tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-103944242024-02-07T01:25:41.593-05:00My Side of the CircleLike Alice through the looking glass, I find magic in the mundane world.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-8549676475607122672015-10-14T13:56:00.002-04:002015-10-14T13:56:23.940-04:00Extra Ordinary<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #548dd4; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 16pt;">Yesterday I saw Vincent Van Gogh crossing the street to 30th Street Station. His hair and beard were closely cropped and glowed in the morning light with a peachy ginger color that was both pale and vibrant if such is possible. His clothing was black with straps and buckles hanging loose. His face was gaunt, as what else would it be, but he looked homeless. No hat in the 21st century. I did not stop to ask where he was keeping the paintings.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #548dd4; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Today I saw a Muslim girl by a bus stop dressed mostly in black with the ubiquitous head scarf tied around her neck, not flowing over her back as sometimes happens. She wore an India print dress that featured a brilliant print over what would be the apron if she wore one. I'm not sure what she was going for there.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #548dd4; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> The effect was </span><span style="font-size: 21.3333px;">Romanian</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> Peasant circa 1930 or so. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #548dd4; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> I wish I had a photo of either but driving and photography is still kind of touchy.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQmJnRQcY-jEo-C-kt9wfZrkLvAQWKIbUB9iOi72f2vPCEF217XJ8LTBWgH2sKzGbo4XddaJqMrr0ewbkWarirxJ9o6cGf4TrkM7_ej1DLQ_E-a8pPOM6nTQlv4OClWgdSEHf/s1600/MTE1ODA0OTcxODExNDQwMTQx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQmJnRQcY-jEo-C-kt9wfZrkLvAQWKIbUB9iOi72f2vPCEF217XJ8LTBWgH2sKzGbo4XddaJqMrr0ewbkWarirxJ9o6cGf4TrkM7_ej1DLQ_E-a8pPOM6nTQlv4OClWgdSEHf/s1600/MTE1ODA0OTcxODExNDQwMTQx.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW6lI0UqrxOTIct2icAcGa_JvaIRiWM18uEsRx7Sn4dKq4HOSsN8FU6BbtMoA0gjc3rjruto4bgOfvx6cDpCA-knaWw6d_4pjj6PIQQ-Qb9vFXF9R7xYTaw2jSsrT-vfWGVW21/s1600/PeasantGirls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW6lI0UqrxOTIct2icAcGa_JvaIRiWM18uEsRx7Sn4dKq4HOSsN8FU6BbtMoA0gjc3rjruto4bgOfvx6cDpCA-knaWw6d_4pjj6PIQQ-Qb9vFXF9R7xYTaw2jSsrT-vfWGVW21/s320/PeasantGirls.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #548dd4; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 16pt;"> One day the cameras will be in our heads. Probably they will cause headaches but the government will know exactly what we are up to. How scary is that? The gain will be less than the loss of freedom I'm thinking.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-8037835425552311772013-04-05T12:40:00.003-04:002013-04-05T12:41:45.781-04:00Old?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My friend Bruce writes a blog for a poetry magazine in, I don't know, New Zealand? And he decided to write about getting old, although he has wanted to be old since he was 14. He wears old man hats that are too small, and a heavy beard that combine to make him look Hassidic although he is less than religious.<br />
He wears button down vests, heavy brogues and tweed whenever possible and never have I seen in in just a t-shirt as other men wear on a regular basis.<br />
This was my reply to his story.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Last week on the phone, a customer, heavy and black and in her sixties, told me that I was an attractive elderly woman. I said that I did not consider myself to be elderly.</span><br />
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"Are you in your thirties?" "the woman i saw in the store?" I said no, I was in my sixties and I was the one who she saw, and did not disabuse her notion that </div>
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Rollin had fixed her lamps when in fact it was largely my effort.</div>
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"Then you a very attractive elderly lady".</div>
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With her, the emphasis appeared to be on attractive, but what I heard, was her saying I was elderly.</div>
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I thanked her and w hung up, but despite my growing distaste for the state of my facial skin sagging and wrinkling,and the barrage of aches and pains, I feel I am barely An adult, and hardly elderly, but I could be mistaken.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-68394641171424752842012-06-24T11:20:00.000-04:002012-06-24T11:20:24.318-04:00Health Food<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Last night went out with an old friend from high school. His wife was attending an </span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">acupuncture</span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> meeting in new </span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Hampshire</span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> or something. We went to a </span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Chinese</span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> restaurant and I allowed him to order his favorite dish from there: spicy tofu. I am not a big tofu fan but after a bit I said This is really good! Then I thought for a while and said You know what we are eating? This is General Tso's Tofu!! It was lousy with sweetener and the tofu was fried!!!</span><br />
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The joke was on him. I don't think that was so healthy after all!</div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-89155992925984194332012-06-18T17:44:00.002-04:002012-06-18T17:44:40.476-04:00Rest STOP!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Nory was driving home from the shore and decided to call a friend who lived halfway home to see if they were up for company.<br />
When she got the voice mail she figured; so okay, not going there, but in front of me is a gas station with very cheap gas, and I really need some. While I am there why not use the bathroom if it is not too gross and there is no giant key on a boat paddle to drag around? There was no key and it was a large tiled room with a sink, toilet, hand dryer <i>and </i>a urinal. When getting out of the car, she thought, should I take the keys? And she answered herself in her head; how long am I gonna be in there? I'll just take the phone. It was not the fanciest, but today one does not leave the phone. <br />
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQBLkBFvLqtVv_m58ay0b2MWOnKgrVx-8UwbtkxH3SRqQKsVpm8" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQBLkBFvLqtVv_m58ay0b2MWOnKgrVx-8UwbtkxH3SRqQKsVpm8" width="400" /></a>How did this make sense? The car was worth way more than the phone, and the radio was still on, but she had confidence in the young Indian looking man who spoke very good English, and sported a navy sweater vest over a white T-shirt.<br />
The vest was kind of odd, but so is life, and Nory kept her bag over her shoulder so it would not get all germy on the floor or walls or sink or anything. It was pretty clean in there not really clean but then again not gas station dirty. She washed her hands, dried with the industrial leaf blower in the wall and then tried the door handle.<br />
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When she came in she had wondered, should I lock this door? She did not know where that came from. Of course you lock the door! Who wants someone walking in on you? You can't stand up, you cannot push the door closed. It was not a stall, it was a room you could put a roller rink in and have room for the disabled seating as well. Now she was going back over her previous thoughts. I told you <b>not</b> to lock this door!<br />
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There is a button on the wall behind the handle of a mop. It says something like: push button if rest room needs attending. That's odd, am I in an elevator? Nory is more than perplexed. She is locked in the rest room, and though it is not too dirty she does not wish to touch any surfaces not previously touched by herself in the last few minutes. She pushed the button.<br />
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The young man comes to the heavy metal door, and like a man asks "what have you done?" "Turn it to the right!" But she has turned it to the left, right and in the middle and the bolt in the door frame is just plain not moving. She tries to call her friend who lives right down the road, but the room is metal and she cannot call through, though later, she sees that a call has gone through.<br />
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There is much jimmying, shivvying, juking, shaking and banging on the door. The echoes of the tile walls are incredible and Nory covers both ears with her hands, making sure that her purse does not leave her shoulder. Bam bam Bam Bam, he is hitting the metal door with a hammer, and the sound is deafening!<br />
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She tries a nail file like they do in movies, she inserts it into the crack and lifts it and it hits the bar just as if it were a deadbolt, no business card or credit card was going to do the trick. Her Swiss Army knife was too heavy to carry, and she had taken it out of her bag years ago, plus, she could never get it on a plane, but if she had it, the screws for the doorknob were on her side of the door, as were the giant hinges. The hinges would need a hammer and a very big screwdriver, but the gas jockey, between continually running out to fill people's tanks, slipped the tip of a screwdriver under the door. It was too short to get any leverage.<br />
She slipped it in her back pocket. And stands away from the door, should he somehow push it into the room.<br />
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They are getting tired. "Should we call 911?" he asked. "I really don't think I want to do that yet," Nory tells him, thinking how embarrassing that would be: headline news: Woman Stuck in Jersey John!<br />
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Finally, in a move where he completely misunderstands Nory, he decides to hit the doorknob, which is the cheapest part of the assembly and which, eventually bends and falls to the floor, but the lock mechanism stays stuck in the round hole of the door. It is some time with both of them pushing pulling and scraping at the metal bar, but at last he gets some purchase on it, and it falls to the floor, and the door swings open.<br />
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Nory walks out and hands him back the screwdriver wondering do I really have to pay for the gas now?<br />
"You are pretty good from that," he said, "Some customers would be terrible". Nory's mind is asking: is this not the first time this has happened? She asks how much for the gas, and it is the same 40 dollars she told him not to exceed. She suggests taking a photo to commemorate the occasion but it seems too awkward. She did not even look at the pump to check the amount as she got into the car, still slightly shaken by the small misadventure, but she did get a receipt for the forty dollars.<br />
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She called her friend so that he would not come running over with tools when she was already gone. " Nory, I'm really busy here, honestly," he said.<br />
"I'm sure you are" she said, and hung up. He was not listening to me at all, she decided, now I just look like some kind of nag for calling 3 times.<br />
The hell with it, she considered, I'm going to get a doughnut at Johnson's farm and go home.<br />
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-5422930200611055892012-05-25T15:03:00.001-04:002012-05-25T15:03:04.689-04:00Look Into My Eyes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: #f5f5f7; font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">When was the last time you looked a stranger in the eyes?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f5f5f7; font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> In Italy if you looked into a man’s eyes, he would immediately think you wanted to sleep with him, and he would put on the moves- fortissimo.</span><br style="background-color: #f5f5f7; font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span style="background-color: #f5f5f7; font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Today I ate lunch in a place for concerts where there was a guy playing gorgeous guitar and singing with a beautiful tone. He has more hair than sideshow Bob and it was all gray, as was his prodigious beard. Normally, I would not look at this guy to save my life, but I wanted to see who was underneath. I looked into as much of his eyes as I could see beneath the hair, and eyeglasses, and he saw me. It was loud in there, and my friend was yakking away but I only wanted to listen to the music. I wanted to make a friend. We left before the set ended but he will be around, and next time he will look at my eyes.</span>
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<span style="background-color: #f5f5f7; font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Try it today or tomorrow, just look and see what happens.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-25587576709695161502012-05-02T23:21:00.001-04:002012-05-02T23:21:41.654-04:00Home Diva<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqVWjxzyydeckUUq7eKJKD82PuJg0MHBCTpiF2nSFmf-xqV6MxhROcjfg0CFZl1Ukr0da8kpiLxA6QbuoCmW6AuZMau8fcjaACCwVbhSIg8Ia883prpwKAdZ2PpQrCl83rKke/s1600/marie+hareemn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqVWjxzyydeckUUq7eKJKD82PuJg0MHBCTpiF2nSFmf-xqV6MxhROcjfg0CFZl1Ukr0da8kpiLxA6QbuoCmW6AuZMau8fcjaACCwVbhSIg8Ia883prpwKAdZ2PpQrCl83rKke/s320/marie+hareemn.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Usually I get my best ideas by hearing something wrong. The other day, I was in the back of the shop, stringing up crystals, when I heard someone mention going to Home Diva. Wow! where is that store? I know a million girls who would like to go there. It turns out, that was not what they had said at all. My mind understood something that I thought I would like instead of something mundane that I already knew. I did not even know what would be at Home Diva once I got there, but I was sure I would like it. So, just in case, I got the fictitious name registered, and I am the new home diva. What I do with that remains to be seen.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-38178426235492617792012-05-01T17:25:00.003-04:002012-05-01T17:25:26.507-04:00What to bring to a Potluck Dinner<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>A couple years ago, I read an article in Esquire Magazine. It involved tiger shrimp and cannelini beans and I made it thinking they had a chef do it, so it must be good. It was not so good and I wrote them the following note. They, being the snide guys they are only printed the word gremoulata as something pretentious, or oh, I forgot, but they did not print the whole letter. Gremoulata is generally put on lamb and it is chopped garlic, parsley and lemon zest and it can really zing up a dish.</b></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UIXOn06Pz70/SFrcJrgEAGI/AAAAAAAADlk/C2bYWpi9PGM/s800/Goong+Maa+Now+(Thai+Lemon+Shrimp)+500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UIXOn06Pz70/SFrcJrgEAGI/AAAAAAAADlk/C2bYWpi9PGM/s320/Goong+Maa+Now+(Thai+Lemon+Shrimp)+500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>I realize I am never going to get all those wrongs set to right, but I can put my improvements here. If you want the original recipe, I think you can find it here:</b><a href="http://www.esquire.com/features/Dilemmas/potluck-0708?click=main_sr#slide-1">http://www.esquire.com/features/Dilemmas/potluck-0708?click=main_sr#slide-1</a></div>
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<b>Re: Minor Catastrophe
No. 138<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I found your recipe for a potluck intriguing. Let’s face it, someone comes to the door with
a load of giant shrimp and nobody’s going to gripe, right?</div>
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I thought the recipe was quick and easy, but bland to the
taste. </div>
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I mean; why does
everyone eat shrimp scampi or shrimp with cocktail sauce? The reason is because shrimp itself, has a
very delicate taste and needs some kind of foil to set it up. Also, those cannelini beans aka: white
northern, soak up a lot of liquid. I added some white balsamic vinegar,
Australian sea salt, a couple shakes of hot sauce, the juice of a lime, some
fresh thyme from the garden, and just for an even more luxurious mouth feel, an
avocado. I served it on a bed of crisp
romaine. <st1:stockticker w:st="on">NOW</st1:stockticker>
it’s dinner.</div>
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If I worked at his restaurant, I would be fired, as I once
was for suggesting gremoulata be put on a lamb dish that was lacking. That’s just me all over.</div>
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<b>The truth is, that I was fired for suggesting an improvement in a restaurant kitchen, and because they said I was too slow. They were right. I was too slow because 1. my feet hurt, and 2. I was the only person on the waitstaff not stoned to the gills on cocaine, which I told them when they called to fire me on the phone. It did not help my case. </b></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-47970879538506049692011-12-04T02:58:00.000-05:002011-12-04T02:58:39.754-05:00A King's Ransom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I was just wondering today how much is a King's ransom?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Has anyone ever had to get one back? It seems like it might have happened at one time or another..</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9QdbKiYMdJRjqD1MckYBLmlJOUneBIDx1ubywWCQJHnvwq0XnSAcsXjtzK_juEOcvKC_7U4WzC4YiUlKtDsVUsm2X5bZ34p-EMs6uooPBstGdry07662Ajic3WDKL8XP2DVF7/s1600/louis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9QdbKiYMdJRjqD1MckYBLmlJOUneBIDx1ubywWCQJHnvwq0XnSAcsXjtzK_juEOcvKC_7U4WzC4YiUlKtDsVUsm2X5bZ34p-EMs6uooPBstGdry07662Ajic3WDKL8XP2DVF7/s1600/louis.jpg" /></a></div>What do you think?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-62940065679142476892011-11-12T09:21:00.000-05:002012-05-06T15:11:57.513-04:00The Balloon Test<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJg2dT7S0e8EsoIuDSi-d4lZFxXp4TiGFMMqbUE_Ofo5h0eczU4F5P5qgf8BUm01Spq2Yza1oWayLdIv6GNvoCc2K637NRNyIZYp3-yIQlPRrXr_0aHsqJ1R3fgU4xGyAPtd_i/s1600/balloons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJg2dT7S0e8EsoIuDSi-d4lZFxXp4TiGFMMqbUE_Ofo5h0eczU4F5P5qgf8BUm01Spq2Yza1oWayLdIv6GNvoCc2K637NRNyIZYp3-yIQlPRrXr_0aHsqJ1R3fgU4xGyAPtd_i/s400/balloons.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is this you?<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, I was watching a show the other day, and okay, it was Ally McBeal's birthday, and Renee bought her 3 helium balloons and as they walked away from the camera view, she let them go. Just seconds after buying them, she just let go of the strings. I don't even remember if she looked up to see them going into the atmosphere or not.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And I wondered, which person are you? Do you let it go, or do you keep it around the house, maybe move it from room to room, or wear it tied to your clothing, or to your child? The child does not count in the test.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is about you. If someone gave you a helium balloon, what would you do with it?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is no right or wrong answer, it just interests me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-76819435373899530262011-09-18T16:45:00.001-04:002011-09-18T16:47:19.772-04:00Maintenance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Suddenly I'm in the maintenance business. Well, okay, it wasn't so sudden, it was more like a gradual change.<br />
The thing is, as you age, your cat ages, your car breaks down, your roof leaks, your teeth break, the house is crumbling around you and you can never get a hot shower when you need one, and spiders, if you allow them, will spin the whole shebang into one shimmering stretchy bundle, if you did not walk face first into it on the way out of the house every day, and spend the next half hour pulling webs out of your hair.Which basically sums up my mornings.<br />
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I know I have aged when I start advising young women to pay attention; that they look as good as they ever will despite what they believe and that it will not last forever.<br />
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Suddenly under the barrage of pills I must gulp down on an hourly basis, I have to eat less and move more. When we were young, we were moving so fast we had to be slowed down, and now, we forget that we danced half the day away, and after that, walked to almost everywhere we had to go. Particularly in the city, one can walk two miles just getting to work and back. And in those days I did it in high heels.<br />
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I don't know if you noticed when you stopped wearing heels. Oprah still wears them, you think, so why don't I? All the makeovers on TV take dowdy home makers and put them in makeup and heels. That would fix at least 75% of everyone's problems. On the other hand, Oprah is taking her shoes off even on camera. If that does not tell you something, then it at least should be pointed out to her. "Oprah, put your damn shoes on girl, you on camera!" (taking a lot of license here, but Gail might say it like that.)<br />
<br />
Have you looked at the skin on your legs and arms lately? I advise that you don't, it will just make you cry.<br />
Just sit in a bath of any kind of emollient, I don't care, milk, Aveeno, any oil in the house except motor, (but not too smelly, as it may repel people), and hope to be magically restored before you look.<br />
<br />
Of late, my skin has taken on the look of wrinkled, hairy silk, or the traditional (and there's a reason they say it) paper. This makes me sad. I sit in bed slathering moisture lotion all over anyplace I can reach and hoping to hell that I do not slide out of bed or have to wash the sheets. (more maintenance.)<br />
<br />
I believe that women do most of the work in this world, and then have to work on themselves. <br />
A couple weeks ago, one of my sheets tore and since then I am on a crusade to find something to replace them. I do not want mushy sheets. I want nice, crisp percale like they used to make. They were just a bit heavier than now, and it did not take 3 years, and that is not hyperbole, to get the sticky little surface stuff to lie down. I have amassed a compendium of complaints. And that's what happens as you age.<br />
<br />
You have little patience with incompetence, and you want everything you like to be manufactured perfectly, and forever. Do not get me started on toaster ovens! And you have to pay so much more attention to a corpse which no matter how much attention you show will never look as good as it did when you were 20, with the possible exception of women on TV who have paid crowds of people to do the work for them.<br />
<br />
Do not be completely dismayed, however. There are plenty of worse problems in the world, and if one can be solved with body lotion, well, it's a cheap fix. The rest is another story, and you will get through it.<br />
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</a></div>I have to remind myself, no matter how bad it is, and you do not want to know what else is going on here, it could be worse. In the meantime, you are in the maintenance business with me.<br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-79610119792878941552011-09-08T01:28:00.001-04:002011-09-18T16:05:58.008-04:00Nuts to you<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I found a walnut in the mail box today. It's really just an open container, but still, I think the mailman did it, it was too heavy for a squirrel to carry, and it was still in its green husk.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJuyDYS_2Y7oRa4EoG_ArLy5EwktFAD0VCeYYumxkein7RNT7kDAmigC1aDrvhdX-KczR0o8RaL1SNlwgJqxyiS1S7_gxl3EIJs9kFo1JftrImAy1rPK9sLCRPGz_xx3yNe6O/s1600/copernicus.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258px" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJuyDYS_2Y7oRa4EoG_ArLy5EwktFAD0VCeYYumxkein7RNT7kDAmigC1aDrvhdX-KczR0o8RaL1SNlwgJqxyiS1S7_gxl3EIJs9kFo1JftrImAy1rPK9sLCRPGz_xx3yNe6O/s320/copernicus.bmp" width="320px" /></a></div>In other news, I had to chase Squirly Mon (his name) out of the concrete urn. He was reluctant to go because he was burying another damn peanut. I don't know who gives the squirrels peanuts in the shell, and for sure, they are not growing in the yard. For one thing, everything that grows in my yard now gets stolen before it reaches maturity, and for another, peanuts grow underground.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-81932921761154396362011-08-16T06:33:00.000-04:002011-08-16T06:33:41.847-04:00Car Trouble<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The hub's car woke me (and probably the rest of the neighborhood) up at 4:44 this morning. The alarm went off and it was some time before I decided it might be my car and got out of bed to reconnoiter.<br />
<br />
Turns out, it was not my car, but his, honking and blinking in the pre-dawn hours. I don't know about the rest of you, but it makes me paranoid to leave the house in the dark to investigate the innards of the car with the front door of the house open. Also, it does not make me feel good to lock the door behind me, making it harder to get back in should there be someone lurking under the giant holly tree.<br />
<br />
After the first time I came back in, I had to check the whole house for prowlers. That does not sound bad until you know that there are 3 floors, a basement with 3 closed door rooms, and a walk-in attic.<br />
<br />
BOO! That'll get your heart pumping. So I don't know how to get back to sleep yet. I turned on the radio and it is Jazz Fusion time. Not quite mellow enough for me. I'll just listen to the government fail on NPR, that should be soporific. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile the car seemed to be locking and unlocking itself, and Volkswagens have this thing where the lights come on when you open the car door, and also when you turn the car off. This is a nice feature when you come home from anywhere and have to collect your bags, and coat and things, and the inside lights stay on until you get out of the car. I believe they may even be called courtesy lights.<br />
<br />
The car was just sitting there flashing furiously, and then the lights would turn off briefly, and then they would recommence flashing. I locked and unlocked the car with the key remote to see if that would fix the problem, but it did not, and then, the car locked itself. Whoa, I did not sign up for this! <br />
<br />
I got in and out of the car numerous times and played with the inside light controls thinking I had everything off in the front seat, when the back seat lights started flashing at a rapid rate, like my heart from running up and down the stairs in the middle of the night. It was a very eerie sight. Someone alert Stephen King, because the car is alive and I don't know what to do.<br />
<br />
Okay, now my return key is not working in blogger. What else is going to short out on me? Because that's what I think is happening. The car is wet from 2 or 3 days of rain. The computer, that's just juju.<br />
<br />
I went out again, putting on pants under my nightgown for the second and third trips. I opened the hood, but the battery appeared to be at an inaccessible spot in the engine for my height, in the dark. I thought I could just unhook the battery so the car could not do anything on its own. That was too much for me at 5 am.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I went out again and got into the back seat and pushed on the lights. I was gratified, since there were not toggles or switches, that actually pushing on the lights themselves, turned them off. (At least for the meantime.)<br />
<br />
Since the last time I got the lights off, I have checked several times. Everything appears quiet, and the sky is lightening up. It is 6:20. If I had a normal job, I'd be waking up now. When you factor in that I fell asleep at 2am, you will realize I probably got little to no sleep at all.<br />
<br />
At least it's not hot out.<br />
<br />
It's a shame, this is another one of those "I got so mad, I threw my drink across the yard"-( Martin Mull ) articles.<br />
<br />
Some people tell you how to grow things, or control mosquitoes in swamps, or how to feed the disenfranchised. I just complain about my extra car. I could tell you worse stories. It's not all fairy tale here, but you don't really want to hear about it, and I really don't want to talk about it.<br />
<br />
I just thought I'd talk about supernatural car behavior, then go back to bed.<br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-20350254482068114312011-08-07T22:07:00.000-04:002011-08-07T22:07:07.249-04:00Good Eats<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">When you are alone in the house, you can eat anything you want, and the only person you hurt is....oh yeah, you.<br />
<br />
The thing is, that when you live with someone, and you normally eat balanced meals, the kind that have protein, carbs and vegetables, not the applestack from minute to win it, and the other person or people know or believe that you are always eating reasonably you generally follow those rules so as not to get caught stuffing your face while supposedly on a diet. That is to say, until the entire pan of brownies disappears, they think you are in control of yourself.<br />
<br />
A while back, half a blueberry cake disappeared and I had to ask 50 questions before I found out that the answer was "my brother and I ate it". Fair enough, but why the subterfuge?<br />
<br />
Now I'm in the house alone, and no one knows what is going on here. I want to eat the vegetables, I BUY the vegetables and pretty fruits, and I visit them in the refrigerator when I stop by there to see if any ice cream with caramel has appeared there as if by magic.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to get off the meat band wagon, and frankly, that one was easy. Now I am stuck on fried shrimp!<br />
That cannot be totally good for me. The shrimp themselves are iffy, in that they are probably frozen and sold in bulk to the Greek Pizza shop. (remind me some time to tell you about the Pakistani Pizza shop, it may be here someplace) Anyway, those farmed shrimp (and I am guessing here, but it's prob'ly a good guess) that the shrimp are farmed, and as such, they are crowded, and because of that, they are filled full of antibiotics and heavy metals that are floating around in the water from people getting cured of things and flushing their drugs down the toilet. Okay, I totally did not mean to go there...<br />
<br />
So for dinner, I had maybe 6 or 7 jumbo fried shrimp with "cocktail sauce". I don't know what <i>they</i> call it, it's a little take out cup with ketchup and a dab of horseradish in it. So I had that, some onion rings, (okay, that's the first time I had those in months), and some giant light green olives that you have to eat around the pit like hand fruit, they are so large, and a bunch of chocolate chips. No cookies, just chips. You save a TON of calories that way.<br />
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I am sure there are those of you who will be gasping at the unvarnished nerve of me to admit to such a revolting diet, (that was just dinner) and others who are saying " pish, tosh, I just ate a chicken fried baby whale, and chased it with a red velvet layer cake and a liter of mountain dew!"<br />
<br />
So maybe I am not so far out of control as I think I am. I am hoping that by confessing to you, my friends and whatever you are to me, that I will try and behave somewhat before you come asking "How's that little eating problem going?" Or before I bust out of another size of jeans, having already donated all the fat pants earlier this summer, in a burst of optimism. (OH, NO SHE DIDN'T??? Yeah, I did.<br />
<br />
So let this little tale of woe be a warning to you buckaroos. (I sent something to Texas today, and I saw Rango last night, and I am taking a little license here .)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGC0C8gaBALq-J6XfGti2T_hxN5s9D6zEwrqvH2FE4zqbu6I2zHGgpo7wRCQuo3psrmW7Y4v6CtRnsnbcCx86hpWal5MjiXlCKsxqJCLFWZosUSf4cqAk5pUqyiZ6Qr6MXCVR/s1600/food+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGC0C8gaBALq-J6XfGti2T_hxN5s9D6zEwrqvH2FE4zqbu6I2zHGgpo7wRCQuo3psrmW7Y4v6CtRnsnbcCx86hpWal5MjiXlCKsxqJCLFWZosUSf4cqAk5pUqyiZ6Qr6MXCVR/s320/food+006.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Stay on the straight and narrow and eat the fresh food before we all explode in a collective self inflicted massacre. Well, that was weak, but I promise to work on it....<br />
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so:<br />
<br />
Movies I might see<br />
<br />
one day<br />
the change up<br />
immortals<br />
what's your number<br />
our idiot brother<br />
thundersoul<br />
the high cost of living<br />
submarine.<br />
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Let them read some subtext into that. <br />
Really, is that how it's done?<br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-51293589893046409762011-05-03T14:36:00.000-04:002011-05-03T14:36:48.194-04:00Twitter News<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I got a message from Twitter the other day. They said the men's gay chorus was following me.<br />
I turned around to see if they really were.<br />
They could be, but <b>I</b> didn't see them. <br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-24674682678655142502011-05-03T14:23:00.000-04:002011-05-03T14:23:23.687-04:00Wild Thing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I heard "Wild Thing" on the radio the other day.<br />
It made me think of my very first boyfriend. I don't know if I was ready yet, or if he was, but he thought so, and after a bunch of years of being the ugly girl, I was flattered by his attention.<br />
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He was a surfer with a Beatle haircut and exotic eyes like the the very skies above the beach where we met.<br />
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I don't know if either of us was the wild thing. I don't remember singing it together, but that is the song which reminds me of him as a young man.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhA29xxWAWptWBVy0RpZLS0DkVH6l9-j2yu-rFxnQGIkQqz1x2nQ62IXEc3WqVPxvmpSFnzxghZofZxTamr1OqDnvZIwG4pOxwD_Blml-A4IxKXH4pAOXEEcROF-Vg0gB8vzGZ/s1600/IMG_4714.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhA29xxWAWptWBVy0RpZLS0DkVH6l9-j2yu-rFxnQGIkQqz1x2nQ62IXEc3WqVPxvmpSFnzxghZofZxTamr1OqDnvZIwG4pOxwD_Blml-A4IxKXH4pAOXEEcROF-Vg0gB8vzGZ/s320/IMG_4714.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>He is grown now with grown up problems different from mine but no easier to deal with. I know where he is, far away from here and that long ago beach. Sometimes I hope he hears a song and thinks of me too. <br />
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My Father sent me an article from the New York Times Sunday Supplement.<br />
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It was about marginalia, the marking up and commenting not merely in the margins of books, but throughout the text, underlining sentences, adding little flourishes of one’s own, including but not limited to stars, brackets, and all manner of marking for reference at a later time.<br />
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The writer of the article infuriated me by lyrically extolling his nasty and destructive habit of marking up the pages of books. In fact, to me he sounded overly self congratulatory, actually boasting to writing as much in the margins as there may have been on the original page. To me, this is extreme hubris, and as I understand it, hubris is already extreme.<br />
That he owned the books he had virtually destroyed seemed to me to be beside the point. How distracting to borrow such a volume and try to read through his copious blather? He described just such an incident, and that he needed to borrow back the book while the lendee was still reading. He said that she felt the clean book was somehow lonely.<br />
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In my mind this man is a negligent desecrator of the hard work of both author and editor and that instead of creating his own notebook for those meanderings of his mind he preferred to massacre the pristine pages of a new volume.<br />
He even gave historical reference in his defense, possibly not noting that in the 18th and 19th centuries, one did not necessarily have the requisite quill and foolscap at the ready.<br />
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I will probably never read the end of the article, and in any case had read enough of his outlaw ways with the written word. Instead, I will read the soup story intended for me, and perhaps make some nourishing and delicious chowder or stew on this cold and rainy spring day.<br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-37724119233617607822011-03-10T11:32:00.001-05:002011-03-10T11:35:46.340-05:00What's in a Name?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've stopped remembering names. I don't know how it happens, but some time in the last year I just quit.<br />
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I read a lot of fiction. Not romance, or historical fiction, but genereally sub-humorous prose with zany characters if I can find it. I like Tim Dorsey and Carl Haiisen ( can never spell that right) but also a lot of women writers, too many to mention. Once I went through a series of baseball and even golf novels, but that's immaterial here.<br />
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The thing is that I am reading along and I cannot keep the characters straight. I pick up the book and look in mid sentence where I left off, (I can remember where I left off, that's interesting), but I do not remember the story line, or who these people are. I have to say that if left to my own devices I will read 3 or 4 books a week, and that often the character names overlap so that there may be the same names in consecutive books, or even similar story lines which is purely coincidental, but it adds to the confusion.<br />
<br />
I look at the page and wonder is Rory the doctor with a disabling disease, or is she the housewife living multiple lives in another dimention? I don't really know until I have back tracked a couple of pages or just gone forward to see what she does next.<br />
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The last book I read had so many characters that I treated them as I had when I read the "Russians" in my youth. The names were so cumbersome I just used the first inital, and raced past those crippling amalgams of consonants jangling in my mind. Eventually, in a burst of inspiration I quit reading them altogether. The book I was reading did not have difficult names, just too many to keep straight.<br />
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I forget the names of neighbors and people I meet sporadically, like at once a year parties. I may have spoken to them for an hour, but guaranteed, I will not recall their names 5 minutes or a year later. They, however remember mine, and I have no idea why or how they do.<br />
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I will remember your name if I have known you for 20 years or so, but last night in a dream, I forgot the names of some very dear friends. It could be that I have not seen them for years, and they did not look like themselves as sometimes happens in dreams. I woke up troubled.<br />
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I'm kind of worried, but most people say we are all forgetting things, and there is some stress to consider.<br />
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The thing is, if you run into me and I appear not to know you, just introduce yourself again. I will remember you or be happy to meet you. Does it matter which?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-25578340729312672742011-03-08T13:14:00.000-05:002011-03-08T13:14:16.300-05:00Ms. Information<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've been looking for work sporadically although I am in dire need. The Etsy is slow going and no computer in the house does not help.<br />
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I was wandering aimless in Chico's the other day. I'm not really a Chico's kind of person, more like Salvation army, (the Sal) these days.<br />
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I was approached by two sales women, and told them that I had no idea what I was doing there.<br />
Somehow, the next thing I knew, one of the girls told me she was nervous about her upcoming wedding.<br />
"Well, what's the problem?" I butted in once more where anyone else would fear to tread.<br />
She told me they kept adding to the wedding list, and it was out of hand.<br />
"So, tell your boyfriend (of 10 years) to put all new people on a list and have a separate party after the big day." <br />
She liked that a lot.<br />
"I wonder if you could give me another opinion," she continued, "the girls made me register for gifts but we have been living together for 10 years and I have everything, and don't know what to do with all the new stuff!"<br />
Easy, I told her, just keep all the new stuff and donate all the old stuff unless it's heirloom or something.<br />
"Wow", she said, you should wander in here more often!" "Not only will I have great new stuff but I will get credit for doing good for others!" " I love that."<br />
Just another day for Ms. Information I thought. How can I make money doing this?<br />
Let me know if you have a problem or a solution. <br />
I'm open to both.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-54535463901346331052011-02-03T11:22:00.000-05:002011-02-03T11:22:41.910-05:00What's in a Name?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have to have a tooth extracted. I had it worked on last year, and it has hurt ever since. I have bounced back and forth from my dentist to the endodontist who did the root canal, both claiming the tooth to be fine, and neither claiming blame for the pain. "that's his tooth" said my dentist. Now it's infected and I'm just having it out. The dental Surgeon's name is Wank. Yes, he's a wanker. Omygod, that's ridiculous, but it sounds like yank and that's close enough for me. I am nervous and expecting pain and misery which is basically what I have now, but with the addition of bleeding. (That's nice dear, could you change the subject?)<br />
<br />
The thing is, I have noticed lately that people are once more becoming what their name tells you they are, as in mideval times. So the woman doing my alterations is named Taylor, for instance.<br />
<br />
One day I went with a friend who was getting Lasik Surgery on her eyes. I don't know if you can get it any place else, but that's what we were doing. She was holding on to me so hard, the doctor must have thought we were a couple, and when he finished explaining the proceedure, he asked "do you have any questions, Meg?" <br />
<br />
I said "Well, Dr. Foot, I would feel a lot better if your name were Iris or something, but other than that I have no qualms."<br />
<br />
So that's my day, how's yours?<br />
<br />
Feel free to write me. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-22428495342283924582011-01-18T13:01:00.000-05:002011-01-18T13:01:11.454-05:00Visit me wouldja?I might mention the shop is still open. Chandeluse.etsy.com. I have loaded it with home made (hand made) valentine jewelry and boxes. Still working on cards. I never print them out correctly so it's difficult, and for a woman who hopes to become a writer, I am surprisingly bad at greeting cards.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-55891028993676352882011-01-18T12:59:00.002-05:002011-01-18T12:59:11.783-05:00RemarkSorry I have been MIA. I have to type at the library and I have 9 minutes left so i gotta keep this short.<br />
I was talking with the hub and he said :<br />
Fast food always has cheese in it somewhere. Whether you order a milk shake or a salad there's cheese in there somewhere.<br />
<br />
I hope it makes you laugh too.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-31215845009885945932010-12-20T12:07:00.000-05:002010-12-20T12:07:31.335-05:00Holy CowAt the thrift shop the Cristmas music was playing. Not my favorite tune but it kept building and building until it took my mind off the search for designer presents and I thought... that woman is singing her guts out here, and she is darned good! Just as I was thinking that, one of the workers passed behind me in mid sentence " So's I told them to go to Sears and Robot"..<br />
Yes SHe Did!<br />
Celine Dion finished O holy night, and we got on with our day.<br />
<br />
A very Merry to any of you who are left. There's no computer in the house, so my midnight rambles are turned to library nocturnes.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-91864822760092730922010-11-05T17:35:00.002-04:002010-11-05T17:38:40.201-04:00Which Hand?Nory went to see her friend in Brooklyn. It took a lot of effort because she did not like to drive far, or to places where she had never been before, or not driven to before.<br />
<br />
They wandered around the streets, stopping for snacks, and watching the beautifully costumed children trick or treat from store to store.<br />
<br />
As they crossed one street, Nory noticed something sparkling on the asphalt. She scooped up a crystal drop earring. Scanning the street for possibly the other earring, she found a steel nut that had come loose from something or other.<br />
<br />
Jon was waiting on the other side of the street, looking quizzical. What's going on? he asked.<br />
<br />
Putting out two fists, Nory said choose one hand, and Jon picked one. It was the nut. So he took the nut, still looking at Nory like; what gives?<br />
<br />
Nory opened her other hand, showing him the jewel inside.<br />
<br />
You found that on the street? he asked, And I got the nut?<br />
<br />
You <em>chose</em> the nut, Nory told him while pocketing the earring, and taking his arm in hers, they continued down the street.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10394424.post-11922432309793754912010-10-28T11:16:00.000-04:002010-10-28T11:16:03.222-04:00CSI Home: The Case of the Missing RedheadWaiting for an important call, I realized I had ignored the state of the house for about 6 weeks. I decided to get with it.<br />
<br />
While swabbing the kitchen floor, I decided to break at the oven and spray it with cleaner. That should take about 2-3 hours to eat through to enamel. (for more on this see: <a href="http://mysideofthecircle.blogspot.com/2005/02/accidents-in-home.html">Accidents in the home</a>).<br />
<br />
Climbing the stairs, I noticed: they were disgusting. All manner of dirt dust and hair remained on the treads. Wearing my trusty Platex Living Gloves, (I think they actually might call them that although outside of the bubble boy I don't know who would call that living..) I climb one stair at a time rubbing furiously at the back edge and then sides and middle.<br />
<br />
The resulting debris resembled a hairy bowling ball. There was soooo much hair! Obviously I had been there at least once.<br />
<br />
This put me in mind of all those detective shows. Come on, they find one hair on the victim, and it's crime solved? I had enough evidence to convict myself a billion times over. I had hair there from when I was a redhead.<br />
<br />
Wait a second.... I've never BEEN a redhead! <br />
<br />
Case open pending further investigation.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2