to rummage through my make-up drawer looking for my tiny hand held hair trimmer.  I find it, it hums to life, and zip that nose hair is gone.  If one nostril has some, the other must, too.  So, I give that a quick trim, also.  Whew!

Frankie leaves the room secure in the fact I have calmed down and that I'm not going to slit my wrists, although I'm still pretty perturbed that she never said anything about the nose whisker I have had since who knows when.  Well, I'll get even, no peanut butter and crackers for her today.

So much for growing old gracefully.  And once more I have to ask why does no one ever tell you these things happen when you get old?  Okay, now I'm starting to giggle, it was just one stupid tiny black hair...it was where it was growing that threw me for a loop.  Arm pit hair, gone...leg hair...only in silly little patches that I seldom shave in the winter...why bother... but, to have them move into my nose????  Isn't that quite ridiculous?

Oh my, do you thing my ears will be next.

Remember?

Remember a few days ago I wrote about the conversation Frankie and I had about joy?  Was it a feeling or could it be physical, too?  Yesterday afternoon I had an experience that convinces me it can be both, at the same time.

I was out in my front yard doing some work when I hear the little guy next door (in his back yard) yell at his dad.  "Hey dad, how do I get out of here?"  I could not hear his dad's response, but Patrick yelled, "I want to go visit the neighbor."

Pretty soon there's Patrick.  This little boy is smart, quick, and has a great personality.  True, sometimes he can be a pest, but my conversations are always delightful, and I'm amazed at all the information he has tucked into his six year old brain.

Today he is delicately holding a tiny black insect between his thumb and forefinger.  His parents had obviously taught him how to handle natures smallest creatures.  He announce it's a hopper.  I'm thinking it must be a grasshopper, or perhaps a cricket.  He is quite excited to share and encourages me to put it in my hand.  "It will hop." He says.

I spread my hand flat and he places the bug on it.  To my delight...it did indeed hop...it startled and surprised me and I give a hardy laugh.  This seemed to surprise Patrick, and we both laugh while the tiny creature entertains us.  Eventually the insect hops off his hand and and disappears into the grass.

Next we go through the barrage of questions.  What am I doing and why?  How come there is no car in my garage?  Where is my car?  How do I get where I want to go.  Do I go on vacation?  How do I get there?

Then I spy the spit of a spittle bug.  Ah, a chance to change the subject.  I point out the spit and inform him there is a tiny green bug hidden beneath.  We search it out. He wants one.  I thought he would look for it.  Instead he carefully places it off to the side, and I think he might be intending to show his dad when he goes home.

He announces he want to show me his weapons.  I say sure, and he shows me his 'stash', a long stick that he waves around like a sword, and two small, pointy twigs that are his knives.  I tell him he has a great imagination, and he gives me a look as if to say---"What?  Don't you see the metal shining in the sun?  I could do you bodily harm, old lady."

Next he produces a hunk of obsidian, I am quite impressed and ask where he got it, and proceed to tell him that Indians used to make arrow heads out of it, and that it was quite a treasure.  He disappears...guess we are done for today.  Minutes later he re-appears with a second piece of obsidian, and tells me I can have it.
I decline saying I have some in my rock collection, but he insists and I thank him profusely.

And so the time flies by while we chat about this and that.  Ladybugs, Mommy having a baby (he does not seem thrilled) and "What's your dog's name?  He can never remember.

Finally my work is done and I have to put tools away and roll up the hose "How many do I have, and why?"
I thank him for coming to visit and say I hope to see him again soon. He reluctantly turns for home.

Time spend with a child...now, that's Joy.

Monday, Monday

And, so begins another week.  I realize it is not quite noon, but I've been at the computer since before eight and I took no coffee break this morning, so have opted for an early lunch.

Well, it' not really lunch, and Frankie is so disgusted with what I'm eating she refuses to come close.  You might remember I wrote a while ago she is sick, sick, sick of peanut butter on saltine crackers and I have not bought any of them since.  However, I have substituted oyster crackers in their stead;  I like to have a handful of them from time to time.

Today is one of those times.  I poured some into one of my plastic drinking cups and had a mouthful or two.

Hmmm, I say to myself, "Self, I wonder if I could stir some peanut butter onto these crackers."  I take a table spoon of the stuff and proceed to mix it and the crackers together. I was surprised how easy it was.  Hmmm, I think, I wonder if I could mix in some blackberry jelly.  So I do.  By now the mass has pretty much outgrown the cup.

Ahhh.  I spy my last banana on top of the fridge.  I peel back the skin and take a bite.  Hmmm, I wonder if I could slice up the banana and add that to my lunch?

I dump the original mixture out of the cup into a bowl, slice the banana and mix it in.  By now Frankie is so appalled at my mixture she has to leave the room.  Sometimes I have to ask myself if I behave badly just so I can get her 'goat', or, if, on my part I simply like one step meals that require little work  and that dirty few or no kitchen utensils and dishes.   Oh, I like that...I'm going to go for the little work no dirty stuff statement.

However, I have to admit that getting Frankie's 'goat' is always the icing on my cake.  Sorry, Frankie, it's just because you are such an easy target.

Joy

I confess, my muse took over my body this morning.  And, I had a revelation that knocked the pants off me.  My muse has a name, and her name is Frankie.

Why didn't I realize that?

We were discussing the word joy, and tried to decide if joy was only a feeling, or if it could also be a tangible thing.  What came to mind first was the Christmas hymn "Joy, to the world".  Certainly not something we can hold in our hand, but definitely something we can all hope and pray for.  Joy to you world, joy to you.

However, Frankie's question was "what if you see a child at play, lost in his or her fantasy world, can't you go and hug that child, or tousle their hair? Isn't that touching joy?"   "Or, what about hugging an old person, when you enter their room, you see the smile on their face, and you know you removed their loneliness and sorrow for the day?  Isn't that touching joy?"

Wow, how profound.  I'm still inclined to think joy is just a feeling, but I have to agree physical things, definitely stir that particular emotion in me.  Things I can touch and feel, so I also tend to think joy can be physical, too.  So, here is a list of things that bring me joy.

A baby's skin
A hug for an old person
Holding an ice cream cone in my hand
Wearing chiffon, or silk
Eating fried eggs, over easy
Clean sheets
Zorro's kisses
CC's soft fur
and...
Frankie, my muse.  Hugs and kisses dear muse.

I'm sending 'JOY' to everyone who reads this. Grab it and hold it close.

Swish

Where, oh, where did this week go?

Wasn't it Monday, yesterday?

Should I be worried I don't remember what the heck I did this week?  Or, should I be thankful that I can't?  I know I was busy, because obviously the days flew by, and some nights I didn't get to bed until way after midnight.

OOOOOOH!

Now I remember, it's my computer...my ball and chain, Yin and Yang, Laurel and Hardy, meat and potatoes.  I'm beginning to think Frankie might be right, maybe I am allowing this dang, fool, contraption to take over my life.  Naaa.  I don't think so.

I'm not playing silly games on it...well, maybe once in a while Farkle, Free Cell or Spider Solitaire, but I swear only once a week or so.  I used to play Farmtown...yes, I do think I was addicted to that, but since I started work every day from 8 to Noon, I've no time for it.  (I do check in on my farms occasionally just to keep them running.)  Therefore I don't think I'm wasting my computer time, although  I DO confess I spend a great deal of time being creative.  Is that a bad thing?

Now that I've got my Gues Who Original Publications catalog well underway, I've moved on to another project.  My daughter, Karen, bought me a camera a short time back, and over the last week or so I've started to use it and have been snapping pictures like some kind of crazed creature out of a Science Fiction Movie.  Snap, snap, snap.  Have you ever tried to get a picture of a bumble bee up inside a foxglove flower?  Scary, business that!   And, oh the beautiful colors, textures, intricate designs; I've discovered a whole new world.

Anyhoo, I think that's how my time flew by, because AFTER all the snap, snap, snapping, I had to upload the pictures to my computer, then I had to (not really HAD to...I WANTED to) make some cards from all the pictures I had taken.  Be-U-T-ful!  Oh my gosh...I see a new catalog in my future.

And that, dear friends and family is where my week went.  Me thinks, my next question just might be, where did the month go?  Then, the year?

Sooo much to do....sooo little time.

Rambling old woman

I have to confess living with Sandy is a lot more complex than I ever imagined.  She definitely marches to her own parade...I know because she is always saying 'We must march to our own parade.'  What she doesn't realize is she can't march as quickly as she used to so sometimes the parade not only catches up, but overtakes.  As a result she (we) almost get overrun with a floral float or the 'grand marshal's car'.

For example yesterday afternoon was our Bible study.  Sandy decided the place needed a once over (will she do that for me...no!), so she proceeded to wipe down the bathrooms and vacuum the place.  I was thrilled.

She had that vacuum going sixty miles an hour, bumping into furniture, baseboards and even a few four-legged things not anchored down.  I mean to tell you there were a few minutes I even feared for my life.
She was keeping a pace even Superman would have trouble keeping up with, when suddenly the activity ceased and it got very quiet.  Was Sandy okay?  I found her in the kitchen winding up the vacuum's cord. She looked frazzled.

Innocently, I inquired if she was going to dust.  I'm telling ya' she shot me a look...the...look...the one that means I'm in so much trouble my full name is about to explode from her mouth.  UH, oh, I decided to keep my mouth shut.

Her parade had stopped in the middle of the street, perhaps a float's engine had broken down.  I realized  she is not used to house cleaning anymore, and had pooped herself out, she was definitely done marching for for the day.  Sandy muttered under her breath, dragged the vacuum behind her to the closet, while Zorro ran for cover.

I guessed flinging a rag around was out of the question... perhaps that could wait for another day.  I know, I know, I could have done the dusting myself, but I don't want to start a precedence, besides the ole' place didn't look too bad.  Actually, she 'done good', I congratulated her and gave her a pat on the back.

Then (giggle, giggle) I went around the corner and wrote my name in the dust on the living room end table.  Do you suppose Sandy will notice?

Frankie

P.S.  I did notice, but don't care.

Sandy

P. S. S.  Did you really think I would let Frankie have the last word?

Sandy

P.S.S. #2  Yes.

Frankie

Pills, pills, pills

Me:  "You done?"

Frankie seems to be at a loss for words.

Me:  This morning got off to a rocky start...I don't take a lot of pills (thank goodness) and those I do I kind of spread out over the day...my mental process is they might interact with each other making me loopier than I already am...which would be a bad thing.  Don't you think?

Here's how this morning's pill taking went.

Frankie:  "Geeze!'

Me:  (Standing at the kitchen counter pill bottle at arm's length) "Now what?"

Frankie:  "Where's your glasses?"

Me:  "In the bedroom on the night stand."  (I like to believe I don't have to rely on them for everything)

Frankie:  "Can you really read that label?"  

Me:  "No, not really, but I do know the prescription names for my hormones are long while my morning pills are not.  That's how I make out the difference."

Frankie:  "For crying out loud."  (She leaves the room)  I  know she's going for my glasses.

I hurriedly scan the bottoms of the labels, dump out the pills, recognize by size, shape and color they are indeed the correct ones and down them with a mouthful of water, just as Frankie returns.

Frankie:  "Put 'em on and leave 'em on?"

Me:  "Don't need them, I've already taken the pills."

Frankie is in a 'snit', and I have to hear the sermon about how important it is for me to take care of my eyes..."You only have two, ya know." ...on and on she goes.

I hate when she takes on the 'mother' role.  That's supposed to be my job.  I like when she's the one being flighty, free, inquisitive, adventurous so I have to reign her in from time to time.  Surely I'm not as needy as she thinks I am.  Next thing you know she'll be holding me by the elbow when we are on shopping excursions, and tucking me under the covers at night.  Oh, lordy, lordy is that an ugly picture or what?  I hope our roles aren't reversing.

She finally takes a breath.

Dear, dear Frankie...at our age we both know old is not pretty, but we can't give in to it.  We need to change the rules...take chances, make changes...laugh in the face of danger...keep on the track, but go full steam ahead.  So what if I can no longer read the labels on my pill bottles, except at arm's length, the important thing is...I can still read."