Letting go, moving on.

Last night I was slowly, methodically walking through the house muttering softly.

"Lock, lock, lock."  Says I.
Frankie:  "What the heck are you doing?"

I ignore her.

"Locked, locked, locked." I say as I make a return trip through the house. 

Frankie:  "Seriously, what are you doing?"

Again I simply keep walking.

I retrace my steps one more time.  This time I don't say anything, but am pointing my index finger in the direction of each window in each room.

Frankie is puppy-dogging me.  Finally, she grabs me (quite firmly I should add) and gives me a shaking that made marbles rattle around in my skull.  I have to say I was glad to hear them...it was good to know I had not lost all of them.

She leads me to the sofa.

Frankie:  "Listen to me.  Just because you forgot to lock the sliding door last night does not mean it is ever going to happen again.  It was a mistake.  I know you are upset about what Zazzle did to your store, it's okay.  You were simply too engrossed in that to remember the door was open.  LET IT GO!"

I wanted to be reassured.  I wasn't.

Me:  "Oh Frankie, I can't help it.  What if, what if, I'm getting some form of dementia?  What will happen to you?  What will  happen to Zorro?  What will happen to CC?"

By the time I was done ranting, my voice had risen to an octave only a dog could hear.

Frankie:  "Who's the President of the United States?"
Me:  "Obama."
Frankie:  "What day is it?"
Me:  "Friday."
Frankie: "What did you do last Sunday."
Me:  (Wailing)  "I don't remember."
Frankie:  "Okay, okay, settle down, I don't remember either."  Bad question, bad question.  What's your favorite dessert?"
Me: (Screwing up my face, she's kidding right?) "Cheesecake, ice cream, cake, cookies, candy bars." 
Frankie:  "See, you remember your favorite dessert, and in the right order, too."

She is doubled over in laughter.

Frankie:  "Seriously, you made a mistake, nothing happened to us, we're all just fine.  You have got to move on."

I meekly nod my head, she's probably right.  I made a mistake.  However, this incident has caused me to re-evaluate things.  I know I put everybody at risk.  The last thing I want to do is put my little family in harms way. I must take seriously the fact I can't do more than one thing at a time.  Had I followed through with locking up the other night, instead of breaking my routine that damn door would never have been left open.  It was a humbling experience.

But, Frankie is also right in saying I have to move on. 

So, in this land of Dump and Dumper...'er Dumb and Dumber it is hard to say with any certainty what will happen next.  I will keep you posted.

Whew indeed!

I just got done posting on facebook that I've lost my mind. (They ask every morning 'what's on it').

Oh yeah...I've lost my mind.

Remember yesterday I wrote here that I close up my house every night because the news media has told me if I don't someone will come in and bludgeoned me? Of course you remember...you are my faithful readers.

Well.

Guess what I did last night?

Oh, I closed up alright. Early. I was bound and determined I was going to get to bed before midnight, and I actually made it before eleven.

I was so proud of myself. The front of the house was all dark by nine-thirty. The covers of my bed had been turned down, the bedroom TV was whispering in the background while I finished a little work on my Zazzle store front. Zazzle decided to 'upgrade' their look, thereby 'upgrading' the look of mine...and I'm trying to get my old look back.

Anyway, around ten-thirty, I rouse Zorro and I put him out front for his final pee party, and we retire to bed. Man...I had such a good night's sleep. It was fan-tas-tic. I awoke this morning bright-eyed and bushy tailed.

Hummmm, dee, dummmmmmm. Zorro and I saunter out to the kitchen.

To my s-h-o-c-K and h-o-r-r-O-r there was my sliding glass door...wide open...I'm talkin' wide, wide open. How could I allow that to happen?

I think this happened because we are all creatures of habit. My night time schedule is so routine to me; anything out of the ordinary throws me off. I immediately remember thinking, while I closed up, I would let that door open for a while (fresh air being what it is), even though the rest of the front 'looked' as though I was indeed ready for bed. What could possibly be harmful in that?

You could forget!!!!!!!! That's what you could do, stupid old woman. You could forget the damn door is open.

Talk about getting bludgeoned! Well, let's face it...I'd have deserved it. When I found that door ajar this morning terrible images flashed through my mind. Blood, gore, icky stuff. I know these things because I watch the Discovery Investigation Channel. Bad stuff happens, bad, bad stuff.

Thank goodness Frankie was still sleeping when I discovered my blunder...by the time she got up I was well into my morning activities and I didn't have to explain why the door was open. Oh, she's have been on me like scales on a snake.

Shoot, I do my Lumosity exercises almost every day, I thought they were supposed to be helping increase my mental capacity...what the heck??? Maybe I'm getting too smart for my own britches. Haaaaaa, haaaaaaa, haaaaaa, haaaaaaa (deep breath) haaa, haaaaaa, haaaaa.

Too smart for my own britches. Oh, dear, that's funny. Considering the hot weather that's supposed to be coming, I ain't gonna' need britches. Haaaaaa, haaaaaaa,haaaaaa, haaaaaaa (deep breath) haaa, haaaaaa, haaaaa. Bring it, baby, bring...it...on.

Seriously, from here on out I am going to be more careful when I close up at night, and even though my house is going to become a furnace while the temperatures hover close to one hundred degrees, my sliding door will be shut-tight-and locked, too.

Finally, I can guarantee you, next week I will be without my britches so, a few words to the wise, 'knock before entering'.

Whew!

Oh, my poor, poor body. There is a shock coming.  I'm not sure how to prepare it for what's ahead.

After months and MONTHS of below average temperatures, sweat-suit attire and thermals I'm now supposed to adjust to several days of ninety degree temperatures. I already feel myself shriveling.

Come on Mother Nature, you could at least have given me a week of mid-eighty temperatures before jumping to the mid-nineties. Really, seriously....just like that (Picture me snapping my fingers) am I going to have to drag out my fans, find my short-shorts and tank tops, and heaven only knows where my freezer thingy is that I soak in water so it puffs up, and I throw around the back of my neck to cool off?  Come on...you know I'm not prepared.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining we are actually going to have some hot weather, after eleven months of misery.  And, I've never been a complainer about the heat. Although I will confess around the third day of mid ninety temperatures I do start to feel physically ill. I'm not sure why. Up till the time I turned, oh, around 65, I could handle the heat just fine...even work outside...easily.

Then, something happened to my metabolism, I guess maybe this is one of those 'things they never tell you', that once you hit seventy your body, well, maybe your blood, changes in consistency so that adjusting to extremes in temperatures is overwhelming to a person's entire body function. Seriously, by the third day that it's pushing 100 degrees, I'm like Jell-O that's been out in the sun since noon, and it's now 6 PM. I'm sticky, melted and I feel nausea coming on. I want to run around naked.

Oh, and that business of closing up your house to retain a certain level of coolness. Seriously, do you do that? I guess my house is so poorly made because...well... here's my routine.

Bedtime: I close up the house, because the news people have advised me if I don't somebody will enter through an open window and bludgeoned me to death.

Early Morning: I rise early (very, very early) and throw open every window and door so the overnight indoor heat dissipates.

Mid-morning: I can feel the heat starting coming in. I go around the house, close windows, doors and drapes.

Rest of day: I continually check the indoor temperature; I can see it slowly, slowly rising. My house is beginning to smell...oddly. The fans are working their little fannies off, and have stirred up dust that has been dormant since last year and the last time the fans were used. Yuck...it's getting really, really gross.

6PM. I check the thermometers again...Inside it is 95; outside it is 97...two degrees different. I'm so nauseated, I want to die. I go around the house and open it up again. Surely the outdoor temperature will begin to recede, and the house will start to cool off.

Bedtime: The temperature in the house has fallen by a few degrees. The fans have been working full blast for over how many days it has been over ninety degrees. Oh, no...it is time to close up the house. I do not want to be bludgeoned.

And   the   cycle   starts   over   again.

I don't want to eat. I have fitful sleep. I want to be outside; we have so few of these perfect blue skies, still air summer days. I'm conflicted. I think about November's gloom and I'm thankful it is summer. I'm thankful for the ninety degrees days.

Still, really, Mother Nature, would it have been so difficult for you to 'ring me up' a week or so ago and say, "Hey, Sandra, it's gonna be a hot, riding with the windows open, sticking your arm out, ride. Buckle up!"

Writing against the tide,

without a paddle.

There are a few days I simply don't know what to write about.  Today is one of them.  Frankie is behaving herself, my furry creatures are not making unnecessary demands on me, and even I am in a state of contentment...na, I'm simply bored.  My mind is a blank slate.

Several years ago I took an on-line class called "Writeriffic".  Eva Shaw, was our wonderful instructor.  One of the lessons she gave us was to choose a color and write something about it.  Oh, the students wrote wonderful pieces, full of emotional color.  Seriously, they were beautiful, I enjoyed every single one.

However...ooohhh, you all know me so well, my mind went in a totally different direction.  So, since my caffeine high has not kicked in this morning, I decided to dig into my past creations and share this assignment from my "Writeriffic" class.

Purple Funk

 

By Sandra Ann Hiller 

 

Purple Funk, that’s me.  Not the razzle dazzle, pop-out your eyeballs, plum, orchid or mulberry

purple, much less February’s birthstone Amethyst.

But, the ominous cloud, blinding lightening and horrendous thunder, eventual deluge, Prussian Purple.

The color of that black and blue mark, two days after the nasty run-in you had walking into the

Edge of the coffee table, and your shin swells up like a tennis ball.

 

That’s me; Prussian Purple and I give you Purple Funk.

 

You do remember Prussian Purple, the purple that nobody ever used...for anything? I never got broken, and was always the last one in the box: Prussian Purple. They don’t even make me anymore.

 

One look at me and you know you’re going to have one heck of a bad hair day. 

 

I make you snarl at the bus driver,

Break the heel on your favorite pair of peep-toe, sling-back pumps,

Spill coffee on your cashmere sweater,

Splatter puddle water on your silk skirt,

Be ten minutes late for the most important meeting of your life,

Laughing in your face, ‘cause your boyfriend’s going to leave your for your very best friend,

Personal Purple Funk.

Woooo, that felt good!

Now, if you have any doubts, I’ll make your soup cold, and your ham sandwich hot, go ahead,

Leave them in your parked car, but decide to eat them anyway Purple lunch,

And I'll show you what Funk is really all about.

 

We have a saying our house that when things don’t go right and you got out of the bed

On the wrong side, you’re having a Purple Funk day.

 

God knows we’ve all had one from time to time.

 

 

Oh, I think I'm having one today!

Hitching my wagon

This morning my I-Ching Hexagram told me I need to 'hitch my wagon to the sun'. I was pretty sure that was not the way I learned that particular quip, I thought it was 'hitch your wagon to a star'. Somehow, hitching my wagon to the sun seems hot, sweaty, uncomfortable, agonizingly horrible. Hitching it to a star, however, seems full of promise and I feel like I can accomplish just about anything.

 

Frankie enters stage left.

 

Frankie: "No, no, no. I hate when you get that look on your face."

Me: "What look?"

Frankie: "The one on your face right now. Determination. Grit. Resolve. Something is on your mind."

Me: (Trying to pretend I don't know what she's talking about). "I've no idea what you're getting at."

Frankie: "You know exactly what I'm 'getting at'." She picks up one of the many books surrounding me at the moment. You're doing research."

 

Frankie says this with such disgust; you would think I was carrying the Plague. She shudders and slams down the book.

 

Me: "Go away!"

Frankie: "Fine! I guess this means there's no hot breakfast this morning." She walks off in a huff.

 

I turn back to my computer and type in hitch your wagon to a star.

 

I love the way, and how quickly a long string of web-sites appears on my screen all eager to teach. What I want to know is where did this phrase come from?

 

Come on Internet...do your thing.

 

I'm not disappointed.

 

It turns out, this particular phrase is attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson, and is taken out of context, (although at some point in his lifetime he may well have spoken these words), they originally appeared as follows in the Atlantic Monthly, from a column called American Civilization, in 1862.

 

"I admire still more than the saw-mill the skill which, on the sea-shore, makes the tides drive the wheels and grind corn, and which thus embraces the assistance of the moon, like a hired band, to grind, and wind, and pump, and saw, and split stone, and roll iron. Now that is the wisdom of a man, in every instance of his labor, to hitch his wagon to a star, and see his chore done by the gods themselves. That is the way we are strong, by borrowing the might of the elements. The forces of steam, gravity, galvanism, light, magnets, wind, fire, serve us day by day, and cost us nothing."

 

However, by 1870, hitching one's wagon to a star had started to become a catch phrase. I'm glad, I like it, I kind of wish my I-Ching would have said that rather than the 'sun', but I guess I should look on it as though I-Ching has higher expectations from me.

 

Research always delights and surprises me. I never know what I'm going to find. Today is no exception. While I was nosing through websites I came across one that had a forum page. On a Forum Page, someone asks a question, and members of it can respond with answers, generally you will get some good, serious responses, and often great debates. However, once in a while someone will give a wonderful and clever response. Such as this: Posted on The Free Dictionary, by Farlex, forum page, in 2011. It was posted by somebody with the screen name Thar, from Iceland.

 

"OK, this star you are hitching to:

1- is a ball of gas, so there is nothing to hitch to

2- has probably disappeared by the time the light gets here

3- is at several thousand degrees, and apt to scorch the harness

4- the atmosphere is electric but it is a bit warm and airless, sort of muggy.

5- hey, this is someone’s Sun. Have you asked permission? Star-stealer's get strung up!"

 

Oooooohhhhhh, aaaaaahhhhhhhh, getting arrested for star-stealing. I like it!

 

Will I never learn?

Among other things I did this weekend was cook. Yes, my slow cooker hummed along quietly while I worked in the office, did laundry and whacked down an errant forsythia shrub. You should have seen me trying to shove all the pieces of that sucker into my yard debris container.

I was so proud of myself...being careful to make all the pieces near the same size; the pile was b-e-a-uuu-tee-ful. Big, but beautiful. When I was done hacking and whacking I stood admiring my handy work.

Last year I had bound up the forsythia in the hope it would not be quite so gangly however, when that didn't work I knew the shrub must come down. The rope that held the shrub in place was lying on the ground close to my mound of cuttings.

"Hmmm", I say, to no one in particular. "I bet if I put this rope around this mound of branches, limbs and stems, I can carry it to the recycling bin in one fell swoop".

Note to self: Put the rope, strung out first under the pile of debris.

It took a some time and quite a bit of rolling the debris, but eventually I got the rope around the pile. Then I made a loop on one end of the rope, pulled the other end through it, and proceeded to pull the rope tight. (I didn't realize the rope had decayed some, and the rope snapped.) I mended the break and tried again. This time I stopped short of 'breaking my gusset'.

I was so proud. I stood back and admired my ingenuity. Whoa, that was still a pretty big stack of clippings. I look down the sidewalk; I'm going to have to carry this pile quite a distance. I try to pick it up.

Note to self: If the object you are trying to lift is bigger, and/or weighs more than you, you probably won't be able to.

Okay I say to myself, I will simply drag it. Skinny sidewalk, flower garden, fence...uh-oh. I'm sure you see my problem. I step up onto the pile and begin stomping and tromping around to make it smaller.

Note to self: Bind up the pile after a pile is stomped.

Eventually I drag the bundle down the sidewalk, through the gate, and in front of my yard debris container. Crap. There appears more debris than the container can hold. Besides, there was no way I could ever, ever pick the debris up anyway. I'm in a pickle. Maybe I just need to let the pile wilt for a while.

Note to self: Debris does not 'wilt' quickly.

I was not sure what I was going to do, so I went in the house to contemplate. Hours later I return to the pile. I decide to untie it, since I can't pick the pile up, I will break it down and shove the pieces in my container a few pieces at a time.

Well, working off and on, that took what was left of Saturday, and part of Sunday, but eventually I got every branch, limb and stem shoved into my yard debris container. However, I still had to get the container to the curb for this morning's trash pick-up. This meant I was going to have to face the public. I hate when I have to do that. What if I lose control of the container on my way to the curb and I have to 'reload' the contents? What if I break a wrist as I lose control of the container as it hits the ground? What if I'm caught talking to myself? I do that you know.

Somehow I manage. Do I get caught by neighbors dragging the container to the curb? Yes, so I'm quite thankful I didn't have an accident along the way, and that I was not talking to myself at the time. Well done, Sandra, well done.

Note to self: Clean up while you work...not after.