New Hobby

Now, don't get the wrong idea.  I do not sit around all day eating bonbons and watching the telly.  However, I will watch a talk show a couple of days a week.  Anderson Cooper comes to mind.  And, if I get to bed at a decent hour, let's say midnight or so I will tune in Jay Leno and Graig Ferguson.  Even more recently
I've discovered Graham Norton's show on BBC America.

Oh dear, I'm starting to giggle.  Give me a minute.....Tee, hee, chortle, chortle.

I've found over the last, not so long ago, while I'm watching these shows, I'm not paying attention to what folks are saying, or what they are wearing...but how they are acting.  No,no, no....not misbehaving,   I'm talking about the subtle things they don't realize they are doing.  Like what they do with their hands and arms, their legs and feet...oh my, especially their feet.  Heee, heee, heee.

Some men cross their feet at the ankles, some will turn their feet on their edges, soles facing each other...(that looks sooo uncomfortable) there are some that then have the soles touching each other, while others will have their feet a few inches apart.  Some will turn one foot on its edge and rest the other foot on top of it.

Oh, and the foot attire.  I'm often amazed, men will be immaculately dressed, till their footwear, I've seen some pretty scruffy sneakers, folks.  I love the guys who fling one leg over the other at the knee and bend it over so you can see the sole of the shoe that's visible.  Some guys appear to be wearing shoes they must have stopped in a Shoe Emporium to buy on the way to the show, they have barely a scuff mark, while others I swear should be thrown away.  It's such a hoot. 

And, girls...do you have any idea how you look walking across that stage to your seat.  I know you think you look graceful, but I suspect you must be thinking...'please, don't let me fall, please, don't let me fall.  I've watched shows where you take them off almost as soon as you sit down so I know they are uncomfortable, and often, the way your toes extend out over the ends of them I'm also aware they do not properly fit.

Now the legs.  I've seen petite woman, lift themselves up using the arms of the chairs and curl their legs under themselves, then carefully fold their skirts around them like a blanket (It is usually the girls who take their shoes off that do this.)  I used to do this myself when I was still able to fold myself up...those days are long gone.

But my favorite...are the girls whose dress/skirt barely covers their derriere...they come on stage, sit next to the host, scoot back as far into the chair as their height will allow and then give a firm, yank on the fabric as though it will somehow lengthen down to their knees.  Once they are seated, from the waist down THEY DO NOT MOVE.  So generally a lot of hand and arm motions ensue.

As for the guys, they are free to do whatever they want with their legs.  Most guys will fling one leg over the other, or keep both feet firmly planted to the floor.  However, last night...oh my gosh...I got to giggling so bad.  There was a star...I will not mention names.  He's around my age, very well known, a little paunchy...and in my opinion should have been dressed more 'star-like' than he actually was.  Shirt was not neatly tucked in, jacket open...very ajar...no tie.  Anyway.  He sat on the couch with several other stars, and immediately took it over.  Seriously, he sat there arms flung out in opposite directions as far as they could go...(giggle, giggle) he did the same with his legs, and...not only were they extended as far as they could go...he turned his feet so that they were turned outward, too.  I could not believe the space he took up.  I wondered what Freud would have had to say about that. 

As for the hands and arms...well the hands generally tell the arms what to do, because they are attached and have no choice. I've seen stars almost pick their nose, but somehow manage to turn that into a rub. There have been men and women, who fuss with their long hair until I wish I could take a pair of scissors, dash across the stage and cut it off.  Women are especially 'touchy-feely' and we talk about men harassing women? I've seen women touching the host's hands and arms, and occasionally a knee, if the chairs are arranged that that is possible. Oh, stories are endless.

Anyway, now you know my newest hobby.  I've always been a 'people watcher' but up til recently it has always been in the flesh, now, oh my gosh I had no idea I could do this with famous people, too...what an insight.  I guess they can be glad they don't know I'm watching.

But, let me offer just a few words of advise.  Girls, wear longer skirts...seriously!   Guys, select better shoes...those sneakers are ridiculous...but if you do have to wear them...at least tie the laces...seriously!

Okay, I'm done.  Happy telly-visioning...

Life's funny.

Yesterday my daughter and some of the grand kids came for a visit.  It was a grand and glorious time. 

I had pre-ordered dinner from one of the national Pizza chains, so we didn't have to wait long to eat.  Oh, there were pizzas, pasta casseroles, chicken wings, bread sticks and some cinnamon sticks for dessert.  Man, did we ever eat.  However, I think a couple of 'extra hot' wings got into my batch, because one of mine made my mouth burn for a couple of hours, and made my digestive system go ouch, ouch, ouch even longer.  But all in all we managed to eat our fill with a few left-overs for myself over the next few days.

This morning I began to think about the three generations that had gathered together, and the life's funny part.  Not funny, ha, ha.  But funny in a unique, peculiar, unusual, quirky kind of way.

I see both my daughter and son-in-law in all the kids.  My older granddaughter sounds exactly like my daughter, yet her facial features do not really imitate her mother or father.  My younger granddaughter looks more like her dad, but is petite like her mother.

One grandson is tall and slender...I'm not sure where the height comes from, because either my son-in-law or daughter are exceptionally tall.  The other grandson is not as tall but athletic...blond hair and has a lot of my dad's side of the family features. 

It is 'funny' to see all these qualities blossom and grow.  I see generations past...especially my dad's side of the family...mannerisms, facial features, laughter.
  
I see the generations as we are today.  Me in my daughter, my daughter in her kids, senses of humor, senses of adventure, desires to achieve, explore, learn.  I imagine the next generation, when new traits blend with those already well established in the 'family pool'.  Will the genes produce an Einstein, a president, a doctor, lawyer, professor?

It's 'funny' the part I've played in all of this...and who knew when I was born all those years ago that I would finally be the family matriarch.  Overseeing my dynasty, from a humble abode, door open, always welcoming family home. 

Who knew, when I married, the family would grow and even more traits would enter the 'family pool', squeezing, nudging, wiggling in when my youngest was born.  She shares even more unique qualities.  I still see my traits in her, but she also shares traits with her dad and siblings from him and their 'family pool'. 

Oh, I tell you, life's funny.  I should think about this more often.  Imagine science reducing and reducing us in size, so we can be seen in strands of DNA, that tell us more about ourselves than perhaps we really want to know.  Imagine...in those strands...is the history of me going back to the beginning of time.  And, in those strands is my family and what we are today...unique, peculiar, unusual, quirky in a funny kind of way.

Just a snippet.

I'm just sitting here, blank page taunting me.  It knows I have absolutely nothing to report today.

It titters.  Damn it!

So, guess I have no choice.

It was like being in a time warp.  A drab and foggy Saturday morning in December.  Here I was sitting in a little tailor shop.  It was, I was sure 1988, yet the people around me seem to be from long ago and far away.  Their accents, thick with ‘old country’ flavor, told the difficulty they must have had to conquer this English we speak with such ease.  We had come to pick up a pair of slacks husband had left for alteration and were greeted as though we’d been customers for a long, long time.  She told us she was decorating for Christmas, and explained that she didn’t decorate at home anymore…"because, no children there.”

She lovingly touched the artificial tree that graced a table by the window.

“Very old.”  She said.

The tree barely stood a foot high and was laden with ornaments that appeared to have been collected through many, many years.

“Old is best.”  I said.

She touched the tree again and softly said.  “Yes, I think old is best.”

I gathered from her tone that she and the tree had seen many Christmases together and that it held bittersweet memories for her.

Her hand made a sweeping motion, calling my attention to the window and she told me that there used to be two signs, one that said “Merry Christmas” and one “Happy New Year”.   Somehow “Happy New Year” had disappeared with some help from her husband, but she assured me “Is O.K., we make do.”  Then she pointed to a snowman ornament that now hung where the sign should have been.  Somehow I got the impression that she had seen a lot in her lifetime, and the loss of the sign was small in comparison.

A customer came in with concern about the proprietors' daughter, who was still in the old country.  “Was it Armenia? Close to the earthquake?”, Was she all right?”  The old lady put the young woman’s mind at ease by saying they were from the Ukraine.

By now her husband put in an appearance, and a difference of opinion occurred.  The discussion involved just how far the Ukraine was from Armenia...700 or 2,000 miles.  But, since neither would admit to being wrong, it was established the Ukraine was 700 to 2,000 miles away.

While this ensued a slender, dark skinned gentleman entered the shop. 

 

"Is landlord."  I was told. 

 

His accent was also quite pronounced and I heard her call him Abdul.  Never in my life could I have imagined a more appropriate name.  He looked like an Abdul, He spoke like an Abdul, He was indeed a living, breathing Abdul.

He had come to wash the windows.

“And sign.”  It was more a statement than a question.

She told me that since August she had been trying to get the sign cleaned.  The building had been pained then and the sign was still smeared with paint.

“Last time I tell you,” she said, shaking a finger at him.  “I not pay rent.”

At the thought of this punishment Abdul asked her husband if he had a bucket.  He looked at me and said, “Make woman happy.  Keep peace at home.”  I had the feeling the sign would be cleaned before day’s end.

During all this time she continued to work on another two pair of slacks we had wanted to be altered.

“Not to tight.”  She said.  “Need comfortable.  Only young like tight.”

“Not be shy.” She said,  “If not comfortable after few times wear, come back, I fix.”

Then she wanted to know how many more pair of slacks there would be.  Eight in all she was told.

“We make deal.”  Said she.  “I give you sale.”

She indeed gave us an offer we couldn’t refuse and gave us a receipt for the pair we were leaving.

Together my husband and I left the shop and it was 1988 again.  But, somehow I felt different and I knew I’d been given a very rare and priceless gift.  Here was a group of people who knew the true meaning of life.  They had everything in prospective.  Sure, there was threat of war, hunger, pain and I think they personally lived through part of all of them.  And once you’ve been through the worst, it was the little day to day things that matter and count.

Trust, she took our check without even looking for an ID.  “I Trust.”  She had said.  Relating that only twice in 15 years had checks been returned.

Love, for us, Abdul, her ever patient husband, all mankind.

Pride.  “Not be shy, come back, I fix.”
 

And finally, Courage, for this little slip of a lady, who, no matter how much else she had to give up, carried one tiny artificial tree thousands of miles, to be a remembrance of Christmas past, Christmas present and for every Christmas future.

sh ‘88

 

 

 

 

 

I'm exhausted.

I was up at 6:30 this morning.  I wanted to make sure I was showered, shampooed, shaved, make-uped and dressed in plenty of time for the race. 

I was excited from the moment I opened my eyes.  I turned on the TV.  I knew I had plenty of time to get ready, but I just wanted to make sure.  I watched the news. 

I was just finishing up when the pre-show was about to start.  The show was only five minutes old and I was already well into my first crying jag.  So much for perfect makeup.  The first segment was about the men who drive...past and present...the danger of their profession, their bravery in the face of that danger.  I cried and cried.  They did a segment on Dario Franchitti, and his first go-cart, how it was sold as he grew up, how it had passed hands, and how this year his father found it, got it back, rebuilt it, and re-presented it to his son for his birthday.  I bawled my eyes out.  There was the segment about the man with the empty fields and the dream he had wanting to build a race track and how over nearly a hundred years it has become the Indy Race Track of today, toward the end of the segment the actor representing him, his back to the camera was walking down the track away from us, and with a little magic, he slowly dissolved into wispy smoke and disappeared.  Oh, dear...I'm starting to blubber all over again.

There was a segment with Castroneves and Kanaan and how they grew up together racing in Brazil, and how although competitors, they have remained friends after all these years.

There was the introduction of the drivers.  The honoring of the Men in Service, the playing of Taps in honor of Service Men lost.  A segment called "Laying in the Flags" followed, showing Service Men placing flags beside each headstone in the National Cemetery for Memorial Day in honor of services tomorrow.  I cried again.

Jim Nabors sang...I cried, they released the balloons...I cried, there was the singing of the national anthem, and the fly by/over...still crying. 

And then....

the magic really began with those wonderful words "Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines.", with them, thirty-three cars in unison, musically, electrifying-ly roared to life.

That, dear friends, is when I lost it and the flood began...and soon after the race.

And, what a race it was.  It was phenomenal.  There were a few minor accidents, no one was injured, new records set on how many times the lead changed, and how many different drivers held it.   I'm telling you, it was the best race ever. 

Oh, neither of the drivers who were hoping for their fourth win did.  And, neither did one of the women drivers.  But the driver I WANTED TO WIN IT...DID.  Way to go Tony Kanaan.  And, yes, as you said from the winners circle...your ugly (not really) face will finally appear on the Indy 500 trophy...no one deserves it more, no one indeed, deserves it more.  Congrats!

Brooooommm, broooooommmm, zoom, zoom.

Tomorrow is race day.  My most favorite Sunday of the whole year.  I just got done printing out the starting grid.  Same rule applies folks...don't call me til after the race is over, I'll be home, but I won't be answering the phone...leave a message, I'll get back to you.

I imagine most people don't understand my interest in auto racing since I don't drive and never have.  But, I think that's exactly why I have such an interest.  There is something magical about watching someone drive a vehicle in perfect precision and control especially at the high rate of speed these professionals do.

No, I do not watch the race for the pile-ups and crashes...I watch for the skill, the risk, the camaraderie, the style, the grace, and of course the speed.  That amazing, heart-thumping, lung filling, adrenaline flowing, speed.  Oh, and the sounds, the hum, the roar, the buzz of those engines as they roar (zip) by.  I'm telling you...for the few hours the race is on I'm on the edge of my seat. 

I'd love to be in the pace car.  I'd love to be at the race.  I'd love to kiss the bricks. 

I love the pomp and circumstance before the race.  The fly by/over, Jim Nabors singing "Back home In Indiana", and the words, "Ladies and Gentlemen, start your engines."

The whole thing is totally entrancing.  I'm so looking forward to it.  I never tire of watching.  Two of the men are trying for their fourth win at Indy, it would be nice if one of them did, however, I'd really, kind of like to see a woman take the flag for the first time. 

Really, though, I just want to see a good, clean race, with few mishaps, good luck everybody and God's speed.

Things they never tell you.

Every once in a while I will post something here about getting old...little things, silly things, surprising things that I wish I had known about before they happened to me, like the fart fest I had about a year or so ago.  Honestly, how come nobody told me that would happen...I was so embarrassed...but ever so grateful it happened when I was home alone so only my four legged friends and Frankie had to endure that 'smell-a-vision'.  Geeze.

Today I have another.  Twice this week I had to 'dress up'...I only do this when I know I have to meet the public, or be out in it.  I have a wardrobe full of 'special occasion' clothes.  (I'm sure we all remember my newest addition...the 'turkey suit').  So it was on Wednesday and yesterday I had social obligations and had to dress-up.  Both times, I stayed in my 'nightie' until I absolutely HAD to get dressed.  Mostly I do this because it keeps my good clothes from getting covered in pet fur before I leave the house...at least that's what I used to tell myself.

Now I have to confess.  It has nothing to do with pet fur...and everything to do with comfort.  So, how come nobody every tells you proper looking, proper fitting clothes are so dang uncomfortable.  Honest...Wednesday's dress up was hard enough, and I was able to stay 'prettified' until early evening.  But, yesterday....holy crap...my new bra and almost new panties, the ones that don't sag, have good elastic and actually hold my sagging body parts where they once used to stay on their own, were cutting me to pieces before I had the chance to finish my Olive Garden all you can eat soup and salad.

Seriously, when I left the house, I looked great, I think, although I never know for sure because I have a hard time looking at myself in the mirror.  But, what I did see last time I glanced at myself, my boobs were where they should be, and my butt was...well...at least a little firm.  I do, clean up, 'pretty good'.

I'm sure some of you are young, and probably don't look at Old People cartoons, the ones where men and women are wearing sweat suits, and other baggy attire, and in my youth I would poke fun at and giggle about them myself.  Never, ever, would I come to that state in my life where I would depend on sweat suits and other baggy attire.

Oh, my...dearie me...

Yesterday I would have given away my 'pinkie toes' to have been in my comfortable, baggy sweat suit and baggy, elastic-less bra and panties.  I would have so much more enjoyed my soup and salad. 

I could not wait to get home...first thing I was going to do was change clothes.  However, I had to fuss over the dog...let him have a potty break.  Then I had to put the leftover bread sticks in the fridge.  Then a package came...the mail...the interest in what was on TV.  Time ticked away.  My bra was killing me...I head to the bedroom, get distracted...and distracted, and distracted.

Finally, as evening was setting in I make it to the bedroom.  I remove the items that had been restraining me all afternoon...scratch and rub , scratch and rub, scratch and rub, all those places that had been punished all those hours.  It felt sooo good.

So, here's the real 'rub', how come nobody ever tells you, all those cartoons and jokes about old people are not cartoons and jokes at all.  They are true...and fashion houses should start designing clothes to accommodate our 'sagging places".  Make bras with slightly stretched elastic, panties too, when they are manufactured.  I don't need a larger size, it's the damn elastic.  My old bras, my old panties...fit great...cause the elastic has stretch out a bit. 

I know what you're thinking...well Old Woman...just wear your old underwear when you go out.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  Did your mother not teach you you never, ever, under any circumstances leave the house in old or dirty underwear...you might be in an accident.  And heaven forbid the paramedics should have to cut those off you.  Plus, imagine the embarrassment that would cause your mother, I see mine 'rolling over in her grave'.

After several days of anxiety,

I'm feeling better today. 

I'm 'imp-ish'...and that can mean only one thing...LOOK OUT FRANKIE.

I've been spending the last couple of hours trying to think of things I can do to her today.  Not harmful things...just things.  Like maybe putting her slippers inside a plastic bag and putting them in the freezer.  Or, maybe sneaking up behind her and snipping a small hank of hair out of the top of her head.  No...it would not be enough to make her embarrassed to leave the house, just maybe 36 to 48 hairs that stand straight up in the air.  Tee, hee, hee.

You know, just enough 'stuff' to drive her crazy today.  Oh, oh...I could sneak into the bathroom while she is taking her shower and remove her clothes...and towels.  Yeah, that's the ticket.  It's only 61 degrees in here this morning...I'm envisioning her turning blue.  Baaa, haaa, haaa.

I could lovingly fix her a cup of tea, she loves lots of sugar in her tea...imagine her surprise when it is super salty instead.  Ooooooh, I'm starting to enjoy these snippets of thought.

I'll wait an hour so after she's made her bed then go in and throw all the covers and pillows to the foot of the bed.  I've a 50-50 chance she won't remember if she made the bed in the morning or not.

I'll hide her book.  And her phone. 

Oh, remember the dog food incident...maybe I could fix her a dog food sandwich, imagine the look on her face...I could mush the food up and put strawberry jam on top.  I bet it will take at least a few bites till she realizes it's not peanut butter.  Hee, heee, heeeee, oh my, these thoughts are getting out of hand.  I had better stop. 

Oooops, I hear her coming...I gotta go....

Hey, Frankie...what's up?

Here I go again.

This blog just might be the one where men in black suits come drag me away.  Sorry, I can't help myself.

So, here is one Rambling Old Woman's prospective.

I didn't hear all of the President's speech this morning, although I heard him say the country was behind and supporting all the people affected by the devastation in Oklahoma.  I'm sure all his words were full of comforting platitudes.  And, I think he was alluding to the fact the government would be there to assist because he had declared it a 'disaster' area.  Really?  I think if you think about the devastation in New Orleans not so many years back they would disagree that the government is going to offer much aide.  New Orleans recovered and moved on, but not so much with help from of the national government. 

I think it has mostly recovered and moved on with the help of volunteers, charities and the citizens of the city itself, who literally dug themselves out, washed themselves off and started over from scratch.  While parts of their city will never be the same it is the spirit of the survivors have brought the city back from the brink.  Where it goes from here will depend on whether the weather plans a future frontal attack.  I'm hoping they have learned from their past and are better prepared for the future. Time will tell.

In the meantime, I'm tired of and disgusted with our national government.  Please, stop making promises you can't possibly keep, stop with the flowery words, stop pretending you actually care. We are so ridiculously in debt from aiding countries around the globe there is no money left to help our own population...we can no longer rob Peter to pay Paul...I wish I had the wherewithal to help.  I wish I had the money to repair the school reduced to rubble yesterday.  I wish I had the money to pay the hospital bills for those injured.  I wish I had the money to rebuild every one's home. 

Realistically, all I can do is pray and send my love to you.

Please God, bless and keep us.

Whethering the weather

I will be the first to admit, I'm a champion of the electronic age.  Hip, hip, hooray.  I don't have a lot of electronic gadgets, put I do appreciate the ones I have, and am grateful someone invented them

That being said, I have to admit, there are times I wish I didn't get news, especially bad news in moments of the event happening.  For quite a while on Sunday I watched the bad weather unfold in the mid-section of our country.  Seeing that huge tornado spread destruction while it was happening, was a terrifying thing to watch.  After a while, I had to busy myself with other things...but I was always drawn back to my television to see what was happening next.  The personalizing of it was especially brought home as the helicopter's skids would occasionally come into view, that I could get a prospective of just how close it was to the tornado itself.  Of course I knew it was not in harm's way, still, it was astounding how technology has advanced that we as a nation were that close to the carnage, too.  Still, the more I watched the more anxious I became, I physically felt myself becoming more and more distressed.

I watched the storms move north, and I thought and worried about my son and his family, who live in Minnesota.  I could see those fiery red images 'loop' over and over again, every fifteen minutes or so advancing closer to them.  They have lived In Minnesota for many years, and one of the first things my son mentioned to me when I went to visit him was what to do if the sirens went off, and where to go in the house for the best safety.  Yesterday I envisioned them all collecting in the lowest level of their home huddling closely together for safety and comfort. 

Of course this morning, as I was watching the news I could see Minnesota had been spared (this time), and a quick note from my granddaughter on facebook reassured me they were all fine.  She said they had some pretty strong thunderstorms, but otherwise came through them flying colors.  Thank, God.

But, today...well...we all know what happened in Oklahoma.  Again, terrible devastation.  I watched, mesmerised.  I was enthralled, mystified, horrified, but mostly terrified.  I could feel my anxiety level rising.  It was bad enough watching that ugly, deceitful, steel grey, funnel, gobble up everything in its path, then spitting out distasteful bits.  It was even worse to see the aftermath, the trail of rubble, that left neighborhood homes flat and useless.

By this evening I began to think maybe electronic gadgets are overrated.  I remember the days of my youth.  We learned things by radio, sometimes it took hours or days to learn about catastrophes.  The closer a catastrophe was, the sooner we learned about it.  The farther away, the longer it took.  Even with the development of television it took time to learn about bad things that happened.  Weather people gave their reports using an outline map of the United States, and used 'stick on' weather symbols.  A sun, white puffy clouds, darker ones with rain, even darker ones with lightning coming out of them at jagged angles, while snowflakes frequently appeared come winter.  We thought it was great and the props were actually quite effective.

Now, well, we've come a long way baby.  It's all good.  Really.  Still, and maybe it's just me and the fact I'm so much older, but watching the weather today, I eventually got exhausted.  I could not watch one more minute.  The media wears me out.  I think I prefer the 'olden' days when we got the news, and then moved on.  Please, I appreciate your technology, and your reporting, but I don't need your repetition or hour after hour reports.  My aging heart, mind and spirit simply can't take it.  Tell me the news, even show me pictures, then give me time to process it before inundating me with minute by minute updates, repetitious reporting, and prerecorded pictures.  I would appreciate that.

Sigh.  I'm going to bed and saying a prayer that those who are homeless have shelter tonight and that there will be no tornadoes tomorrow. 

Ooooohhhhhh, Aaaaaaahhhhhhh

 

Yesterday I mentioned some of the colors in my neighborhood this spring.  Today I'm going to go light on the words, and let you enjoy the colors of  my world.

 

 

My white rhododendron

My neighbor's red rhododendron

My orange azalea

My yellow azalea

My neighbor's purple rhododendron

...or, winding up.

 

Frankie reminded me this morning that I didn’t post a blog yesterday.  I know.  I’ve been working every morning, and some afternoons, too.  This time of year I have birthday and graduation cards to create, and that alone, keeps me pretty darn busy.  And, of course since my storefront is up and operational I have to allow time to work on new merchandise.  At the moment I’m working on things for father’s day, as well as some travel items for women like matching computer sleeves, cosmetic bags and so forth. 

Plus, now that we are back in a ‘normal spring’ weather pattern, things are growing like crazy,  so that between showers I try to keep up with weeding, trimming and vine training as best I can.  The vine training is the hardest because I have to drag out a stool in order to do the job and I really don’t like having to stand on it since last year I once fell off of it.  (I did not hurt myself, thank goodness.)  I suppose this sounds like I’m cranky about having to work so much outside.  I’m not.

I love this time of year, it’s my favorite.  My world is BEAUTIFUL.  I cannot remember the last year the rhododendrons and azaleas have been more magnificent.  They are hanging full and drooping with gorgeous clusters of blooms of indescribable hues.  Reds, pinks, purples, whites, yellows, oranges...I’m telling you it takes my breath away. Yesterday afternoon I stood mesmerized watching honey bees, their pollen sacs hanging full, flit from flower to flower in the white rhododendron by my mailbox.  Such diligence, it was amazing.

As for the ARTS TAX...well, let’s just say I don’t imagine I will ever get that  money back.   Although, I read somewhere, someone said they had hope that the city would…”do the right thing.”   Yeah, right, like that is going to happen.  Should the city decide to do that, I’m sure they will at the very least keep the 0.99 convenience fee.  What do you think?

Then there is the grass...oh, my...Frankie is still shaking her head over the grass.  It is still to early to boast that I was right in just flinging the seed about, or that my diligent watering the way the guy in the store told me made it grow.  I confess, in my heart of hearts I know it was not me that made it grow, but the wonderful rain and cool weather we have had since I flung the seed around.  Also, I think it helped I used up the whole bag of seed because there was some to feed the birds, while leaving enough to take hold and grow.  Sometimes a plan simply comes together...I love it when a plan comes together.

So, I guess this ‘winds up’ the loose ends of this week’s activities...it’s time to move on.  I wonder what next week will hold? 

Hmmm...here’s something to ponder...what’s the difference between ‘winding things up’ or ‘winding things down’.  And, which one have I done here?

 

 

 

Poetic Justice

I just got a call from a very dear, long time friend and follower of my blog.

She told me the city has extended the deadline for paying the ARTS TAX.

Yesterday their system crashed.......BAAAAAAA, HAAAAAA, HAAAAA.

Enough said.

My blood is boiling!

Where did I leave my soapbox?  I need it this morning.

Today I have no choice but to pay what is called the ARTS TAX.  I didn't vote for it, I simply don't vote for anything that makes my taxes go up.  And frankly, feel once you reach 75,  you shouldn't have to pay taxes anymore, period.  Believe me, over the years my late husband and I have paid our fair share, probably even more.

So when the city ARTS TAX appeared on the scene, it really got my dander up.  I got to thinking back to when our kids were in school and how when 'field trips' came up it was up to us to pay the fees for the outings.  Fortunately, we were always able to scrimp by, and afford to send the kids on the trips by forgoing items from our shopping budget.  It was not easy, but we managed.  Which is why this particular tax has really ticked me off. 

My feeling is, if the schools still want to do 'the arts' it should be up to the parents to supply the fee amounts, just like we did.  If the schools now feel it is to expensive to do 'the arts' then it should be the schools so simply say...we can no longer do this and drop 'the arts'.  TAXING 'the people' to provide 'the arts' is simply wrong, wrong, wrong.  Especially for those of us who are on limited incomes, and are being taxed to death to begin with.

Anyway, today, as a good citizen, I paid the tax (on-line as requested on the reminder postcard I got in the mail).  Things were going swimmingly.  I was filling out the form.  I got slightly ticked, when they asked for the last four digits of my Social Security number (I thought no one could ask for that anymore), but figured well, it is after all taxes...and everybody knows anyone asking for taxes thinks they are omnipotent...so who are we to question...I supplied those figures.

I moved along.  Provided my credit card information, and then...

down...

close to the bottom...

of the page...

I was told there would be a


CONVENIENCE FEE OF 0.99

WHAT???????????????

Not only do I have to pay the damn tax...that I didn't vote for in the first place...they are charging me an additional fee to do so. 

Man...now I'm really, really, really ticked.  I'm racking my brain...who's home...who can I call, I need to blow off a lot of steam...I call my sister...thank goodness she is home...by the time we are done talking I've calmed down quite a bit. 

No, wait...I've not calmed down at all.  How can I show my displeasure?  I notice in very, very, tiny print almost falling off the bottom of my 'printable' receipt there is
an e-mail address.  I shoot off a testy e-mail to ARTS TAX people.  Now I feel better!

But call my sister again and tell her, if she happens to get a call from a lawyer that I've been arrested to please pay my bail...she can use my credit card.  I wonder how much of a convenience fee that will be?

Do, re, me...

I got to reminiscing this morning, about music.  Especially about the music of my grade school years.  It all started when the song “Comin’ Round the Mountain” came to mind.  I had thought it had been written by Stephen Foster.  Of course, I could not rest until I found out for sure he indeed had.  Turns out he had not.  Seems, “Comin’ Round the Mountain” started out as a spiritual, and has changed much over the years from that spiritual, to the ditty we know today about somebody who’s arrival is being anxiously awaited, and with that arrival everybody is going to sit down to ‘chicken and dumplings’ or ‘cake and ice cream’ depending on how you have learned the song.

Anyway, back to Stephen Foster.  I fondly remember music class and singing his songs.  I think we had music once a week, the teacher had a pitch pipe into which she would blow “C”, until we were all pretty much on key, and we would launch into song.  I thought his songs were beautiful.  I remember some of the words to this day. 

Do you?

“I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair,

Borne, like a vapor, on the summer air

I see her tripping where the bright streams play

Happy as the daisies that dance on her way”

 

or....

“The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home

'Tis summer, the people are gay;

The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,

While the birds make music all the day;”

Chorus

“Weep no more, my lady,

Oh weep no more today!

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home,

For the old Kentucky home far away.”

Or, how about:

 

Oh, Susannah

“I come from Alabama
With a banjo on my knee
I'm going to Louisiana,
My true love for to see.

It rained all night the day I left
The weather it was dry
The sun so hot, I froze to death
Susannah, don't you cry.”

Man, nobody writes songs like those any more.  Of course, by now I’m delving into the man himself.  And I learned he was Born in Pennsylvania and was one of 10 children, for a while the family lived in Pittsburgh, and were considered a ‘middle class’ family, until his father became an alcoholic and left them impoverished. 

Stephen took to song writing when he was 18, but since there were no royalties at the time, and Copyright law was at that time in its infancy he made little money from his songs.  For a while he worked with his brother in Ohio who had a steamship company.

Eventually Stephen moved back to Pittsburgh, then to New York City, where his wife and daughter left him.  With the beginning of the Civil War, the demand for songs diminished, and the quality of his work suffered.  He died shortly thereafter (1864), with 38 cents to his name.  He was only 37 years old.  At his death a scrap of paper was found in his wallet that simply read, "Dear friends and gentle hearts."

One of his songs was published posthumously and I shall post it here for your enjoyment.

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd away!

Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of life's busy throng.

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,
Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie;
Over the streamlet vapors are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.

Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

 

Have a beautiful day.  Oh, and thanks for the memories and the songs, Stephen.

 

Ssssshhhhhh!

Don't tell Frankie, but today I can see the grass seed starting to grow...thank you, weekend rain, thank you.

Teeee, heeee, heeee, heeee.

My only concern is the temperatures are going to cool starting tomorrow.  Guess I just have to keep the faith.

Silly, Rambling Old Woman

...and she still thinks that grass seed is going to do something....meanwhile, the birds are having a feast. 

Honestly, you should see her...checking for green shoots...watering...several times a day...checking for shoots....

It's sad, very, very sad.

This woman needs help.

Please, send help.

Frankie.

...and then there are dumb-dumbs.

So, over the weekend, while my sister and I were shopping...(right before the lounging and napping part) I bought a bag of grass seed. 

Man, grass seed is v-e-r-y expensive,  I only needed a little bit, and was certainly not going to pay fifteen dollars for a box of 'Big Brand Name' seed.  Finally, there on the shelf, below eye level I found 'see through' plastic bags of seed for $4.99 perfect.  Price and quantity.  I scoop it off the shelf and dump it into my cart.

Up til yesterday the bag sat out on my garage work bench.  Wow...I think that's the first time I have referred to the work bench as 'mine'.  Anyhoo, there it sat.  Frankly, I forgot it was there...damn old age.

I don't even remember what I was actually looking for in the garage, when I spied the bag of seed.  What the heck says I...this is a good day to plant the seed...why not?

I'm out at the flattened mound, tromping about, mushing down the clumps of soil I was too lazy to mush at the time they formed getting ready to fling the grass seed around.  Frankie saunters out of the house.

Frankie:  "What's ya' doin'?"
Me:  (Tromp, tromp) "Leveling off the mound."
Frankie:  "Why?"
Me:  "This project has gone on long enough, today I'm going to throw grass seed on it and call it 'good'."

I punch a hole in the plastic bag and start to throw the seed around.  I use the whole bag.  The ground is covered with seed...except where it did NOT land on a clump of soil.  There were still lots of THEM.  Frankie shakes her head, and her Dum-dum lollipop at me.

Frankie:  "Aren't you going to cover the seed with some soil, or rake it in or something?""
Me:  "Nope."
Frankie:  "You do know that's not going to grow."
Me:  "Nope."
Frankie:  "Did you even read the directions?"
Me: "Nope."
Frankie:  "Geeze!"
Me:  "Hey, the guy in the store said all I have to do is 'keep it damp', he didn't say nothin' 'bout havin' to bury the seed."

By now I'm dragging the hose out to the newly strewn seed, and plunk the sprinkler mechanism in the middle of the circle.

I wish you could have seen Frankie's face.  It was a cross between wonder and disbelief, I knew she was thinking I either had fantastic faith, or was the biggest idiot she has ever met.

I turn on the hose, and have a seat in our front yard 'hang-out' and let the water do its job.  As soon as the water started to run down the driveway and into the street I turn the water off.

"So," says Frankie, "That's it."  (What's left of her Dum-dum is making lazy circles in the air).
Me:  "Yep, pretty much."
Frankie:  "And, you really expect that to grow."
Me:  "Yep."
Frankie:  "You really do live in a rose colored world."
Me:  "Yep."

We head for the house, I think this dumb-dumb is ready for a Dum-dum.

Quit messin' with me.

Last week I was running around the place in shorts and a sleeveless, scoop-necked
tee. It was wonderful, glorious, a time sooo long waited for.  Don't you just love the feel of the sun on your bare skin?  Man, I do.  I was just settling in and getting used to it.

Ahhh, I was basking in the glow of Spring.  I found more excuses to go outside than a farmer with a long row to hoe.  I'd walk to the mailbox even though I knew the mailman had not come yet.  I'd bend over and pull a couple of weeds, or check a new green shoot in the flower garden.  After a while I didn't even look for an excuse to spend a few minutes in the sweet smelling, sun warmed air, I'd go out 'just because'.  It was great!  Fantastic!  DE-lightful!

Then, last night while I was getting ready for bed, I discovered my summer sleep attire did not feel right.  I was down right chilly, there were goose-bumps on my arms, hair standing up.  Shoot.  How disgusting!  I had no choice but to go back to winter jammies. 

And..., this morning my house is down right cold, I contemplated turning on the heat, but my bill is back down to a reasonable amount, so settled on wearing sweats and  thermals instead. 

Dang it...I could...I could...I could just spit tacks.

I'm telling ya', it is just not fair. 

It seems the older I get the harder time I have adjusting to the temperature fluctuations each Spring, though eventually I do adapt.

However, I think the thing that gets to me the most this time of year is the laundry.  I don't know about you, mine doubles.  I start out the morning in sweats and sometimes thermals, too, but find by noon it has warmed so that I can change my attire and switch to shorts and tees.  Back and forth, back and forth.  By the end of the week my hamper is so full, the lid won't shut.  It sits there grinning at me like a slightly inebriated sailor. 

I ain't asking for much, Month of May, just quit messin' with me.  Make up your mind for heaven sake, sunny and warm, or cool and damp.  My hamper and water bill will thank you. 

(Dear readers,  Please remember, I do proof-read these blog entries, a couple of
times.  Still I know they contain errors, misspelled words, poor punctuation, etc.  I try, I truly do. Pretend you don't see them, K?)

Who knew?

Ever since company this weekend I've been trying to 'get my groove back on'.  Who knew doing nothing could be addictive?  I had not a clue.

Sunday afternoon my sister and I were lounging...literally...lounging in my living room when the discussion began about when we had ever taken a day off and had done absolutely nothing.  She is mumble, mumble years old, and I'm (of course) even older, and neither of us could think of one single, solitary time we gone chore less.  Can that be true?  Even when we came home from hospitals after having babies we jumped into our regular routines and worked, if you remember, by the '70's a woman giving birth didn't stay in the hospital long; and, I don't know about you, but I don't count labor and delivery as having a 'do nothing' kind of day.

Anyway, we were shocked and appalled we could not think of a single day when we had allowed ourselves to do nada, zilch, bumpkiss, diddly-squat, jack, zippo.  So, we grabbed blankets, pillows and drew our puppies in close, and spent the day watching one of our favorite cable channels Investigation Discovery.  Some of the shows we  had seen before, but like Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind...we didn't give a dam.  Oh, we did rouse ourselves for potty breaks and food, but I swear, other than that...we barely moved (I wonder...is this what heaven is going to be like?).  Occasionally we would turn our heads to see if one or the other of us had dozed off, and inquire "Are you asleep?"  Geeze, even conversation seemed to much a chore.

I'm telling you, it was amazing...and the most important thing was neither of us felt the slightest remorse or guilt we were in the throes of complete and utter 'do-nothing-ness'...it was amazing.  This was definitely something a person could get used to.

Big question was, could I?

Scary thing is...I think I could, because here it is Wednesday, and I'm still having a hard time getting back into my old routine.  Chores now have even less value than they did even a few weeks ago, and the fact I learned I could actually close my eyes while it is still daylight out and have nothing 'bad' happen continues to fascinate and delight me.

Okay, I know I could never, ever lapse into the land of permanent 'do nothing-ness' I would be bored out of my gourd.  But, I've gotta say, that one day was out of this world.

Here's the thing,

I've company this weekend from out of town...be back Monday.  One and all, have a great, wonderful, sunny, warm couple of days. 

Commence eerie music

Sometimes strange things happen in my house. 

A couple of mornings ago, I awoke to something, or someone gently pushing on my legs.  I figured it was CC trying to decide if she wanted to stealthy crawl up my body and plant herself on my chest. 

I laid very still, thinking if I moved she would get spooked and go away.  Since I really don't mind if she lays on me, I gave her time to decide what she wanted to do.

Time passed, the gentle pushing, touching, almost kneading continued.  However, I began to get annoyed.  I'm thinking "Decide what you want to do, cat, I'm starting to cramp up here."  Ya know how you finally give that 'now I'm really disgusted, and have lost patience' sigh.  That's what I did.  I roll over...CC is not there...and apparently she never had been.

Was all that pushing, touching in my imagination?  Maybe. 

No, it was real.  If I had only felt if once, that might have been imagination, this went on for at least a minute or perhaps longer.  There had been touching.

I think I wrote a long, long, long time ago that my husband has come to visit me from time to time, (since his passing) and although he has not made an appearance for quite a while, I think it was him that was gently pushing on my legs.  When these things happen I can't help but wonder what he wants. 

Goodness knows our last years together were a struggle. 

I've been giving his visits quite a bit of thought since the touching incident, and I've come to believe, these mysterious happenings are his way of saying he really did still care, up til the end and that he was more frustrated with the way his life was ending than with me.  Unfortunately, I was an easier target...throwing darts at yourself can be very, very painful.

These events have never frightened me and, I like to think if I were ever in danger he would somehow intervene, and protect me to the best of his ability.  As a result, I kind of like that he is lingering about.

Never a man to say 'I'm sorry', I think these visits are also his way of saying that.  (I know Paul, I appreciate you are saying that now.)  However, don't take that to mean you can permanently go away ...I'm kind of used to your surprise visits and I hope to hear from you again soon.