And speaking of Brownies

I decided to help my friend Lolly shorten her video time for her blog. She is a cute 30 something who is a great crafter, and web designer who I befriended. She does not have a TV. Good for her, and she gets a whole lot more than the rest of us mortals. But then I have to explain TV references, because she really isn't lying, she just does not know about what's on.

Find her blog at Lollychops.com and see if you can resist her.

I was telling her that to make her videos shorter would keep people watching instead of wandering to the kitchen for some fortifying brownies:

And speaking of brownies: Dr OZ (an Oprah TV doctor who, in real life is a brain surgeon, who incidentally, my sister caters affairs at his family's house and says he is real life cute)

Ok, he's a guy that people trust and who wrote a book: You, on a diet, (see local bookstore or Amazon) told everyone to dump the fridge of sugar, syrup, (he did not mention jams but I suppose...) fat, transfat, and saturated fat, white flour, etc. This is just not real life. I mean, okay, I switched to the whole grain bagels, but I have got to have butter, brown sugar or syrup in my oatmeal, or it would just be library paste!

I usually add some kinda fruit, and cinnamon. Mmmmmmm.

Aaannd, I like my pasta just the way the Chinese invented it. Plain semolina or wheat, no "good for you kind of stuff" I am sorry, I am just not getting used to it.

Something Fishy

When we were young, our grandfather came to visit every Saturday, or perhaps it was Sunday. He arrived with arms full of bags stuffed with smoked fish and bagels.

He brought lox, whitefish, smoked salmon, and my favorite at the time, smoked sable fish. I have no idea what fish that is actually called,unless it is sable, and I find it to be unbearably oily, but at the time, it was heaven.

He was a medium sized bald man, always in white dress shirt, and due to high arches, his shoes shined, were always untied in a very fastidious way. I can recall him laughing at some caper of my sister or myself, but mainly he appeared always to be calm silent and sober of mein.

Years later, I found out that he used to fish, go gambling and drinking with buddies, playing cards, and who knows what else, and having a lot of fun, but he never looked much like fun to me.

Because I was closer to my grandmother, he grew closer to my sister. Perhaps she feels differently than I about who he was.

He would come to our house and we would feast and then accompany him to the car wash where you could stay inside the car, watching the soap and water slosh against the windows. It was a perfect entertainment for small children, as it was cheap, we were contained in the vehicle, and it was of short duration ensuring that we were in as good a mood at the end as we were at the outset of the journey.

Today, eating an inferior smoked salmon, (which is not lox, but actual hunks of opaque salmon,) on a dehydrated unfrozen english muffin, I thought of my grandfather and his visits. I realize that I was never aware that those goods were expensive, not available in our suburb, and that he drove there from Philadelphia where he lived.

He never brought my grandmother with him. This was just a treat for his daughter (my mother) and his grandchildren, though my father also enjoyed the bounty of the delectable treats.

I was wondering where my grandmother thought he was. Surely, if she knew where he was, she would want to accompany him.

It's hard to find a good smoked fish these days.

Thrift

You know you may have taken the thrift thing too far when you look at the night stand, and realize you have bought the store brand seltzer instead of the generic seltzer you were buying before. It's called Zazz. Really that sounds like something a lot more excitng than seltzer, but it being lateish, I'm not sure what.

I've been trying to make a buck on etsy these days, (http://www.chandeluse.etsy.com) so I have been spending money to make money,like that makes sense, but the thing is, when you are going to make something, food, or crafts, or an arbor (or Ann Arbor, little joke thing there) you are always missing one thing that makes your project unstable, unusable, or just parts with nothing to hold it together.

Don't start me on the craft stores, I am prone to wander in any store I happen into, and come out hours later wondering where the time went, but that's another story. The craft stores are just full to busting with intrigueing looking everythings in little packages hanging on hooks looking desirable. Then there are videos on the net telling you how to use the stuff as if.. and sometimes you learn a thing. But generally I just walk by and only get what I came for, but lately, they have just broken my will and I have bought all manner off odd ink and stamping stuff, and really, it's harmless fun and pretty much needs neither talent nor esthetic judgement, because they take all the trouble out of these projects. I have been using the distress inks. They make it incredibly easy to do what I used to do with acrylic paint. Instant antique papers and documents, photos and all that. I also got some Alcohol inks, but have not gotten into them much yet.

If this sounds like the woozy rambling of a sonambulist, it is. I am wandering in the night kitchen again, but instead of eating, I'm just stream of thought right here.

Odoriferous

I was drinking my new favorite tea when Jeff walked in and asked "what stinks in here?" Since he is always asking that, I did not think much of it.

In fact, just moments before, I was wondering if my deodorant had given out, and smelled the inside of my shirt, and found no offense.

It was the tea! How can a harmless flavor like Black Currant, smell so much like human sweat? It's perfectly odd, and yet I like this tea so much...

Perhaps I should dash off a note to Twining's?

Watching the Feather

Alone on a Sunday on the weekend of Labor Day, I think about the possiblilies for the day.
No friends have called with invitations, and He is sailing, sailing away again, as if he might never return.

In lieu of going out in the car, I decide to breakfast at the Regency. I can walk there in no time at all, and perhaps I might meet one of the neighbors to talk with.

When I get there, Chris, the owner/baker is relaxing outside. I get a nice smile, his curly almond colored hair peeking out of his perpetual baseball cap, his eyes, bright in recognition of a semi-regular customer. Generally, I only go once a week, it being expensive to eat out every morning, and I have a date with my neighbor Mari on the next street. She is busy as a rule, and this is our one time together, though she admits to popping in several extra times a week for her daily au lait.

Having exchanged pleasantries with Chris, I go and order my treat for the day, orange plum scone and accidentally latte instead of au lait, with a bit of caramel syrup.

"I'll be outside" I inform the new girl at the register. In fact, everyone is new, and not knowing the facts of their disposition; school, fired, just left, I have to suspect a new regime with none of the colorful regulars to inspire mutiny among the ranks.

I retire with my scone to a black mesh table under the basically unnecessary awning, as it is on the shady side of the street, and pick up my book; interesting enough and well written, but the narrator is back, and I find nearly everything around me diverting and interesting. My internal companion, speaking in my head, will not stop talking, pointing out the interesting and mundane in no specific order.

Chris himself brings my drink, which is when I can tell, by the inscribed feather in the foam, that I have ordered the latte, with espresso, instead of the au lait, with regular coffee. Some days the latte is kind of bitter, but today, with the inclusion of a heavy dose of caramel, is maybe a bit too sweet, but the dark gritty flavor comes through making it totally indulgent.

As I read, I try to measure out the scone to last until I have finished my beverage, but that's just not going to happen. The two flavors, melded with the butter and flour make a soft crumbly pastry, and it is gone though thoroughly savored, before I have finished drinking.

I love it when I get the feather in my drink, and earlier, months before, I thought I was getting special treatment, a little picture just for me. It is a bad habit my sister chides me for, ascribing specialness to myself. In point of fact, I do not actually think it a bad habit, and also believe myself to be an outsider as I am treated as such by the general public.

With every sip, I expect the feather to disappear, and yet, it remains, long after I am convinced it should. The foam on the coffee is very fine and thick, and I can not drink it separately, but combined with the espresso below. Towards the bottom of the cup, the feather, barely changed, the sweetness becomes cloying, but I must finish to find out the end of my quest. Will it remain in the cup, sitting on the bottom, or will it be quaffed three quarters of the way down?

As it happens, the image does not dispel until the last sip, leaving the slightest tracing of white in a coating that looks like the fur on an elk's antlers, velvety and uncompromised. I wonder if there is someone who can read foam as they do tea leaves. Of course there is always someone who will take your money under false pretences, and I don't really know about the tea leaves, either.

Reluctantly, having met no one else I know, I bus my dishes, and head home with only the narrator chatting away, and my eyes pointing out every stray leaf, and patch of blue sky as a possible photograph.

Post Mortem

Let's face it. Both popcorn and french fries have a shelf life of say, plus or minus five minutes.

I came to work and decided that popcorn would have to be the breakfast of champions today.
As hot and steamy as popcorn comes from the microwave, it soon cools and only minutes after, becomes less fabulous, like a husband, or a diamond, or any other thing which is hard to obtain.

French fries are much the same, first you burn the inside of your mouth on the initial bite, then there is a minute or so where they are delicious, crisp hot oily ambrosia, and then, not.

We always keep eating them to the bottom though. We eat ever faster, trying to recapture the sensation of the first couple, but as the seconds tick by they become soggy, doughy, heavy, similes for the delight we craved when we started eating.

I got nothing else, I'm just calling the shots here.

Lost in Austen Again

I rushed off to the market this morning, tying my bonnet before I had even got in the carriage...
Actually, there was no bonnet involved, but something is afoot.

I was on my way to work at the chandelier restorator where I am employed, and saw a sign for a yard sale. There was nothing enticing about this sign, but follow it I did, to a sale of antiques on a driveway. I asked the guy in the tractor hat how he came to have so much not-junk.

It turned out that he was a clean out guy. In other words, an estate liquidator, or maybe it's the other way. In any case, there was a dazzling array of brass, finely polished, an old silver mirror and brush set, a good deal of depression glass and an impressive collection of black glass which is mysterious and wonderful in itself.

He had a bit of everything, and of course, I needed nothing, but still came away with a tin from his estimable display- Prince Albert, for my father who used to tell of his phone pranks; "well, if he's in a can, let him out!". I also, and for no known reason bought a set of Gumby and his pony Poky, a show from early TV, and what may have been a biker neclace of silver with a claw grasping a rather large chunk of quartz.

I left there to pick up a prescription, and going into the Acme (pinnacle of greatness) I was waylaid by the odor of cooking crab, that at 9 am, no less. Yes, just as in days of old, they were cooking crabs over an open fire, surely a code infraction in these fractious and litigious days. I tarried but for a moment, realizing that I could not take hot crabs, nor live ones to work with me, and sighing, moved into the building.

As I rushed past the aisles of artificial boxed foodstuffs, I came upon a tiny display at the side of an endcap that was comprised of English Foods. There was treacle, TREACLE, for God's sake, which foodstuff I had only read about in fairy tales. Also present was a sauce in an A-1 bottle bearing a name that was more like H-4 (the original) it said the original, that was not my addition. There were digestive bisquits, Devon cream custard, pickallili, Coleman't mustard, all antiquated and definitely English foods.

I mentioned it to the beautiful pharmacy girl whose name always escapes me though she knows my name, and she asked "So you feel like you are in another time period?"
Yes, I said, somehow, things are just a bit wonky this morning. She asked where the section was, and I said "somewhere around 6 I think, on the side. Or I could have made it up."

After that, we discussed yogurts, and I suppose the spell was broken, but it made me happy to have a little out of the normal experience. I was not, even after all that, late for work.

Dancing Machine

The other day a funny thing happened. I was at Frolic Wainright's, and we were leaving togther, me to fix my husband's dinner,he to a business meeting involving cowfolk, thus his attire of jeans, cowboy boots, a hat, and impenetrable shades.

As we passed through the parlor, a lively tune burst forth from the phonograph and Frolic, aptly named, began to gyrate, and to my surprise, took my hand in his.

It was Frolic who for years refused to take me dancing,. He hurt me by citing that our heights were too disparate, and worse, that I could probably not keep up on the floor because of his enormous grace and talent. He knew not at all, that petite as I was, we were equals on the dance floor.

So fifteen years later, you can imagine my shock when he dipped me deeply with infinite ease and grace, and in turn, he was surprised when I floated backward, following as if we were of one body, and lifting one leg high over his shoulder while my hair considered the floorboards.

He held me there for almost a minute when in an instant of inspiration I switched legs, kicking up my right leg, light as air, not at all affecting our balance, and as I rose from that position, pivoting away and laughing in pure joy of that short moment- he spun me and said "Not bad at all." and hastily added; "of course you'd have to wear heels, and I would have to wear flats if we danced." but knowing that all those years we could have been dancing together.

In fact, he never would take me dancing nor anywhere else, for that matter.

My broken heart ached as I started the car, turned on the radio, and going down the steeply turning drive, began to plan dinner.

The big Book of Aches and Pains

I woke up again with that headache that hurts so much my stomach hurts too. Instead of taking my thyroid meds, I took a Tylenol. I have not been taking them much, trying instead enteric aspirin, as it is an anti-inflammatory. I don’t know. It seems to have subsided. I have waked almost every night this week with the same headache. Of course, at the doctor’s today, I totally forgot to mention them.

The other thing I forgot to mention was the rash on my stomach. It seemed so slight that I put it out of my mind. Really, who am I, Oskar Levant? He was a great pianist and hypochondriac. I am a middling hypochondriac, and I never was really good at the piano. For one thing, I never could learn to read music. I also have trouble telling time, but that’s one you try not to tell people. That’s one that they have trouble understanding.
Also, it makes me sound stupid, and in my estimation, and that of others, I am just the opposite.

It is almost 4 AM, and as usual when I cannot sleep, I wake up and write or read.

Anyway, I am thinking about this stomach rash, and the fact that I thought it was just my normal weed rash which for reasons I have never been able to explain always manifests itself on my legs. I may be getting old and overweight, but the one thing I have (had) was perfect skin. My skin is silken, one man likened it to a velvet skirt I was wearing, and he told me that my skin was far softer. Men have always chosen to tell me how good my skin feels rather than how pretty I am. You should tell your lover she is lovely, or pretty or some such, even if she is not so to the general public. That should be a given. I have not had such luck. One young man, who thought I was asleep, told me I was beautiful. He never said such a thing when I was awake.

Wow, I am a giant digresser! So this rash, I am thinking, it could be heat rash, as I get warm and kind of sweaty when I walk too late in the morning. Or it could be the Black dog t-shirt I got from the Sal. The Sal is the Salvation Army, where I get a lot of stuff.

I was scared recently by a woman who was kept from flying with me. We lost the plane because it was infested with bugs.
That’s really all they said except that 3 different crews had refused to get on the plane.

The woman was a nurse, and told me a story where she and her family got on a plane from Ireland, and then several days later broke out in a rash which turned out after much medical research, to be scabies, small bugs which burrow under the skin. So I am thinking I have contracted scabies from this shirt, which, well, I don’t know who was wearing it before me, but generally people in Nantucket where the Black Dog is, do not have scabies, unless of course, they got them from an international flight, which at 4 am makes perfect sense.

I washed the shirt today, and all my walking garb, just in case.

Self Explanatory

So, I was tootling around the net and I found this great bakery, and I want to go but it's a good 3 hours away. Not justafiable.

Then, in the margins was an ad to recommend the best stuff, the best lipstick, (ok) and then the best bathing suit. BATHING SUIT??? Sir, I spit on you, and your advice!

Dress for Success

I need to burn all my clothes. My favorite jeans don't zip.

I bought some crop pants and they make noise when you walk, and ride down when you sit. They are going back, like most things I buy.

I gotta go to a shower, and it's raining. That's appropriate.

No one is going to care what I wear. That's a given, pretty much.

I'm putting a load of it on ebay, but I don't hold out much hope because none of it is juicy couture.

Waiting for the Sale

I put some things on Ebay. Like everyone else on Ebay, I expect to make a killing with my junk.
The thing is, often enough, it is someone else's junk. This time, specifically, it was shoes given to me by a customer at work. I took most of the stuff from her to clear out her front seat, and because I knew I would get to the Salvation Army before she would.

She had some semi pricey stuff, but unfortunately, not knowing my teenage swag, I gave it to the little girl upstairs whose feet are larger than mine. I know of at least two Ebayable items I gave to her, but I felt good about giving her something that cost me nothing but would have cost her mom and arm and a leg. No spilt milk there, really.

I kept the rest to sell or give away but first, I put them up for sale. I have been watching sporadically for a week now, and we are down to the last few minutes, and already two items have gone unsold.

I'm crushed. Brand new shoes listed cheap, and no one is biting. There were the Coach sneakers, but they were not the "cool" ones I guess, and someone paid dearly for them, but they are not turning the cash over to me.

One pair of man made sandals have a big name draw, and I was up to 21 watchers, and I was filled with glee at all the cash I was going to make from this one item, but bidding has been slow, and I may just be able to pay the fees on all of my listings.

So I am wasting your time while killing mine, waiting to see what this lousy pair of shoes brings.

I should just get another job.

Speak no Evil

At the gas station, I rolled down my window, and told the attendant fifteen dollars of regular. I don't know, maybe everyone goes to Jersey, says fill it up, and leaves it at that. I wanted to get the best price, but I was very low on fuel, so I decided to get just about half a tank. This didn't seem like a big deal to me, but the attendant asked, fifteen? Normally in New Jersey, the gas stations are run by some big Sihk organization, and most of the guys have turbans, full beards and heavy accents. The youngish man at my window, though he had dark hair and eyes, had none of those attributes, and so I figured he understood me, and yet he was asking me to repeat my request. Fifteen, I repeated.
Fifteen? He said again.
One, five, I answered him.
One, five? he said?
Wow, I was in the twilight zone again, I was thinking.
Fifteen. I went back to the normal numerical request.
Fifteen?, he aked once more.
Yes, I finally capitulated.
Easy, he said, and proceeded to pump the gas.
Yeah, easy for you to say, I was thinking.

Later, near home, I went to buy milk. The man behind the counter at the local convenience store was friendly enough. He went to put my milk in a plastic bag. I was holding my own shopping bag up on the counter for him to put my purchase. He started to use his own bag again, and I thrust my bag forward again. After the third time repeating this mime, I said "my bag".
He said "I just wanted to see if you would talk".
I laughed, and told him that often, I don't need to talk, and things work out just fine.

It's interesting though, maybe a lot of discussion is what these strangers want from me. It is obvious what I want, and what is going on, but not talking at all seems to them to be aberrant behavior, but for me, it seems okay, particularly early in the morning, when I have not yet spoken to anyone.

Once, on a bus, I almost got into trouble. A black man sat next to me on the almost completely empty bus. I was nervous about him, so I did not say anything. Then he said "What, are you skin struck?" a new phrase for me. I was surprised at that and not speaking, pointed at my hand. "He said, hey, you can't talk, can you?" I thought this might make me less attractive to him so I shook my head in the affirmative. Unfortunately, this was just adorable to him, and he continued to make a pass at me. I mimed that I was married, by pointing at my ring finger, and though there was in fact, no ring on my hand, he understood, but still did not seem to mind. He was musing over our future together, when I decided to get off the bus before my stop, hoping that he would not follow me. " Goodbye, my girlfriend", he yelled, at my retreating back, "see you soon!"I had to walk another twenty blocks, but it was worth it not to be a mute any longer than I had to.

Some days I just don't speak on purpose, and some days it happens by accident. It does not seem to matter, odd things just happen to me, and that's all I can figure.

Short Sleeves

It was a very rainy spring, and Nory was stuck inside. She could go out to hunt for the ever elusive cardigan sweater, but inertia and a stomach full of bagel impeded her progress.

She had been looking for suitable sweaters ever since fall when she took all the worn looking and ill fitting sweaters (mostly from the Salvation Army) back to the Salvation army, so they would not be clogging up her tiny closet.

It's a wonder, she thought, that no one seems to think I will need a sweater in Spring or Summer. They are selling shorts and halter tops which are no longer a staple since letting her short body go to wrack and ruin, but there seems to be no place where an open front sweater can be found. It is as if there was no sea air at the shore, or air conditioning chilling one to the bone in Summer. There is a certain age, it seems, where pulling a sweater over one's head just does not feel right, not to mention the ruination of a questionable hair style.

When it is hot outside, it is always cold inside, chilled to meat preserving temperatures in some places, while in others, there is no such provision at all. Once in a while, a girl can get away with a hooded sweatshirt, all too available, but why no cardigan sweaters heavier than tissue? There are tissue sweaters aplenty, but they are designed to wear over not one, but two or three tiny tank and t shirts, artfully disarrayed so as to show off all the different colors. This adds cost as well as bulk to one's outfit and one's person, which is not so much attractive in a postitve sense of the word.

The other mystery is the short sleeved sweater. Why wear a garment meant to keep one's arms warm, when there are no sleeves? Am I supposed to wear a long sleeved shirt under that? And if that is the case, what do I do when I go back outside and it is too steamy for that long sleeved under layer? Frankly, I am stumped, she thought.

In point of fact, Nory had such a short sleeved sweater, left over from college. In those days, she wore it in winter as a sort of vest over a long sleeve t-shirt, under a jumper. She was nice and warm, and enjoyed this outfit immensely. Unfortunately, with age came a thickening in the waistal and stomach areas that are crying out to be heavily disguised. The peasant shirts almost work, but she never quite feels completely comfortable in them.

It wouldn't hurt to lose a few pounds, she thinks for the twentieth time that week, but how? The answer: excersize and eating less food , is anethema to her, and she puts on the hated hoodie over the large and unflattering sweater from her sister, and sits down at the computer.

Rainy Day Women

It was brillig and rainy on the day Nory decided to garden. Oh, bother, this is not going to work at all, so she threw herself into picking enticing items for the town wide yard sale on the next week.
Lou was in the garage building a dirt sifter for the compost. He insisted on using two by four wood so that with the addition of the dirt, the sifter could not be lifted without the help of a superhero, but Nory left him to his own devices.

Since she lives on a private road, and the nature of yard sales is kind of hit-and-run, Nory decided to set up around the corner at her friend Mia's house, aka; the Castle. It is not going to be fun dragging all that stuff out of the house and around the corner to the other house, only to probably have to drag it back home, but that's the plan.

Now to decide what she can afford to part with. There is so much stuff in her house, it seems incredible, and yet, until they take her to the "home" it seems that almost anything might be needed just after getting rid of it.

Everyone has done this at one time or another, she thinks. Stuff you got rid of and went looking for later, was probably stuff that should have gone anyway. The memory of your old crap is always better than it is when you are looking at it clogging up your closet, she thinks.

Nory goes to root in the attic for possible items to unload.

Dizzy test #1

Lots of rain. Jeff is taking me (2:30) to get the dizzy tests. I hope I am not too sick like the last time. I think they have to try and make me sick to see what I have, but it's almost medieval, the way they go about this stuff even though it includes electrodes and machines hooked up to my head. Actually, maybe it's more Mary Shelley than anything else.

The worst part is waiting in that musty old hallway in that antique building. It's a fantastic old house on Pine street that has been virtually untouched except for the crappy wrinkling carpeting, since the 1800's. That's how long it has been an ENT office, and frankly, the woodwork could use some cleaning.

Anyway, the doctor is supposed to be the best in the country, but he is eccentric as hell.
If he's good enough for Julie Andrews , I suppose he's good enough for me.

The thing is, there is a lot of waiting. You might think that if they were running 3 hours late,they might tell you, but no, they would just as soon have you waiting in the hallway for 3 hours until you are all worked up.

The other thing is: the girl who gives the tests is this pretty red haired Russian woman who has incredible B.O.

It's bad enough being made dizzy, but to have to smell her in a small room in the basement with cold air coming in through the door to the outside is just hell.

You think I'm over sensitive?

Yes I am.

Still, I think I am entitled to my opinons.

Male Dilemma

I have to do a lot of mailing stuff at my job, I kind of enjoy wrapping unwieldy items that are larger than my whole body and getting them out in the world.

Last month I mailed 7 Murano chandeliers to Dubai and did not break one piece of glass which was totally amazing. It makes me even more suspicious of the woman on ebay who sent me a picture of a broken kitchen bowl I sent her. She would have had to hit it with a hammer to break that thing, but that's a different story.

I found out the hard way, that you cannot mail a floor lamp in one piece. I did it twice and they broke both of them beyond redemption. (especially the 1920's glass parts that were triple bubble wrapped and then tubed and then wrapped again.) How they broke that stuff is just crazy. I did notice the forklift holes in the sides of the box when it was returned to me. What that tells me is, if it is not square, don't try to mail, UPS, or FEDEX it.

You can go to USPS.com and make mailing labels and have your stuff picked up right at your house. Unfortunately, they do not include the cheaper mailing options as media mail, first class, or parcel post on that site. I asked at the post office and they all played dumb.

Imagine a bunch of butch guys in those bad uniforms with bad haircuts (really, I am going to have to do some serious investigation on why postal employees have bad haircuts. Maybe that's what makes them go "postal", they hate their hair!!) Anyway, imagine these guys shrugging and perhaps fooling with their name tags, and denying any knowledge of what is on their web pages.

There is something wrong with that, but I suppose those guys never have to mail anything that does not fit in an envelope.

Ear, nose and throat.

Went to the nose and thyroid guy and he says "didn't anyone tell you to have a needle aspiration?" And of course, I said no, even though the last time someone did a thryoid scan they stuck the needle in right there, without so much as a "by your leave".

Actually that guy did me a favor because now they want some more blood MORE BLOOD) from me and then the needle aspiration.

So then he sprays some decongestant/anesthtic up my nose and it goes down my throat and I start to panic because my throat is getting numb, and he is all "what's all the anxiety about"? as he opens my nose with a pair of pliers to a size just this side of a golf ball and says "put your head down and relax" as he is pulling up and out. OUCH OUCH OUCH. Let's see YOU relax with a numb throat and a nose full of pliers.

By that time, I am in full hysteria. OK, I'm a hypochondriac, but I really have a problem. Multiple problems, and this guy is so; ho-hum, I've seen a lot worse, like that matters to me.

So then he asks why I am so full of anxiety. You are just radiating anxiety there (in the chair that my feet don't touch the foot bar of). That's no way to live! He's telling me, and I already know this for a fact, that I do not care for the unbidden anxiety.

This sends me toward tears, but I don't bust out and cry, I just mumble some stuff about something.

Then he asks me if I exercise. Well, I spent the whole day digging in the yard, but perhaps that is not what he means, and as I do not spend every day lifting and hauling and digging I say no. He recommends that I walk a mile a day, which is not out of the question if my balance were not compromised as it so often is. I will do it, but not if the temperature is below 50. That's for someone healthy. No arguments here please.

I mention that I used to dance, and he actually says "tsk, tsk, it's even worse for someone who used to be active" Thanks, Doc. I said "You are tsk-ing me?" I cannot believe there is anyone left in the world who does that. He is India Indian but quite Americanized except for his lack of empathy and the tsking. I still cannot believe the tsk.

Another wonder recommendation is to use a neti pot 3 times a day. It is a small flower watering can or genie lamp that one pours salt water through one's sinuses with. It's not terribly pleasant for me, but it looks like that's a given. I mixed the solution up, (it has Karo syrup in it! who knew that a doctor would require me to stick corn syrup up my nose?) wishing I could warm it gently somehow without trudging downstairs to the kitchen, and yep, it still burns in my head. My whole head starts to tingle especially in the back of my brain section. It's like ice cream brain freeze with a kick. That's one thing about old age: way too much maintenance. I just did not need another routine to make it more difficult to get out of the house in the morning.

By the time I am 80, should I make it, I will have to stay up all night just to get in all the irrigation, brushing, flossing, slathering of extremities, grooming, makeup, wardrobe, inhalations and a million pills flushed down my throat.

Now it turns out that the tests they want have to be done at inconvenient hospitals and that for no reason I can fathom, they have to make the appointments for me. I can schedule an MRI for a brain tumor, but not anything on the thyroid. One more thing I must endure, only before, when they wanted 20 tests done, I wished they would schedule them for me. I managed that, and suddenly I am annoyed that they will do something for me. Obviously all this nose action has me in a tizzy.

Now I am typing while breaking in some new red shoes from Target. They are the only store that carries shoes in my size. They have some swell designer knock offs that are Palm Beach Tacky but the smallest size is one bigger than my feet. I may try them anyway. That will make me feel better.

I am also cooking a brisket. I was going off meat, but Martha had this recipe, and I do love some brisket. I put the wine in but I am used to a recipe with soy sauce. This had better not be a disaster.

The Kalishnikov Babes

I got this postcard today. It is obviously a send up, but still it seems a bit off. I'm not sure how I got on this mailing list.

Evidently, it is about an actor who takes a job to get into the "big time." It's another case of poor life choices meets bad taste is timeless. (the last a quote from the late Frank Zappa).

You just don't get enough bad art like this any more.

At least I don't.

It's kind of cold again. I was hoping for spring. Yesterday we had hail that varied form marble to golf ball size. It was quite surprising.

Over the weekend we went to a party with a 60's theme. Though most of us lived through it, few of us wore anything resembling our 60's wear. My clothes have not changed all that much. Jeans, boots, and a peasant blouse were pretty much the same. I even had a necklace left over from high school. I could never bring myself to get rid of it.

Harry wore his striped hipster bell bottoms. We were all amazed he could fit into them.

I fit into them standing up, he said. Driving over here was kind of tough, he admitted.

Driving Drunk

Last Night, I could not get to sleep. I came upstairs to the computer and viewed a couple of forwarded youtube movielets. One was of extreme sheep herding, the other was of a drunk girl. I am not completely sure she was kidding, but I thought it was stupid of her to post it anyway...
I finally fell asleep at about 4 AM. I had a long dream and this is what I remember:

I was at work, and there was a leak in the basement. The water was rising at an alarming rate, so we called the plumber, and when he arrived, we showed him the problem and left the building. I was with my boss, and we left Karen alone to watch the business.

We went downtown. It was not a town I know, but it was the downtown district never the less. We wandered around and my boss gave me some gaudy earring/hair things, and I clipped them still on their cardboard, to my turtleneck, and we continued our travels.

At one store he ran in the back door and quickly returned, giving me a pastel printed very large tote bag made of some kind of water proof material which had inside it, a matching umbrella. It looked sort of like a Monet scene but kind of loud as those reproductions sometimes are. I was not sure I liked it, or why he was buying me stuff, and as I was already carrying a large full, heavy tote, I was not sure of the need for it, but I took it and thanked him and we continued on.
I asked him if he had stolen it, as he was in and out in seconds, and he reassured me that it was all right without actually admitting to stealing it.

Eventually we ended up at a French restaurant that was running some kind of special promotion. I recall my boss speaking and waving expansively with his arm while holding a large glass of red wine in a proper if outsized red wine glass. He was standing, not sitting, and walking around the restaurant looking at the posters for music concerts.

I told him that we could leave, or he could order "off the menu", something not so pricey. He said it was ok, but next thing I knew, I was nearing the end of what seemed to be a liverwurst sandwich and the crusts were falling apart. I put the last bits down on the plate as it was getting messy.

The waiter gave us a cupon for a free ice cream. The picture was of a nutty Buddy ice cream cone that we used to get from the grocery store.
There was a giant Dairy Queen across the parking lot, and we went in.

At this point, my boss became Meredith Viera from TV. She used to do news, but now does a morning show and a quiz show. More money, less work. Good for her.

The inside of the building was nothing like the outside which was larger than a regular DQ but inside it was like a fancy gelato store. We were looking for the flavors on the wall, and though there were enough signs, we could not find any flavors listed. Meredith was getting cranky and loud.

Unfortunately, Meredith was very drunk from the red wine at the restaurant. She wanted an ice cream for each of us although we only had one cupon. I asked the counter person for an extra, but they said it would have to be a prescription, and promptly signed one with a prescription for an extra ice cream and handed it to me. We never found the flavors, and in fact I don't know if we ever got the ice cream. I think we left without it.

It gets a bit fuzzy here, but we got into a large black car to get back to work, but suddenly we were in Tucson, Arizona. I do not recognize where we were, but there was an empty lot with a person sitting like the little ceramic souvenirs; wearing a sombrero and a blanket, and sitting with knees up and head down, the man was sitting in an almost empty red dirt lot. Meredith drove off the sidewalk and onto the red dirt yard, and I hollered at her to stop so that I could drive.

I was surprised that she capitulated so easily. I was feeling tired and kind of drunk myself, but I thought maybe I could drive without hitting anything. When I looked up, the man in the yard had turned into a woman in native dress, frozen in a tableaux with one arm outflung behind her and the other cocked partially over her face. She was alarmed by the rogue car and was calling her children who were running around in the area.

I started driving back, and realized we were never getting there by closing time.

Finally, I woke up and was feeling pretty dizzy and tired. I decided it was best to get up and get on with things. The house is freezing. It is just Spring, but it is cold out today, and the heat in the house has not yet been turned on.

Cutesy

I have a new online friend. Maybe my only online friend and she talks cute. I have a bad habit, when I meet someone who speaks pidgin English, I imitate them thinking that they will understand me better. Sometimes it works. I used to go to cosmetology school (got my licence and all) (yeah, now you don't respect me any more) and there was an Italian lady. You really had to speaka likea dis for her to get it. I spent a year with her, and frankly, in the end she needed to take a translator to the test to get through it even though she could speak English, she did not always understand it unless things were mispronounced her way.

Don't tell me I'm talking down, I'm just trying to get my message across. This drives my relatives to distraction, but I am sort of convinced that it works.

Anyway, back to the online girl, I like her, and to be friendly. because sometimes my writing comes off a little too hard edged, I have started to be cutesy back. I can't tell anyone because then they would be nauseous and judgemental, but it's kind of fun masquerading as a nice person.

Really, I would rather confess to something worse, but that's all there is. For now, anyway.

Ex Post Moisture

"Your sister's on the phone!" comes the voice from upstairs.
"Tell her to call back later, I'm half slathered" Nory rumbles.
The thing about getting older, is there is so much maintenance one must do on the corpus delectus. First, you just have to shave legs and armpits, then just a light lotion on the legs, and by the time you pass twenty five, you have added 4 or 5 other things, and have to pay way more attention to flossing than you ever expected to. Anywhere after 50 and suddenly you are immersing yourself in potions, lotions, and anything to get rid of the jowls, wrinkles and dry extremities. You start to tell people things like: "a whole lot of stuff you are never going to want to see is going on under these clothes." Anyway:
"Get the phone!" again. "get the phone!!"
Ufff, Nory steps lightly across the wooden floor so as not to break a hip, sliding on heavily lotioned toes, and then hip hops across the thick carpeted hall, trying not to leave spots she would have to tend to later, and then skids onto the flooring of the library room where she snatches the reciever off the phone with slippery fingers.

"What??" she shouts.
"Well, if you're going to be that way, we can talk another time" barks the younger of her two sisters.
"It's just that he wouldn't listen to me, and I had to get the phone full of moisturizers" Nory says, "I'm too slippery to talk right now"falling onto the couch with and audible phhuff.
"Never mind, then." says Lili.
"Well, now I'm seated, I'm more receptive to comments"
"No, you put me off, I'm calling another day"Lili waxes imperiously.
It's always something, isn't it(to herself).
Nory hangs up the phone and flails limbs, willing the unguents to sink in.

I'm Tired

I have been surfing the web lately. Going to a lot of craft and cooking blogs. Wow these people are ambitious and busy! I do not know where they get the time, energy, knowledge to set up so many fancy do dads to their sites, and then still cook and photograph everything they eat or bake in every stage of production and still have time to check out hundreds of other blogs and read and list them. I read one clever site that seemed to be about liquor, so I went to the sites I saved and still could not find that one I wanted to check on. They were so clever and smart.

I rarely write any more, and when I do it is in my head just after setting it on the pillow and I come up with this breathless prose that I am sure will hold until tomorrow, and ... you know the story. It's just not there any more, is it? I tried keeping a writing pad and pen at the ready, but that just doesn't work. Obviously I need more pictures, more food and more crafts, and certainly more clever patter to guide others to my little lair here. I may even need to change blog spots (to make a pun). Some place like blog her or other might lead people to me. Possibly I need to write to them, but I have once or twice and maybe they thought I was trying to sell them something other than just my stories of mundane life. I need more adventure, more derring do or derring don't.

Cereal

I got a spam saying free- get your
100 boxes of cheerios. Ok, I like the cereal, maybe better than the next guy, but really, what do they want me to do with 100 boxes of cheerios?
If I had a big enough truck, I could take them to a food pantry or whatever it is that they call them, but I don't have a truck. I can just imagine walking around the house, putting a box or two on any given horizontal surface. Nice motif you have going here, Cherie, are you expecting a visit from Seinfeld? When I moved into the house, the realtor, who is my neighbor said we would have to go elsewhere to sign papers because she had no horizontal surfaces. Really, we thought, what the hell is she walking on?
Anyway, I'm kind of nervous about opening the message, but they really piqued my imagination.

It's been that kind of day. The cat has been going into the cat box and peeing outside the cat box. I found the ideal box on line but no one carries it, not even Rubbermaid, who makes it. I went to the hardware store to order it, and their server went down, and I came home with a small cement mixing trough. The hardware guys were pretty understanding. We hung around and talked cats for a while, and then I took a chance and bought the cement thing.
Now for the acid test....

Protest Attire

When I spoke to Steve, he told me about a gay demonstration in D.C. that he was considering attending. Our friend Ron had called him the night before to ask what to wear. I could not believe it; to me, this was hilarious, and I said, : "I'd say go right for the blue chiffon. What did you say?"

Steve said "I told him to wear a hat."
A hat? I make hats all day. It's barely a living, but it is what I do, and frankly that would be the last thing I would have said. I would have been thinking practially: dress in layers, be comfortable, use sunblock, wear something approriate for tear gas, or that would not come apart if you are dragged off by your feet. That's the way I am, hopelessly pragmatic.
What made you think of wearing a hat, I asked him.
"I just thought, it could rain, or it might be really hot and sunny and you would be more obvious, too."

I'm not sure that one would want to be noticed during a protest, but the rest made sense.

"Well, after the hat suggestion, Ron asked me how about a hood?" Steve went on, but before finishing I interjected "What?, Like a ski mask? That would be swell."

"No," Steve soldiered on despite my attempts to throw off the line of discourse, "No, like a parka or a windbreaker kind of thing?" Then Steve said "I told him absolutely not."
So then Ron asks "Well what then, a pith helmet?"
"And then Steve recalls" by that time, I was so disgusted by the conversation, that I said no, I meant something like Lady Di would wear."

"Now Yer talkin' ".

I just could not get over it; who asks what to wear to protest in? You just decide do I want comfort or do I want to project an image, such as: I'm gay and I want to look white collar, or military, or truck driver.

Come to think about it, the whole affair is starting to sound like the Village People, and maybe that's the point....

Motherhood

I was working a craft fair booth, trying to pry some cash out of a woman across my table. She was being mercilessly but methodically harrangued by a small boy of about 8 years. She was tough though, and in between words to me she would say stuff like: "Go away", "find your father", "play a game with someone,"; she had a millon retorts and I suppose it was her delivery, but I was laughing so hard that I had to apologise to her and explain that I just thought she was really funny.

People aways ask me why I don't want any kids.
My answer is that there is too much furniture involved.
Usually they are so taken aback, that they just shut up. It's a great defense.

The real answer is that kids are little bastards to each other and everyone else. They have constand demands, and they alway smell like spit.

My customer said "They should ask me about raising kids, I have four and I could write the book. I don't even have to look," she continued, "I just feel them behind me and I tell them to get lost. Just a minute ago I yelled at a kid and when I turned, I realized she wasn't even mine! The look of fear and horror on her face was so awful, I almost had to buy her something to make her feel better."

I really liked that the woman said almost.

Drugs in the Dark

My mind whirrs as soon as I go to bed. Often I fall asleep with the television on, and wake up later to find that my mind will not sleep for talking to me. I walk to the other bathroom, go to a certain shelf, find a bottle of antihistamines and take one, replacing the bottle where it came from. Generally I can fall back to sleep relatively soon after that.

It has occurred to me that someone could change the contents of that bottle, or that they could just change the bottle, but I would recognize the shape in my hand, and the way the bottle closes.

It's a crapshoot, but since it's not a high traffic area, I'm going to go with trust.
I'm already tired.

Screwy Degree

Dee's mother was pretty miffed. She didn't want to lend Dee any money for a trip to Europe.
"You have to go out and get a job you don't like, just as everyone else does," her mother told her.
"Yeah, or be happy the rest of your life; good choice" quipped Fred, Dee's lover, on receipt of the news.
"Ma, I don't even know what those jobs are: Dee countered. "I mean, those jobs I could do that would pay me decent money and "benefits"; I don't even know the name of those jobs."
"That's just what I mean", her mother says, "You're 33 and you've been enjoying yourself all along and you used your inheritance and you haven't made any money at it, so you have to get a job. I'm not picking at you dear, but just have to get a good job."
"Ma, all the people who have those jobs have some screwy degree in paper work".
Dee's mother hates this theory. "What the hell do you mean by that?"
"You know Ma, like my cousin Bitsy who works for the government counting heads on wheat in Africa. What kind of degree does she have?"
Dee's mother is stumped "well, I guess, well, it's like in statistics or the law of averages" mom says still secure in her argument.
"Right" Dee says, "Just like I told you,; a scrwy degree in paperwork." Dee feels justified and virtuous no matter how much of a sponge she is beginning to sound like.
"Look Dee, there is no reason for you to criticize her, she got a good job with good pay, and you don't need a degree to find a job like that just because it's stupid".
This is great, thinks Dee, she can hardly wait to call her starving artist friends; they will think this is hilarious.

Denny's Story

My friend Dennis got some guns a few years ago. I guess what made me nervous was how drunk he was when he showed them to me, and how he was so proud to own them. He was going to sail the Caribbean, and feared the pirates, (there really are pirates in the Caribbean) so he got himself a gun, and a little pearl handled one for his girlfriend. He treated them like fine art. I was hoping they were not as loaded as Denny.
I have not seen him in a couple of years so when I saw him at his mother’s house, I asked “are you packin?’” like some gun moll in an old movie, but he did not get the reference.
He had brought his cats along, as his trip to mom’s was far from home. The cats were found as kittens, and as adults, were puffy black elegant animals with white skunk stripes in their lustrous hair.
It turned out that the guns were left at home. “That’s good” I said, “It’s not nice to visit your mother with cats and guns.”
That could be the name of a band Den will never be in, because he’s tone deaf, but he loves music and has no inhibitions about singing anytime, anywhere. Sort of like; guns and roses or cats and roses, or cats and guns….see how easily this gets out of hand?
Once, after Denny broke up with a woman that I was friends with, I told her that when he slept with me, he would lie in bed afterwards crooning country and western ballads, and that, combined with his smoking was what put me off him. “He never sang to me” the woman said.
“Not once? I asked.
“Nope, not once.” She returned. That was awkward as he was with her for years and with me about a week.
At that point, I apologized to her, but neither of us knew what for.

Oil Shortage

I had made up a whole conspiracy theory about the oil and the government, and sure that it was so memorable, I did not write it down. I forgot it. Crap! It was hilarious.
It sort of reminded me of the time at Tyler (art school) that I had a test and proved that the French Revolution was the cause of overpopulation and air pollution in the world (1971ish) today.
I wish I had a copy of that one. It was such a beauty that I got a C+ even though it was total rubbish.

As the World goes by

Hey, howya doin? I know I haven't written in a while, and I'm really not a friend except by relation, but I was just wondering how the soap opera of your life is going...
OK, that was maybe not so kind, but we all live in our little soap opera kind of worlds, mine is a bit Ivory Soapish, but still, as the World Turns......

Grocery Talk

Nory had to go to out for groceries. She had a big cold, her head filled with wet newspaper, as far as she could tell, but it would take more than that for Lew to go to the store.
At the coldcut counter, she asked the girl working "What's the difference between the store brand and the other one?"
"The other one's more gooder." came the reply.
"OK, give me more gooder, Nory said, going along with it.

The Bobs

Nory was going to an afternoon taping of the Bobs at the World Cafe with her friend Marilyn.
Marilyn paid money to support their favorite radio station, and in return she got invited to these affairs during working hours when hardly anyone is available. "They only ask me to the dorky ones" she complained. "I guess you have to give at a different level to get the good stuff". Despite the 95 degree weather, Nory had to contemplate an acceptable outfit to wear. Used to be she would put on just about anything, snatch up her wooden staff with the plastic lilies wrapped around it, and be off, ribbons afloat. Now, in her late 50's she tries to fit in with seriously mixed results. What am I worried about she thinks, with these people, I will be lucky if they are wearing pants! She mulls that over for a while, and decides that pants are definitely on, but she can say to people later; "I was lucky they were wearing shirts!." She settles on that.
She wears something schleppy with too many bracelets. That works she said, going out the door.

The Boat Race

“It’s for you.” Nory’s boss Will handed the phone to her. It was Lew, her husband; “Hi, I went down to the river, and they were having dragon boat races”. Lew usually went sailing on Wednesday nights, and loved the water. “I asked if anyone needed a paddler, and they told me to ask around. I found a team that would take me, and we won the race!”
“That’s great!” Nory congratulated him. It was good to hear him so elated about anything.
Nory was amazed at Lew’s nerve to go and ask to join up just as the races were to begin. He was strong and healthy, but the regular racers get up at 5 am to practice every day before work. “It was grueling” he admitted. “I wonder if it would have been so hard if it were not 95 degrees out.” “There are 20 people in the boat just paddling their asses off.”
“I can’t believe they just let you in.” “You got off your bike and walk in and suddenly you are part of the action, eating their barbeques, getting team shirts and then, to win a race, well, that is amazing”.
Later, Nory tells the story about Lew to her sister Rita. “Yeah,” Rita quipped, “I was at the Olympic trials the other day, and I saw them running, and I said, huh, I could take that guy.” And then: “So I said to Emeril, hey, Emeril, you are puttin’ way too much fennel in that crap. You gotta lay off.”
Nory started laughing at her sister’s fast wit. “Exactly!” she said. “I can’t believe he does this stuff.”

New Age cleaning.

I came home and cleaned my relatively clean kitchen floor with 7th generation cleaner. The floor became sticky. What is in that crap? It certainly does not clean anything. Also, tried making home cleaner from vinegar, water and baking soda, as instructed by some celebrity on Oprah. No, nothing seemed cleaner that it would have been had I used water alone, and that woman is hard of smelling if she thinks that the vinegar smell does not linger. It was like living in a pickle barrel for 2 days.

Electrical Impulse

I used to have trouble with my wrist watches. They were either fast or slow or stopped running altogether. When I borrowed someone else's watch, the effect was the same; the time was constant for them, but irregular on my wrist. Now I am experiencing the same thing on a grander scale. My computer refuses daylight saving time. I have gone into settings more than 5 times and applied it, set it, etc, and it always returns to one hour earlier. Last week I tried something more drastic, but still, time and tide wait for no girl if it is me.
I used to look at the clock at night, and it was always 11:11. Since then it has expanded to every hour that can double itself, you cannot have 6:66 for instance, but all the ones that are possible I have probably seen except 2:22, for some reason, I never look then. One person suggested that I was looking at the clock too much and only registered the irregular times, but I do not think that's the case, at least not with 11:11 or 1:11. I don't get it, but that is a very small thing which is kind of normal in my life.

Buyer's remorse

I shop. I buy lots of stuff I think I need. Who knows, maybe I do need it. I buy because I am a mutant, just a skosh under 5 feet with a small waist and a giant bust and a heart that hemorrhages emotion. I cull the rack at Marshall’s but it is mostly at the Salvation Army that I get my goods. I spend because my size is impossible to find. I fit sizes small to large depending on the garment. I wear a size 5 shoe, which is all but nil except at Pay-Less where the shoes are made of plastic, which tends to bind and rub, leaving welts, corns and blisters, and at Saks 5th Avenue, where the sale shoes are $300.00 a pair, down from $600.00. Let me just say here, to all shoe manufacturers that they should employ a physicist or possibly a mechanical engineer because a size nine can probably tolerate a five inch heel, but that when put on to a size five, you require a eunuch, who are not readily available anymore, to keep from pitching over on one’s face in jacked up shoes. I meet other women with size 5 shoes who are culling the racks as I do. We become instant best friends, and I induct them into the “Feets too small” club that I made up. It is really hard to keep one’s standards and also find something appealing. I do not wish anything I am wearing to say: Hello, Kitty.
I am somewhere in my heart convinced that one day soon, I will not be able to clothe myself, and consequently spend a lot of my free time on the hunt for the appropriate, or near to that goal.
I feel like any day I will be extinct, like the dodo.
I am about 20 pounds overweight, a problem that, if I could just bring myself to correct, might put me back in the running for off the rack shopping. Petite clothing is made for taller people than I and so: all torsos are at least 3” too long for me. It turns out that I am torso deficient, which happens, I suppose. When I put on a jacket, I pull the whole thing up from the shoulders, and everything falls back into place, cloth spilling smoothly like oil on water over the curves of my body as the sales associate says “Oh, that’s a problem, isn’t it?” Yes, it is a problem that cannot be fixed. I have a curve to my back that I once heard a comedienne say “You could set a drink on her behind” and although that is an exaggeration, it is nearly true. If perhaps I have found a dress that fits in the front, it is sure to come up with a distinct fold at the small of my back. I bought a lovely dress for a wedding once, that stuck out in an odd way at the rear. After two trips to the tailor, it was still sticking out, and I wore it anyway, feeling self-conscious the entire time, but in fact, I have the extreme knowledge that no one ever recalls what you wore to a formal event unless you turn up dressed like Cher, which did occur at a wedding I attended. I don’t know whom was discussed more, the girl in the iridescent black fish scale dress at noon, or me with my home made cotton dress with the climber’s rope spaghetti straps and my unshaved under arms and no bra. (My bohemian period) I have to say that even with such questionable garb; I was hit on by the husband of the best friend, and also by the groom himself. I wonder if they are still married.
Don’t get me wrong, I know I am lucky to have the freedom to be walking around shopping instead of a million other terrible things that could be happening in this world. I just think it’s strange to see people in 3rd world countries dressed in colorful silk and golden bangles going starving. Okay, they have only one outfit, but it is stunning. I have also seen homeless souls who dress in coordinated outfits that make me look like a rag picker. I find that peculiarly confusing.
When I am trying clothing on, and casting it off for one offense or another, I wonder: how is it that I managed to acquire the clothes I came in with?
I used to make all of my clothes. I knew what I liked, I was thinner, and I could sew thanks to my home-economics teacher. I made dresses, pants, and tops. My parents were probably grateful for the cash I saved them. Over the years, I have become loathe to do much more than shorten everything from pants to socks. Also in those days, I could buy even size 4 ½ shoes from Italy. I had gorgeous shoes that I would wear out in the rain and have to get rid of. How ironic that, years later, I would go to Italy and find next to nothing to fit my tiny self.
Is this an annoying complaining rant? Well, possibly it is, and probably it seems terribly shallow to spend so much time in the discussion of my sartorial woes, but it is of real concern to me, and those like me.
I would go shopping today but frankly, I am worn out.

Old cat gone

Nory was having conscience problems. It was after 12 am and she was so disconnected from people who were her friends that it was difficult to decide who she could call. Finally remembering that Brice worked the night shift, she put on her nightgown, went downstairs to find the number and dialed. Brice was a trouble shooter for some kind of energy company and so there was a need for someone to be there to answer calls for help on a 24 hour basis. As luck would have it, Brice answered on the first ring. Nory was upset because her favorite cat had died, and she felt that she may have caused it. Skebridge the cat was 17 years old and had numerous infirmities. Still, she seemed to bop around the house in a happy cat sort of way, and sought Nory out to sit on, either for companionship or warmth. Skep, as she was called, had some kind of sinus infection, and the vet had prescribed a large chewable pill that the cat did not find at all appetizing. Nory, in an effort to save the cat’s life was struggling to shove the pills into the cat’s mouth so that she could recuperate, but as always, the cat was unwilling, and struggling in her hands. Eventually the cat swallowed the two largish halves and Nory found herself looking at her hand, holding the limp cat by the neck. The cat was not dead but Nory felt awful, and was holding the cat on the floor, asking her if “they were ok with each other”, when the door bell rang. Nory rolled over the quietly sitting cat to answer the door for her sister who decided to visit and foist off some iffy but expensive mushrooms on them for dinner. As Nory and her sister adjourned to the kitchen the cat wandered in sneezing prodigiously. “Are you contagious?” Dina asked the cat.
“No, she has been sneezing for months,” Nory replied “the last bout of antibiotics did not cure her, so she is on another course”.
In hindsight, she thought: perhaps I broke her windpipe, or the pills were stuck in her throat. Nory’s other half Jim had found the cat in her big pillow where she slept most of the day, and the cat’s tongue was hanging out. They had hear loud squeaking sounds earlier, sort of like a swing set needing oil, and they joked it could be a mouse dying. Later, that was a lot less funny.
The cat was found after Dina had left, and Nory started calling emergency vet numbers while Jim tried to resuscitate the cat. “She’s gone Nory” he told her, but Nory was in denial, and even after an hour had passed, she felt that the cat was still in there, possibly breathing shallowly. At long last, she reached a veterinary nurse who said that she did not think that a cat could be choked by a pill, and that if the cat was having problems breathing it would have been obvious.
Nory kept playing it back and forth in her head. In her mind, her last interaction with the cat had been terrifying for the animal, and possibly violent. The cat had been blind for months from hypertension, but you could see the delineation of the iris and the pupil at most times. What Nory thought she remembered seeing last was Skep with fully dilated pupils making her look like those simpering cat posters people are so often moved by. That and the fact that Skep had been so still afterwards, made Nory believe she had killed her own animal. Her husband and sister could not dissuade her of this notion, nor could the compassionate nurse on the phone, dissuade her that she had done something very wrong.
Bruce however, told her that the cat was lucky to have had a wonderful life with Nory, and further, that she died in her own bed, in her own home, and he was right.
Nory went back to bed shivering from the cold air downstairs and her own sorrow.

Every Day

I have the notion that to get anywhere, I must write every day. Yesterday I had a whole rant set up in my head but I had to keep something from burning or I went to bed, or left the house while thinking I would remember the thoughts I had strung loosely together like spaghetti carbonara in my head, and then I forgot. Again.
I could have described a dream but I forgot my dreams last night, and for several weeks preceeding this.
It is freezing out, so I am staying in, once again writing nothing about nothing, and hoping it will amount to something which is not likely.
I am trying to make cash by taking surveys on the computer. Unfortunately, most of what one finds are scams to make you splash your info far and wide into the web, and a lot of the time, instead of paying you, costs you to acquire cash. The whole thing seems to revolve about greed.
They set up some phony surveys and then say: If you want to get paid, please click on one or more of these offers. You don't want any of this stuff, or perhaps you do, but I do not. I ended up wasting an hour and disconnecting myself. I am sure that someone will pay me to answer surveys, but it's going to take some time to find them.

Waking Sleep

While the rest of the house sleeps, I wake up hot and irritable. The television was on, and I fell easily into slumber, waking now and then as my temperature rose. The cats sleep on the bed making squeaky breathing sounds, but I cannot fall back into the comfort of oblivion, and as I sit here struggling to say something pithy, I realize that this too is in vain.
I am stuck with a song in my head. Something happened during the week, and I have had a hard time describing it to the effect I experienced it and I am left with a snappy song in my head.
Sleep on, you restless dreamers.

Washday blues

How can they name a font Trebuchet? It does not look anything like one. Okay, that was just a gut reaction.
I came to talk about laundry detergent. I was in the Giant, (the ghetto mart, my sister and friends call it because it is poplulated largely by the welfare and black and/ or both.) A lot of times I tell Jeff, "Boy I am so tired of being a poor black woman". I am neither, but to avert resentful reactions from the majority of the people around me, I tend to talk to them in only slightly altered speech so as to seem like one of them. In Ardmore, where everyone is rich and Jewish, I am only one of those things, I tend to look like a mendicant, but there you go.
I go there because it is new, clean, carried gluten free products until I thought I might need them, and has the best produce. Also it is close by.

I went into the laundry aisle and since Oprah told me to get eco-friendly detergent, I thought I would. Actually, that is a sarcastic, or possibly sardonic remark. I do not wait for Oprah to tell me anything, and she has never called.

I usually buy Arm and Hammer detergent which, while not getting any dirt out of the clothing because of either its inefficacy or our hard water, does not irritate my skin. Right above it, on the top shelf where my height generally keeps me from looking, were two brands recommended by all for eco-friendliness. There was 7th Generation which smelled of nothing or white flower/bergamot, which I found to be okay, or some popular citrus based detergent which was selling twice the amount for the same price. The second one smelled of orange which is okay for some things, but Iam not sure I want people around me to ask "Have you just eaten an orange?"all the time, which seems like a thing that might happen to me.

At this point in time I became completely confused and since the Giant does not give free returns because you may not like a product as the CVS does, I could go a lot of ways. The way I chose was probably the one most people would take, I bought the Arm and Hammer which was concentrated, keeping down the purchase of bottles, and they were selling buy one get one free, and they were the same price as both of the eco types. I have not done well with concentrated versions of other detergents, possibly I used too much. I really cannot say.

I know at least one person who will write an excoriating e-mail, and that's your perogative. Until someone helps me out, or sends free samples as method does, I guess I have a lot of detergent to use up. At least I wash .

Dancing in the dark

I spend a lot of time walking around after the lights are out, and my vision is getting progressively worse. The thing is, I have been practicing to be blind, and it is completely no picnic at all. Sometimes I try to be graceful and wave my arms in a fashion I believe to be smooth and delicate, and at other times I bump into corners and bruise, or worse, miss the last step and almost fall.

I was in the market yet again and there was the bag boy, about 6.6 and with heavy white cataracts covering both eyes. He was trying his best, flailing his arms over the conveyor belt while bent at the waist, a position that I imagine could not be comfortable at all.

Worst of all, the checker was not helping. Were it me, I might shout out the items as I rang them up so that he would know what to flail for: giant paper towels, soda bottles, meat. AAugh! imaging suddenly packing cereal, cookies, spaghetti, and then wet, coldish meat!

The other thing was that the checker packed one bag but failed to remark about its presence to the bagger and so it was that I had to circumvent his flying arms to retrieve my remaining bag. The good part was that I only purchased 5 items.

I do not begrudge getting a blind man a job. I just wish they had found something easier for him. Perhaps gathering carts.

Tying one on

Yesterday I got a free bowtie. I had to get a shirt and tie for a waitressing job, and went to a tuxedo store.

There were no suitable shirts to fit me.
Being both short and buxom made both boys' and mens' shirts awkward and puffy in all the wrong places.

I turned my attention instead to the ties. There were hundreds of different ties on shelves in peach peck baskets. The salesman wanted me to buy a tie with round edges on the bows; it was gray satin and I did not like it one bit. I chose a sort of double butterfly made of velvet thinking that it might make me adorable in a way that would make me a lot of of money.

The salesman did not like the tie I picked. "That one is really shot", he kept saying, "The snap is right out of that one". The salesman's tie was striped.

I persisted in my desire for the snapless tie.
"Just put it in your purse and walk out of here" he told me, "anyone so insistent on having THAT tie should have it for free.

Seeds of Change

I got an envelope in the mail. It was addressed in block letters which looked to be male, possibly that of my college boyfriend, but that was a stretch.

There was no return address, the postmark was from Philadelphia.

The back on the envelope read: Happy Spring.

Inside the envelope I found a package of Shirley (mom's name) Poppies, named "Falling in Love".

The envelope and seed packet appeared to have gotten at least half wet, been crumpled, and dried that way.

I know who sent them.

I thought these things:

1.Risky
2.romantic
3.under the top?
4.overkill with the falling in love stuff?
5. Oh, for crying out loud!
6. Too little too late?
7. speechless, don't know what to say or think.
8.NOW you're trying to be nice?
9. I wonder how they will grow?

No number 10. What were you expecting?

It turns out I got a call from my sister saying "Didn't you get anything in the mail?" No, I don't think so, I told her. I did get some seeds though. "Wow, you did not know my hand writing? "(she mostly e-mails, and no, I don't) " Well, Shirley, that did not tip you off?" No, I said, they said Falling in Love, and that threw me off.
My sister did the slow burn .
I guess it was just wishful thinking.

Common Cold Blues

About one o'clock in the afternoon Norris decides to quit malingering and try to make herself useful around the house while waiting for her soup to melt.

Unlike other people, she usually made food from scratch and was comforted by the fact that no mother's presence was required to produce some chicken soup; a sure fire remedy for everything. Her soup had come from the freezer and was still in a solid state now in a pot on the stove.

Norris was no giant, and so it was that staggering around the kitchen in hangover mode that she noticed that the grime atop her small apartment sized refrigerator had reached crisis status. She'd been getting by the last few weeks with hapazard swipes at the accumulating crud, but feeling ill generated an urge to clean house.

I hate being sick in a dirty house, she often reminded herself. If it was not one malady, it was another, and in fact, Norris spent most of her time being nauseous, dizzy or both for reasons she could only guess at, and that numerous doctors had deemed to be non existant, though being frail or a hypochondriac in final analysis amount to the same thing.

Standing on the kitchen stool, Norris discovers that window cleaner and a paper towel are not going to do the job. Why did I have to start this? She wonders about this urge to clean while scrubbing vigorously with ammonia and squinching her face in another direction to avoid the fumes. Finally, she manages to clean the few items that sat on top of the fridge top to her satisfaction; (I'm really getting things done now!)as well as the refrigerator itself.

Moving on to another part of the kitchen, she broke the top of her sugar jar while trying to dislodge a knife jammed in the silverware drainer. It really was a tiny kitchen. She assembled all of the pieces of lid and considered throwing the whole thing out. Then she thought about what it would cost to replace which led to some cogitation about people who keep broken crockery and people who do not keep broken lids but keep things which are obviously missing lids, and so never use the items. It was a gift she had actually liked, which was a rare instance indeed, and that made the whole thing worse.

Weary, she dished out her soup and sat to relax and contemplate the situation further. All this comes of carelessness she thinks, and 2 lousy drinks. Why are there carrot skins in this soup? This doesn't happen at Campbell's. The whole episode truly irritated her.

Norris resolves not to be quite so handy all the time.

Fashionistas

I was in the Salvation army and found a semi attractive dress. When I put it on, I noticed a slight tightness under the arms but it seemed to fit perfectly. I opened the curtain of the dressing room to ask the gaggle of women waiting to try things on what they thought of it.

"Too young?, too frumpy?" I asked.

Oh noooo, it's great, they all agreed.

I pulled the curtain shut and heard: "It looks like it was made for her." and further, " The best part is that it does not look like it's even from here!"

Thus were born the Salvation Army Fashionistas.The reason it fit me was because someone had shortened the straps at the shoulder, shortening the torso, and making it suitable only for someone like myself who is torso-deficient. Thus the under-arm chafing. Now if I can fix that......

Two Jeannette stories

While undressing, Jeannette cut her nose on the museum admission button stuck in the buttonhole of her shirt. She had been thinking of changing to a sexy nightgown from the layers of bulky winter clothes she was loosely piled with in order to elicit some interest from David who was as usual glued to the television. Clad in knee socks and panties, she rushed to the mirror to see whether the sharply stinging cut would ruin the effect of allure. Eventually deciding that the house was too cold anyway, she compromised with the ensemble of socks, sexy black gown and topped the outfit with a gray hooded sweatshirt from a college no one they knew had attended.
The sweatshirt was a sore point in that it came via a former boyfriend who had stolen it from an unknown source, which meant that it was from the wardrobe of another woman. It was one of the reasons that she had stopped seeing that guy. His infidelities were legion and he had a habit of adopting clothing from women. He was a small man, and so, could easily fit into a lot of women’s’ clothing. This sweatshirt, however was just the right amount of oversize, and was exceedingly soft, so she kept it although who it smelt like now was up for grabs.
David was absorbed by a nature show; not that it mattered, he alternated between sporting events and nature shows and spent little time conferring with Jeannette about her preferences. For her part, Jeanette saw romance sneaking away once more and turned to contemplate her magazine and the frequent query- When did so many nature shows suddenly appear on TV?


2.
When Jeanette left her husband, it was without premeditation. She left the house and was gone. Disappearing was a skill she had developed as a teenager. Hanging out with a group of kids for hours and suddenly becoming rammy or bored, she would leave a room without fuss or preamble and leave the house as well. Later they would say to her: “It was hours before we realized you weren’t coming back”.
It was hours before you noticed that you weren’t paying attention” Jeannette would reply.

It was much the same with her husband. One day he woke up and leaned over the bed to kiss her sleeping face and beheld her empty pillow. Was she here yesterday he wondered?

Makes Good Use of Time

A Man A Car, A Plan: Planaman

I was driving home for a change, when I saw something unusual in front of me. A guy on a small motorcycle kept sliding back to have a discussion with a person in a car. I suppose they know each other, I thought, but instead of keeping pace with the slowly moving car in rush hour traffic, the cyclist would bound ahead, and then slip backward for another word or two. This action intrigued me, but it was only a mild aberration.
In another mile, the cyclist veered off, and made a turn and the rest of us in the rat race plodded slowly forward, a metal taffy pull on the highway; go ahead, shrink closer together, etc.
The next thing I noticed was that the guy in the car who had been the friend of motorcycle Bob, let’s call him, pulled up to a truck that was carrying the equipment and workers for a lawn service, and I saw the guy take a business card from the guy in the passenger seat of the truck.
This guy makes very good use of his time, I thought. Here I am just driving home, and this other guy is making friends, getting contacts, contracting work to be done. What else could he do while I drove passively behind? It turns out, that he could go to the drive in dry cleaners and come out ahead of me at the next light, a neat trick. He also picked up some dinner, cleaned the inside of his windshield, went through some mail on the seat next to him, changed his shirt, and tie, combed his hair, applied fresh cologne to disguise what I could only surmise was the accumulated odors of the day, and picked up his date at a bus stop which he probably arranged by cell phone before I pulled up in back of his car.
At this point, I was completely in awe. If he had not already picked up that other woman, I was going to jockey my car so as to get a better view of the guy and meet him myself. After all, a man who was so productive on the road could only be a paragon of efficiency in his home. Unfortunately I was not quick enough to think of that plan in time to catch up with him; also, the road was very crowded, as the rush to home continued for the majority of workers on our route. We continued driving for a while and the girlfriend wrapped a package she had pulled from her tote, changed her outfit, applied makeup, made one or two calls of her own, rummaged in the back seat to come up with a newspaper wherein she appeared to be engrossed in the classified pages, but the light in the car was fading, and my eyesight is just not what it used to be. Perhaps they live in the car, I thought. All they need is a bathroom and a couple of blankets, and they need never leave the car at all. Perhaps he conducts business by phone and laptop while making the rounds of his daily errands. Most other people would feel claustrophobic, but I know of one or two people who have lived in cars, or claimed to do so, and who knows how many people there are who just spend their day in the car? I know a salesman, but he likes getting out of the car to stretch his legs and to do business with his clients. He prefers eating in restaurants, too, as would I in his place, but the couple in front of me seemed perfectly content to conduct all of the business of their lives in the front seat of that small sedan.
Before I could surmise anything else about the two, we came to a stop at a gaper’s delay, and I read his bumper sticker, to wit: You don’t have to believe everything you think. Ain’t that the truth? I thought. Even stopped in traffic, I was being made to think philosophically by his choice of reading material on the car. Wow! I was blown away by the fabulous functioning duo in front of my eyes. It is not often that one gets a show while driving their humdrum route home from the daily toil for cash.
I thought about going further, but was afraid of being at some point disappointed. Surely they would embark at some destination, ruining the invention of my imagination. With some relief, as I neared home, I made my turn, even then wondering about the magical life of the man whose teacher must have written in his report card; makes good use of time.

On the Radio

Norris was at work, listening to some god-awful caterwauling on the radio. Katherine, working across the table asked "who is that?" Norris's opinion was that it might be Curt Kobain.
"Nope, too happy" was Kath's repy.
"Well, how about Nirvana?" opined Norris.
"Still too happy".
"I don't know," said Norris, "It sounds pretty anguished to me".
"Yeah, but it is still a happier anguish" was Katherine's last take on the subject.
"That could be our band's name" Norris said, knowing that there would not be any band, but saying so anyway. It was kind of like what she used to tell Tessa all the time; "I saw it, and frankly, it was poignant, but boring."

Phone Solicitor

Norris was tiring of immersing her hands in water. Talk about sub urbanity she thought. As if in answer, the phone rang, “Hi, I ‘m calling for the children’s hospital” said a young woman’s voice. Norris was let down; it was not a real call from someone good.
“Oboy” she was good at getting rid of telephone solicitors, but did not exactly enjoy it.
The telephone voice giggled at Norris’s dolorous reply and Norris asked “Do you want money?” Just before the girl could resume her memorized speech- “no”
“Well, do you want children?” Norris was thinking ahead here, “Because I don’t have either”.
“No,” the girl replied.
“Well, what is it then?”
“I want to know if you want the paper.” By now the pre written speech was totally out the window and Norris thought why do I want a paper from the children’s Hospital? They put out a paper? Talk about non-sequitur, sheesh, I didn’t mean for this to get out of hand.
“When you get the paper delivered, one dollar goes to the hospital…” the girl seemed to be veering back toward her previous spiel.
“Wait, I pay the hospital?”
“No, you pay the carrier but...”
“The hospital gets the money and I get the paper?” This is not too awful Norris thinks, and then thinks of having her Sunday mornings shattered by the rude blatting of the front doorbell, and having to face some obnoxious adolescent while still in her pajamas. “No, thanks, I’m not here a lot.” (Subject closed)
“Okay,” the phone voice registers, ( lost another one.)
Norris reluctantly returns to submergence.

Dinner Plans

and household woes

Hi , I’m really depressed.

Oh? What is it this time?

Well, I just discovered while cleaning the top of the stove, that the funny burning smell we were looking for last night was the brand new counter top and the brand new cutting board. This apartment isn’t even a month old, and already I have ruined something. Lou is going to hit the roof and I don’t know if I can take it.
Did you know that the amazing Ginsu steak knife makes a wonderful wood plane? In fact, it worked better than the actual wood plane I used first. In my usual Lucy tries to hide a cow in the kitchen style, I was hacking burnt wood off the cutting board when I realized that it smelled just like hotdogs.
Does this mean that all these years I have been eating thinly disguised kosher wood chips? NO, what it means is that all those old hot dogs are being made into cutting boards since people got so hinky about nitrates in the food. They chop up the dogs and press them into clever wooden shapes. In fact, I hear they do a mean parquet floor too, but that could be salami. I’ll look into it for you. Does the extra cash I blow on Kosher mean I get hickory instead of knotty pine? What do you think?

Well, I think this is great material for a story- it’s pretty funny stuff actually and you should write it all down like I told you yesterday.
I’m getting ready to go to my new job now. I just love wearing this neat little tuxedo shirt and my patent leather shoes. Do you want to have dinner at the monster inn before the Comet dance at the Planetarium tonight?

Well, here’s where my life is starting to resemble fiction, I already wrote our conversation before calling you. Do you think our lives are losing spontaneity?
And to answer your question, I don’t know if we can afford it; even if we only get the “victim”, we just shelled out 80 bucks for groceries last night and what with the counter and all he’s going to be in one hell of a mood and it will be a miracle if we get to the dance at all.

Maybe you could put a potted plant on the burnt spot.

No, it’s right next to the stove, which would not be good at all.

Okay, so how about a lamp? You have to see well to cook, right?

No, same spot, it’s just awkward. Anything put there would be knocked over by someone’s elbow.

Oh well, Dave and Denise are coming in at 6:30 and we’re going out for dinner and then to the dance.

Yeah, when they say 6:30 that means 9:30 if you’re lucky.

No, they promised to come early which means they could show up on time, and if they don’t show by 8:30, we’re going without them because we promised Timmy and Bagwan we’d be there by at least 10.

Oh. We.., maybe we’ll meet you. Or maybe there will be a national disaster before he gets home and the burnt counter won’t seem so bad. I’m working on dematerializing in case that disaster doesn’t come through. How about that?

Good idea! If you perfect it, let me know. Actually, you could dematerialize over here but I have to clean. I’ll see you tonight. Maureen is coming from the suburbs; I think we can get a ride with her.

Okay. She goes to the phone, calls Tess and reads the story to the phone, and hangs up. No answer. She leaves a message:
Hi, I really don’t have to call you now because I have already written the whole conversation down in case you’re not home…..still, no one answers; how typical. At least I got a few pages of dialogue out of it.
She tries calling someone else.

How to buy spices

An excerpt of the soon to be published Che Sera Cookbook:

When shopping for herbs and spices, get anything that looks good to you, or anybody with you, or the odd bystander in the spice store. Buy lots of colors, shapes and textures- you can find out what to do with them later, and if you don’t you still have the raw material for amusing home décor. Nothing looks better on your kitchen wall than a lot of glass jars full of great looking stuff.
Note: you may want to avoid buying some things which are too hot to serve as anything other than say, paint remover. This is precisely what sales help is for; don’t be afraid to ask for assistance in weeding out the more lethal items and hope this is not one of their “bad” days. If it is, buy stuff anyway, it will cheer you up some; probably nothing will help them.
Should you feel I have been too vague about suggestions, my guideline is:
1. green stuff
2. yellow stuff
3. red stuff
4. leafy substances
5. things that have shape
I don’t bother with labels. It astounds my friends and makes cooking look much more difficult than it really is. People are sure I am psychic. If you want to give this impression but are sure you will put curry into your tapioca, simply label the bottom of the jars. It is mistake proof and you sill still appear to be a culinary genius.

Sleeping Beauty

We were sleeping in the single bed in my room at my parents' house, and the sun shone on our faces waking us up. My eyes were still closed and you thought I was asleep when you raised up on your elbow and looking down at me , and said "God, you are so beautiful." I moved about acting asleep until you kissed me awake.

That was the first and last time any of my boyfriends said that to me. You thought I did not hear it, but I did. The sad part is that no one of you ever said it in my hearing. Why not?

Yeah, you might have a false memory. It's not you, it's the guy who will probably not read this.

The 4th of July

I woke up this morning hearing a band playing. This is not unusual as I often think I hear music in the house, mostly at night. Usually it is a radio left playing upstairs.
I realized it was the parade. I threw on some clothes and went downstairs to find Jeff watching the news in his sweatpants. "Parade" I told him. "I hear the bands". He of course did not believe me, so I wandered down the driveway to see the parade.
It's a small town kind of deal, part of the town marches, children ride bikes and everyone gets a small flag(made in China).
It is the neighborly thing to do unless caught out later, when you can plead the sleeping late defense. This year they gave out balloons, beads (to the faithful, I noticed, as they came from the church) and ice cream sandwiches. Breakfast of champions. When the black high school band passed I smelled pancakes and bacon. I mentioned this to Jane. She asked me what that meant. I said it means someone over there (motioning across the street) is making breakfast. She laughed, glad I was not making a racially biased remark. Small minds, small town USA.