There are some things I can't help, but remember the smell of when they float to my nostrils now. Certain fragrances that hold memories for me that are absolutely inescapable.
Folger's and Maxwell House coffee for example. Any brewing coffee will do, but specifically the large, blue or red coffee cans... the kind you used to make stilts out of when they were empty, as a kid. That smell is morning at either grandparents' house.
Mimi's kitchen always smelled of freshly brewing coffee, lil' smokies (a kind tiny of sausage Kansans are rather fond of which smell curiously like a mix of butter, brown sugar, and bacon... or maybe that's just because that's what she cooked them with) and wheat toast.
There was also a lingering smell of pipe smoke and cinnamon about her house. Grandpa W smoked a pipe before he died (when I was four) and Mimi always had cinnamon bears about her person. And the overly sweet, dusty smell of Equal packets.
In fact, we as kids, were designated to guard her purse (usually my cousin C had that honor; he was the eldest and had therefore earned the right) and gather the following whenever we went to a restaurant: blue equal packets from the little bin on the table, a few extra napkins from the shiny silver holder, jam packets and peppermints, toothpicks, or whatever they have for the taking as you leave.
I learned later that sweet, little old women also love marmalade. Specifically the little packets of it found in diners throughout the United States. It is, in fact, like gold to them. Perhaps there's some sort of underground black-market bidding that goes on, largely in cases of marmalade, gathered in secret from diners across America.
When I was working more than a few jobs at a time, right after I graduated college, I worked in one of these diners. I got harassed by grouchy (and sometimes sweet) old men all day long, harangued by middle aged women (nothing against my fellow ladies, but some members of this demographic are the worst to have to serve... they insist you botched their order, despite the fact that you wrote it down and read it back to them before putting it in with the kitchen, and they always skimp on tip), and sweetly thanked and winked at by couples and singles of all ages.
We were ALWAYS running out of marmalade. We had to hide it in the back of the jelly cabinet, because on several occasions, people, usually elderly ladies, would go to the jelly bin and grab packets; marmalade being the ultimate goal.
Mimi's car always smelled of Wrigley's Spearmint gum. She quit smoking I think around the time that D and I were three... or maybe five... I was old enough to remember her going outside to have a cigarette and I still really like the smell of tobacco... except the really cheap-o brands... not sure which they are, someone told me once it's "Pall-Mall," brand of cancer-stick that smells like doggie-doo on fire, but I've never run a burning sample, and I don't care to.
Mimi also liked to use all manner of Chap Stick brand (usually the black original flavor), Jergens and Eucerin hand lotions and Carmex lip pot. I also remember her, on special occasions, using something (I think from Crabtree and Evelyn) that smelled of Lily of the Valley or something similar. A very light, delicate almost honey-suckle scented cream. Mimi always smelled good, no matter what.
I am unable to smell any of these without recalling some scene from my childhood.
Grandma B's kitchen always smelled of instant Folger's coffee (the little glass jar with the green lid) which is a distinctly different smell, almost like that of the foil covered paper sealing the top of the jar... not unpleasant.... and fried bacon, eggs, Lipton's Breakfast Blend hot tea and white toast.
I also associate sauerkraut, boiling sausages or hot dogs, frying, carmelizing onions, melting salted butter and cherry pie with Grandma B.
Her house also had the smell of old spice wafting about (my grandpa C) as well as the sweet whiff of Worther's Original toffee candy, holiday ribbon candy (she almost always had a bowl of it), spice gumdrops, and Wrigley's Freedent gum.
Grandma B always smelled of toilette body pouf powder; I think it was Estee Lauder brand or something expensive smelling. I also associate fondly, the original Lysol smell and Pledge polish as well as Aqua Net hairspray.
In fact, Mimi used this too, so I just take it for granted that grandparents everywhere smell of perfumed chemicals on Sunday mornings. Grandmothers also smell this way upon their return from "the Beauty Shop," just having had their hair washed, set in curlers, dried, teased and sprayed until the fluffed curls were springy.
Grandpa C's hands always smelled of Dial soap, and the bedroom he shared with my grandmother always smelled of Lever 2000 soap; clean, manly, spicy and not sharp, but not subtle either.
Grandma B also used Surf and Tide laundry detergent and bounce dryer sheets. Her house smelled of clean cotton; that fresh, salty, spicy, sweet mix that happens when you open the dryer.
Mimi used Dreft, downy and bounce as well. Her house smelled of clean baby, but not the intoxicating and borderline asphyxiating smell of baby powder; more the soft, fresh, and flowery-warm nurturing and comforting smell.
Both houses smelled of sunshine streaming through windows, warming up the rooms.
Both sets of grandparents had designated bathrooms by sex; his being (in both houses) off the back bedroom, and the one belonging to Grandma not Grandpa, was in the middle of the house off the front bedrooms. Curious, how there was the same set-up in both houses.
Crown Royal, Scotch, Vodka Martinis and iced tea all remind me of Mimi.
Wine, port, Diet Dr. Pepper and lemonade all remind me of Grandma B.
It's amazing to me how almost every single member of my family has a designated smell in my brain.
I make "Christmas coffee," almost every morning - I just lace the freshly ground coffee beans with cinnamon, because that's what my mother does on Christmas morning, and I like the smell so much that I do it every morning.
My mom smells like cinnamon, vanilla, soap and something deeper. Her smell is warm.
My dad smells like Gillette Edge shaving cream, linen and soap. His smell is clean.
My great aunt Babe smelled of oatmeal cookies. I could keep going, but I think I'll stop there. I could go on and on about the smells of people I know. It would be impossible to cover all the bases. Chances are, if I've met you, I know what you smell like.
I wonder what I smell like now? What I'll smell like when I'm a mom and a grandma? I hope it's something pleasant, like chocolate and oranges. Some combination of comfort food and freshness.
I believe if you really want to know what someone smells like, their scent sits in the hollow of their throat just below their neck and above their clavicle and sternum. It also floats behind the ears and inside the crooks of their elbows, and at the nape of the back of their neck, or on the top of the crown of their head.
I've been told I smell like sugar cookies. I'm not quite sure if that's true... but I do believe it's possible that I smell of butter, sugar and vanilla because I bake and cook a lot.
I wish I really knew what my inherent smell is. I'm sure there's some chemistry, some process that can imitate, or mimic the smell of a particular person and their pheromones.
J's nose isn't "sensitive," or I'd ask him to smell me and tell me. He tells me I have "the most sensitive sniffer of anyone [he's] ever met," and since my dad used to tease me when I was a kid, telling me I was "part dog," because I had to smell and sniff everything, maybe he's right.
I just want someone to smell me and tell me I smell inherently good and describe the elements of my scent to me. That's probably a slightly insane request, but I'd really like to know.
Someday I'll find out.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Channeling Granny Weatherwax!
"Mmmmggggrrruuummmmphhhhh," J sighed, as he rolled over onto his side and scooted back against me.
"What time is it?" I mumbled, burrowing my face into his back and pulling him closer.
"Five-thirtysummingggggmmmphhhhh," he growled, "mmmmmm, you're so warm," he finished.
"MrrrrOOOOOW, brrr, brrrr, bRRRR, BBBBRRRRRRRRRR," purred Seuss, who had managed to slither his way between my shins and J's calves, wiggling into the narrow space slot, smiling contentedly with himself.
"Aaaaaaooooow, RrrrrrOW, AAAAAAow," murmured Obie pawing my hip with his huge ginger mitten; already demanding his breakfast.
Pad, pad, pad.... BIFF, hiss, HISSS, CHIRP! Thwap, SSSSHOUUUF, BIFF-BIFF-BIFF, bite, bite, grab, TACKLE, THUDITY-THUD!
The cats fell off the bed. Peace for a few more minutes at last.
Suddenly, I felt J shift and a very BRIGHT, GLOWING WHITE LIGHT was visible through my eyelids. Sneaking a peek through the slits of my eyelashes, I saw the source of the offending, blinding luminescence: J was checking his cell.
"I'm not ready for you to get up yet," I murmured, giving him a squeeze. He flipped towards me and pulled me into his chest.
"We have to get up in 3 minutes," he whispered, kissing my forehead....
BLAM! Tick-tick-tick-WHOOO-PHOOO! I plopped the heavy cast-iron skillet onto the stove and ignited the burner.
"You having coffee or tea this morning?" J said grinning at me while he twisted open the can we kept our beans in.
He was too cheerful. Normally I'm the cheerful morning person. Not this morning though, my dreams had been all wonky and I hadn't slept well.
"Definitely coffee," I said frowning quietly. Chuckling, he grabbed me into a backwards hug and kissed me on the cheek.
Everything inside the kitchen felt too bright this morning. I flipped off the overhead light in favor of the above oven lamp, pulling up the shades on the kitchen window to let in some of the lavender-gray darkness. Ah, sweet shadow.... Spurting some oil into the pan, I turned it to medium high and grabbed the smaller skillet resting behind the burner on the right, slid it to the front burner and christened it with oil as well.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-WHOOO-PHOOO!
"This burner scares me every time," I said grumpily to no one in particular.
"MMMRRRROOOOOOW!," screeched Obie, padding up to my knee and placing his paws half-way up my thigh, glaring at me with his giant yellow, orb-like eyes.
"That's nice Obie," I said sullenly, pushing him off. Seuss was watching like a little angel, which he's not, from the kitchen table... where he's not allowed to sit. "GerrOFF THE TABLE!" I hollered at him, threatening him with my wooden spoon. He blinked and tilted his head at me as if to say,
"Put my breakfast on the floor, and maybe I'll have a reason to get down!"
I shuffled over to the icebox, grabbing three eggs out of the till and a red pork-chop off the plate. Ugh, raw meat.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! The pork-chop hissed, dancing in the oil as it hit the pan. I flicked on the fan to clear the air, cursing at myself as a tiny drop of hot oil hit my right knuckle. After a few moments, I put the heavy lid on, listening to the meat snap and crackle inside it's blackened walls.
CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP! KaaaCHOO, CREEEEEEEEAAaaaaak, whined the door, J's boots thudding up the protesting stairs of our side porch.
"How are the chickies?" I asked more politely than I felt.
"Just fine Darlin," was the reply. I grabbed one of the eggs and cracking it, shlooped it into the pan, following with 2 more. Tapping them carefully with the wooden spoon to break their yolks, I returned to the chop. Removing the hefty lid, I grabbed the tongs and flipped it, waited until it felt seared enough, and slapped the lid back on.
"Is it horridly cold out?" I asked innocently.
"It's pretty cold. Supposed to be cold and snowy today."
"All DAY?" I said incredulously, moaning inside.
"Let me check," he said scooting into the library. "Just until NOON!" he called from within the depths of our books. Swirling his eggs around the pan, careful not to scrape them, I deemed them ready and unceremoniously dumped them onto a plate. I flipped the pork-chop again. It was almost ready.
Obie was practically hopping up and down stiff-legged as I snatched a can of organic turkey cat-food and leaned down to his bowl. Seuss joined in on the chorus of 'YAAY! You REMEMBERED US!' meowing.
Having gulped down his eggs, J stood up and strode over to the sink to drop off his bowl just as I was pulling his chop out of the pan.
"I don't think this is pork..." I said confusedly. "Do you think it's done?" I added.
"Hmm. It looks more like beef to me," he agreed. I cut into an edge of the meat. "Looks done just fine too," he said, tasting the small bite. I cut up the hefty slab... yeah, pigs aren't this big... and put the steaming food into a thermos for him to take. Tossing it into his bag as he glided by, he grabbed his books and computer from the living room and stuffing them into his pack, he zipped it up. Unzipping his coat, he gave me a warm hug and a kiss. "Have a nice day Darlin," he said looking down at me.
"You too Sweetie. Stay warm," I cautioned him. Swinging his bag around, his long legs took him swiftly through the house and out the front door with a wink and a wave.
Grumbling to myself, I ambled into the bathroom, washed my face and grabbed my thick sweatshirt. I found some thick cotton socks, and tugged those on, along with my baggy jeans. Grabbing my green mittens, I went tramping through the house to locate the broom.
"It's time," I said firmly to myself. Flipping my hood up and steeling myself against the expected chill, I swung open the front door, put the bristles down and began furiously sweeping left to right.
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Yes. I use a broom to sweep the snow. Our town has some stupid rule that the sidewalk must be cleared of snow by some certain time EVERY time it snows.
What are we supposed to do if we leave for jobs at 7:00 AM and it snows until noon? I don't know.
However, considering that the city has time to send me a formal letter of complaint about the height of one weed in my yard (they said it was over 12 inches, and I went out and measured it and it was only 6 inches), but they don't have time to leave citations for people parking and blocking us in our own driveway, or to remove some little kid's stolen bicycle from our front yard, or to friggin' PLOW THE ROADS THEY'RE RESPONSIBLE FOR, I don't have much sympathy for where my tax money is going or for their hoity-toity decrees.
In Vermont, we know how to plow the roads. It doesn't happen once a day. It begins around 4:00 AM, and folks in plow trucks go in cycles every hour or two, as long as the snow falls. They continue plowing and sanding to keep the roads SAFE ALL DAY LONG.
HERE, in Colorado, the city thinks it can just plow once--oh, and they don't plow up into people's driveways, to part the snow to the sides, no, no, they plow you IN and create PILES of snow in front of the cars as well as IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD so that it's even MORE dangerous---or twice a day. Then, they wonder why everyone is skidding off the road.
Don't get me STARTED on how some folks in Boulder with their ALL-WHEEL-DRIVE SUVs think that 2 inches of snow is TOO HARD TO DRIVE IN... I kid you not, I watched someone abandon their vehicle the first year I lived here when I was downtown. On Canyon. In traffic.
Digression over.
I had to clear the damned walkway as MANDATED by the CITY.
We do not have a snow shovel. I don't know why, we simply haven't purchased one yet. So, I went outside, like the little heathen witch I am, to sweep the front steps and sidewalk. I'm sure I looked crazy and I'm sure that when I'm an old woman, a broom will still be handier than a shovel at some point.
After working like a mad-woman down the side walk on either side in front of the house, I swooshed over to my little yellow VW and began to sweep the snow off of her body too. I caught people staring at me as they were driving by, and I don't care one sweet rat's patootie.
Then I came back inside, and my chore done-- poured myself a large cup of coffee, to which I added copious amounts of dark chocolate and almond milk, and sat down to write this and sip my Florentine (poor man's mocha).
I'm sure Granny would be proud of me -- sweeping the snow with a broom seems like something she would do if she had too; maybe I'll write a letter to Terry Pratchett and find out.
I also feel that sweeping the snow is something Mimi would've done... well, actually, that's not quite true... she probably would've bellowed at one of us (grandchildren) to get our turkey-butts outside and clear her walkway so that no one in the neighborhood would slip and fall to their deaths in front of her house. That sounds a bit more like it.
Someday I'll be a sweet, cantankerous old lady with a sparkle in her eye, cinnamon sweets in her pocket and a broom for sweeping little behinds out the door instead of snow off the porch. Until then, I just get to practice looking eccentric without the protection of age or grace.
My day is far from over. I have to make my breakfast, clean and tidy the house, do some more laundry (it never ends), finish the dishes, make some lunch, do some work, get ready for rehearsal tonight, and somewhere within all that try to make it to the grocery.
I don't think I'm going to make it to the market, to be honest. Luckily, I've plenty roasted veggies left-over from last night and J can cook the other chop when he gets home.
All I can say is... it had better NOT snow anymore because I already DID the dang' WALKWAY!
"What time is it?" I mumbled, burrowing my face into his back and pulling him closer.
"Five-thirtysummingggggmmmphhhhh," he growled, "mmmmmm, you're so warm," he finished.
"MrrrrOOOOOW, brrr, brrrr, bRRRR, BBBBRRRRRRRRRR," purred Seuss, who had managed to slither his way between my shins and J's calves, wiggling into the narrow space slot, smiling contentedly with himself.
"Aaaaaaooooow, RrrrrrOW, AAAAAAow," murmured Obie pawing my hip with his huge ginger mitten; already demanding his breakfast.
Pad, pad, pad.... BIFF, hiss, HISSS, CHIRP! Thwap, SSSSHOUUUF, BIFF-BIFF-BIFF, bite, bite, grab, TACKLE, THUDITY-THUD!
The cats fell off the bed. Peace for a few more minutes at last.
Suddenly, I felt J shift and a very BRIGHT, GLOWING WHITE LIGHT was visible through my eyelids. Sneaking a peek through the slits of my eyelashes, I saw the source of the offending, blinding luminescence: J was checking his cell.
"I'm not ready for you to get up yet," I murmured, giving him a squeeze. He flipped towards me and pulled me into his chest.
"We have to get up in 3 minutes," he whispered, kissing my forehead....
BLAM! Tick-tick-tick-WHOOO-PHOOO! I plopped the heavy cast-iron skillet onto the stove and ignited the burner.
"You having coffee or tea this morning?" J said grinning at me while he twisted open the can we kept our beans in.
He was too cheerful. Normally I'm the cheerful morning person. Not this morning though, my dreams had been all wonky and I hadn't slept well.
"Definitely coffee," I said frowning quietly. Chuckling, he grabbed me into a backwards hug and kissed me on the cheek.
Everything inside the kitchen felt too bright this morning. I flipped off the overhead light in favor of the above oven lamp, pulling up the shades on the kitchen window to let in some of the lavender-gray darkness. Ah, sweet shadow.... Spurting some oil into the pan, I turned it to medium high and grabbed the smaller skillet resting behind the burner on the right, slid it to the front burner and christened it with oil as well.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-WHOOO-PHOOO!
"This burner scares me every time," I said grumpily to no one in particular.
"MMMRRRROOOOOOW!," screeched Obie, padding up to my knee and placing his paws half-way up my thigh, glaring at me with his giant yellow, orb-like eyes.
"That's nice Obie," I said sullenly, pushing him off. Seuss was watching like a little angel, which he's not, from the kitchen table... where he's not allowed to sit. "GerrOFF THE TABLE!" I hollered at him, threatening him with my wooden spoon. He blinked and tilted his head at me as if to say,
"Put my breakfast on the floor, and maybe I'll have a reason to get down!"
I shuffled over to the icebox, grabbing three eggs out of the till and a red pork-chop off the plate. Ugh, raw meat.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! The pork-chop hissed, dancing in the oil as it hit the pan. I flicked on the fan to clear the air, cursing at myself as a tiny drop of hot oil hit my right knuckle. After a few moments, I put the heavy lid on, listening to the meat snap and crackle inside it's blackened walls.
CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP! KaaaCHOO, CREEEEEEEEAAaaaaak, whined the door, J's boots thudding up the protesting stairs of our side porch.
"How are the chickies?" I asked more politely than I felt.
"Just fine Darlin," was the reply. I grabbed one of the eggs and cracking it, shlooped it into the pan, following with 2 more. Tapping them carefully with the wooden spoon to break their yolks, I returned to the chop. Removing the hefty lid, I grabbed the tongs and flipped it, waited until it felt seared enough, and slapped the lid back on.
"Is it horridly cold out?" I asked innocently.
"It's pretty cold. Supposed to be cold and snowy today."
"All DAY?" I said incredulously, moaning inside.
"Let me check," he said scooting into the library. "Just until NOON!" he called from within the depths of our books. Swirling his eggs around the pan, careful not to scrape them, I deemed them ready and unceremoniously dumped them onto a plate. I flipped the pork-chop again. It was almost ready.
Obie was practically hopping up and down stiff-legged as I snatched a can of organic turkey cat-food and leaned down to his bowl. Seuss joined in on the chorus of 'YAAY! You REMEMBERED US!' meowing.
Having gulped down his eggs, J stood up and strode over to the sink to drop off his bowl just as I was pulling his chop out of the pan.
"I don't think this is pork..." I said confusedly. "Do you think it's done?" I added.
"Hmm. It looks more like beef to me," he agreed. I cut into an edge of the meat. "Looks done just fine too," he said, tasting the small bite. I cut up the hefty slab... yeah, pigs aren't this big... and put the steaming food into a thermos for him to take. Tossing it into his bag as he glided by, he grabbed his books and computer from the living room and stuffing them into his pack, he zipped it up. Unzipping his coat, he gave me a warm hug and a kiss. "Have a nice day Darlin," he said looking down at me.
"You too Sweetie. Stay warm," I cautioned him. Swinging his bag around, his long legs took him swiftly through the house and out the front door with a wink and a wave.
Grumbling to myself, I ambled into the bathroom, washed my face and grabbed my thick sweatshirt. I found some thick cotton socks, and tugged those on, along with my baggy jeans. Grabbing my green mittens, I went tramping through the house to locate the broom.
"It's time," I said firmly to myself. Flipping my hood up and steeling myself against the expected chill, I swung open the front door, put the bristles down and began furiously sweeping left to right.
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Yes. I use a broom to sweep the snow. Our town has some stupid rule that the sidewalk must be cleared of snow by some certain time EVERY time it snows.
What are we supposed to do if we leave for jobs at 7:00 AM and it snows until noon? I don't know.
However, considering that the city has time to send me a formal letter of complaint about the height of one weed in my yard (they said it was over 12 inches, and I went out and measured it and it was only 6 inches), but they don't have time to leave citations for people parking and blocking us in our own driveway, or to remove some little kid's stolen bicycle from our front yard, or to friggin' PLOW THE ROADS THEY'RE RESPONSIBLE FOR, I don't have much sympathy for where my tax money is going or for their hoity-toity decrees.
In Vermont, we know how to plow the roads. It doesn't happen once a day. It begins around 4:00 AM, and folks in plow trucks go in cycles every hour or two, as long as the snow falls. They continue plowing and sanding to keep the roads SAFE ALL DAY LONG.
HERE, in Colorado, the city thinks it can just plow once--oh, and they don't plow up into people's driveways, to part the snow to the sides, no, no, they plow you IN and create PILES of snow in front of the cars as well as IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD so that it's even MORE dangerous---or twice a day. Then, they wonder why everyone is skidding off the road.
Don't get me STARTED on how some folks in Boulder with their ALL-WHEEL-DRIVE SUVs think that 2 inches of snow is TOO HARD TO DRIVE IN... I kid you not, I watched someone abandon their vehicle the first year I lived here when I was downtown. On Canyon. In traffic.
Digression over.
I had to clear the damned walkway as MANDATED by the CITY.
We do not have a snow shovel. I don't know why, we simply haven't purchased one yet. So, I went outside, like the little heathen witch I am, to sweep the front steps and sidewalk. I'm sure I looked crazy and I'm sure that when I'm an old woman, a broom will still be handier than a shovel at some point.
After working like a mad-woman down the side walk on either side in front of the house, I swooshed over to my little yellow VW and began to sweep the snow off of her body too. I caught people staring at me as they were driving by, and I don't care one sweet rat's patootie.
Then I came back inside, and my chore done-- poured myself a large cup of coffee, to which I added copious amounts of dark chocolate and almond milk, and sat down to write this and sip my Florentine (poor man's mocha).
I'm sure Granny would be proud of me -- sweeping the snow with a broom seems like something she would do if she had too; maybe I'll write a letter to Terry Pratchett and find out.
I also feel that sweeping the snow is something Mimi would've done... well, actually, that's not quite true... she probably would've bellowed at one of us (grandchildren) to get our turkey-butts outside and clear her walkway so that no one in the neighborhood would slip and fall to their deaths in front of her house. That sounds a bit more like it.
Someday I'll be a sweet, cantankerous old lady with a sparkle in her eye, cinnamon sweets in her pocket and a broom for sweeping little behinds out the door instead of snow off the porch. Until then, I just get to practice looking eccentric without the protection of age or grace.
My day is far from over. I have to make my breakfast, clean and tidy the house, do some more laundry (it never ends), finish the dishes, make some lunch, do some work, get ready for rehearsal tonight, and somewhere within all that try to make it to the grocery.
I don't think I'm going to make it to the market, to be honest. Luckily, I've plenty roasted veggies left-over from last night and J can cook the other chop when he gets home.
All I can say is... it had better NOT snow anymore because I already DID the dang' WALKWAY!
Monday, February 6, 2012
Sometimes, I just don't feel like it...
Hiiiisssss, gurgle-gurgle, ping, ping, ping, bubble-bubble-bubble....
I sighed at myself and lifted my old tea kettle. It wasn't a fancy kettle, but it beat boiling water in a pot and risking the dangerous into the one-cup-funnel pour which I frequently used for hot-chocolate.
The kettle used to be a creamy, gray-buttery porcelain. Now it just looked like a really well-loved tea pot. It had a nice brown-blackened belly from sitting directly on the fire, it's smooth surface shiny and comforting. The bamboo handle was warm from it's copper hook attachments to the clay body, and it felt sturdy and solid as I went towards the cup; none of this sloshing around from having a handle on the side business.
I poured the not-quite-boiling water over my loose-leaf green tea leaves, or 'yerba-mate.' The smell of hippy... I love hippies... I kinda' am one... earthy, fragrant steam wafted up to my nostrils.... mmmmmmm... smoky, roasted, warm and with delicate leaf, flower and amber notes. This tea would accompany me nicely on my walk this morning.
Okay: Scarf? Check. Hoodie? Check. Awesome fuzzy-hooded gray coat with thumbholes? Check. Hot beverage? Check.
CRUNCH! Squeak-snap-CRUNCH-crunch-crunch!
So. Cold.
I muttered to myself about my ridiculous idea of taking a shower this morning instead of the way I usually do: at night, as my damp hair whipped out of the two hoods and into my face; effectively blocking my view as I tried to make my way carefully down the sidewalk... which was covered completely with ice...
Marching briskly to the end of the sidewalk, glancing left and right, I prepared to cross.
SNAAAAP. CRACK! ShhhhhhhhhHHHHHH!
"MARTHA STEWART LIIIIIIIIVING!!!" I shouted. The road had just attempted to kill me.
[Yes, that is often the way I curse; I used to teach dance to small children (actually ages 3 through 18) and swearing is not really welcomed by parents. I also say: Sugar Plum FAIRies, SUBaru, FUSter-CLUCK, Mother-Trucker, Sweet BARnaby and anything else mundane that jumps into my head, such as book titles, the names of famous people, horse breeds, and many other random nouns that can be used as adjectives.]
When a body hits ice, it's not like hitting dirt, or even concrete. It feels harder, colder and more unyielding. Concrete at least has a surface texture; you don't notice the impassive strength underneath. Ice just freezes you, and helps to remind you you're alive, by pressing your bones against your softer parts and meeting them forcefully through the tissue, like a hard, cold, too-tight pinch. Ice bruises, and burns, and as if that weren't enough, it further humiliates it's victims by sliding them farther along it's surface after they've fallen down.
However, this morning, my 'Martha,' exclamation saved me. I just slid forward and waved like an idiot, dancing the way most people who aren't penguins do when they're about to fall, and awkwardly recovered my balance.
Well, that was it. I'd had it. Sometimes the universe is telling you something. If you wake up and you feel like staying home, do it. Everyone needs time off. Never mind that I hadn't walked in the morning since Thursday, if I ventured outside in the A.M. and took a few steps, that is by definition a WALK outside in the MORNING. So there.
I carefully turned around, puffing slightly at this point; my frozen hair sticking to my cheeks, and gently goose-stepped back over the distance I'd just traveled without moving at all, and back on to the comparative safety of the sidewalk. Even the little squares of concrete weren't really safe, after all. Everything was knobby, crunchy and SLIPPERY as all get-out. I paused, and took a deep sip of my tea. The warm fragrant liquid slid down into my belly, instantly warming me and comforting me. It was at that moment that I thought to myself,
"This counts. I walked. A short walk, but still, a walk nonetheless. I can now go inside and drink my tea without danger of falling and spilling it all over myself."
Through the gate. Crossed the yard. Tediously tiptoed up the steps to the front porch. Unlocked the door and,
WHOOOOOOOOOOSHHHH, warm air hit me full force as it escaped from the house. Our thermostat is set at 68 degrees. That tells you how COLD it was this morning. Tossing the door shut behind me, I sank onto the sofa, closed my eyes, and breathed in the aroma of my tea again.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I love tea. I love coffee too. I love just about anything hot and drinkable that goes in a cup. My cold beverages, however, cannot simply be cold. They must contain ice. Iced-water has ice in it. It's not just water that you happened to have sitting in the icebox (and by icebox I mean, refridgerator. Icebox is more fun to say, and I grew up with it, so :-P).
I don't understand this phenomenon of people wanting "chilled water," when it tastes so much better with real ice-cubes in it. However, this practice of mine may stem from the fact, that in Oklahoma, where it gets over 100 degrees in the summer, things simply "chilled," don't stay that way very long.
My cousin N and I used to argue about this ice-cube preference, especially when our family was headed to the movies. N thinks that ice is the way consumers get cheated by restaurants, theatres and food-service places, because the more ice they put in, the less drink you get. He likes to watch carefully while the concession-attendant in the movies is filling the cup with ice, and holler, "THAT'S ENOUGH," so that he gets his full allotment of sugared, fizzy water. He's probably right about the whole ice costs less than the soda they charge us for thing, but I still think drinks taste better when they're really, really cold and slightly diluted.
Each to their own, whatever floats your boat, and I don't give a hoot if you want ice or not; I'm ordering it. This brings me to how people like to eat other things. For example, I cannot eat commercial ketchup, being allergic to corn and therefore high fructose corn syrup, so I like the organic stuff. Annie's is my favorite. I like to mix it with hot sauce, and vegan aioli (garlic, sunflower oil and lemon juice) so it has a sort of creamy Heinz 57 steak sauce taste. This mixture is what I enjoy on my french fries (which I don't often have, but find quite delicious).
My partner, J, finds this disturbing. He doesn't like the way I constantly 'doctor,' my condiments. I don't like that when he's at work he cooks his eggs in the microwave (he has to if he doesn't have enough time to eat breakfast before he leaves) because it smells funny and he comes home smelling faintly of eggs-in-the-microwave. Besides that, microwaves bother me in general. If pregnant ladies aren't supposed to be around them, what makes my uterus safe around it? So we don't have one in the house. Nor do we have reusable plastic containers. Besides, microwaves are a P.I.T.A. to clean, and they always smell of whatever was last cooked in them.
All my nalgene bottles from college are now spare change collectors. I'm serious, they no longer serve as my water carrying receptacles. I hate the way plastic tastes and I don't think it's meant to be reused as many times as most people do. We use mason jars. I also reuse our bhakti chai jugs and glass containers that have proper screw-on lids. All of this may seem impractical, but dammit, I detest plastic; the way it smells, stretches, leaches, deteriorates... and it makes food and liquids taste extremely strangely.
Ok, enough about containers. Back to the way people like things. Everyone likes things the way they like them: plain and simple, or flavored and complex. J hates pickles and olives. I love them. I don't like the smell of raw meat or eggs, it doesn't bother him in the slightest. However, we both love each other and get along and that's what life's about. Part of being with someone means accepting that disagreement happens all the time, over everything. It's the fact that you love someone ANYWAY that matters.
J will never understand why I hate immediately cleaning out the cast iron pan we have designated to cook eggs in (it smells too strongly, I have to wait until it's dry.... and harder to clean) and I will never understand why he forgets to clean out the coffee grinder after he's put the fresh coffee from its well, into the filter.
Life. Goes. On.
Plus, having learned each other's little quirky idiosyncrasies we now have things to sweetly tease each other about (ONLY good-natured teasing of course) and we make allowances and compromises for each other all the time. I actually love compromises; it keeps me from becoming too set in my ways.
He keeps me on my toes, and if I wasn't on my toes a bit, I'd have shitty balance, and who wants that?
I sighed at myself and lifted my old tea kettle. It wasn't a fancy kettle, but it beat boiling water in a pot and risking the dangerous into the one-cup-funnel pour which I frequently used for hot-chocolate.
The kettle used to be a creamy, gray-buttery porcelain. Now it just looked like a really well-loved tea pot. It had a nice brown-blackened belly from sitting directly on the fire, it's smooth surface shiny and comforting. The bamboo handle was warm from it's copper hook attachments to the clay body, and it felt sturdy and solid as I went towards the cup; none of this sloshing around from having a handle on the side business.
I poured the not-quite-boiling water over my loose-leaf green tea leaves, or 'yerba-mate.' The smell of hippy... I love hippies... I kinda' am one... earthy, fragrant steam wafted up to my nostrils.... mmmmmmm... smoky, roasted, warm and with delicate leaf, flower and amber notes. This tea would accompany me nicely on my walk this morning.
Okay: Scarf? Check. Hoodie? Check. Awesome fuzzy-hooded gray coat with thumbholes? Check. Hot beverage? Check.
CRUNCH! Squeak-snap-CRUNCH-crunch-crunch!
So. Cold.
I muttered to myself about my ridiculous idea of taking a shower this morning instead of the way I usually do: at night, as my damp hair whipped out of the two hoods and into my face; effectively blocking my view as I tried to make my way carefully down the sidewalk... which was covered completely with ice...
Marching briskly to the end of the sidewalk, glancing left and right, I prepared to cross.
SNAAAAP. CRACK! ShhhhhhhhhHHHHHH!
"MARTHA STEWART LIIIIIIIIVING!!!" I shouted. The road had just attempted to kill me.
[Yes, that is often the way I curse; I used to teach dance to small children (actually ages 3 through 18) and swearing is not really welcomed by parents. I also say: Sugar Plum FAIRies, SUBaru, FUSter-CLUCK, Mother-Trucker, Sweet BARnaby and anything else mundane that jumps into my head, such as book titles, the names of famous people, horse breeds, and many other random nouns that can be used as adjectives.]
When a body hits ice, it's not like hitting dirt, or even concrete. It feels harder, colder and more unyielding. Concrete at least has a surface texture; you don't notice the impassive strength underneath. Ice just freezes you, and helps to remind you you're alive, by pressing your bones against your softer parts and meeting them forcefully through the tissue, like a hard, cold, too-tight pinch. Ice bruises, and burns, and as if that weren't enough, it further humiliates it's victims by sliding them farther along it's surface after they've fallen down.
However, this morning, my 'Martha,' exclamation saved me. I just slid forward and waved like an idiot, dancing the way most people who aren't penguins do when they're about to fall, and awkwardly recovered my balance.
Well, that was it. I'd had it. Sometimes the universe is telling you something. If you wake up and you feel like staying home, do it. Everyone needs time off. Never mind that I hadn't walked in the morning since Thursday, if I ventured outside in the A.M. and took a few steps, that is by definition a WALK outside in the MORNING. So there.
I carefully turned around, puffing slightly at this point; my frozen hair sticking to my cheeks, and gently goose-stepped back over the distance I'd just traveled without moving at all, and back on to the comparative safety of the sidewalk. Even the little squares of concrete weren't really safe, after all. Everything was knobby, crunchy and SLIPPERY as all get-out. I paused, and took a deep sip of my tea. The warm fragrant liquid slid down into my belly, instantly warming me and comforting me. It was at that moment that I thought to myself,
"This counts. I walked. A short walk, but still, a walk nonetheless. I can now go inside and drink my tea without danger of falling and spilling it all over myself."
Through the gate. Crossed the yard. Tediously tiptoed up the steps to the front porch. Unlocked the door and,
WHOOOOOOOOOOSHHHH, warm air hit me full force as it escaped from the house. Our thermostat is set at 68 degrees. That tells you how COLD it was this morning. Tossing the door shut behind me, I sank onto the sofa, closed my eyes, and breathed in the aroma of my tea again.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I love tea. I love coffee too. I love just about anything hot and drinkable that goes in a cup. My cold beverages, however, cannot simply be cold. They must contain ice. Iced-water has ice in it. It's not just water that you happened to have sitting in the icebox (and by icebox I mean, refridgerator. Icebox is more fun to say, and I grew up with it, so :-P).
I don't understand this phenomenon of people wanting "chilled water," when it tastes so much better with real ice-cubes in it. However, this practice of mine may stem from the fact, that in Oklahoma, where it gets over 100 degrees in the summer, things simply "chilled," don't stay that way very long.
My cousin N and I used to argue about this ice-cube preference, especially when our family was headed to the movies. N thinks that ice is the way consumers get cheated by restaurants, theatres and food-service places, because the more ice they put in, the less drink you get. He likes to watch carefully while the concession-attendant in the movies is filling the cup with ice, and holler, "THAT'S ENOUGH," so that he gets his full allotment of sugared, fizzy water. He's probably right about the whole ice costs less than the soda they charge us for thing, but I still think drinks taste better when they're really, really cold and slightly diluted.
Each to their own, whatever floats your boat, and I don't give a hoot if you want ice or not; I'm ordering it. This brings me to how people like to eat other things. For example, I cannot eat commercial ketchup, being allergic to corn and therefore high fructose corn syrup, so I like the organic stuff. Annie's is my favorite. I like to mix it with hot sauce, and vegan aioli (garlic, sunflower oil and lemon juice) so it has a sort of creamy Heinz 57 steak sauce taste. This mixture is what I enjoy on my french fries (which I don't often have, but find quite delicious).
My partner, J, finds this disturbing. He doesn't like the way I constantly 'doctor,' my condiments. I don't like that when he's at work he cooks his eggs in the microwave (he has to if he doesn't have enough time to eat breakfast before he leaves) because it smells funny and he comes home smelling faintly of eggs-in-the-microwave. Besides that, microwaves bother me in general. If pregnant ladies aren't supposed to be around them, what makes my uterus safe around it? So we don't have one in the house. Nor do we have reusable plastic containers. Besides, microwaves are a P.I.T.A. to clean, and they always smell of whatever was last cooked in them.
All my nalgene bottles from college are now spare change collectors. I'm serious, they no longer serve as my water carrying receptacles. I hate the way plastic tastes and I don't think it's meant to be reused as many times as most people do. We use mason jars. I also reuse our bhakti chai jugs and glass containers that have proper screw-on lids. All of this may seem impractical, but dammit, I detest plastic; the way it smells, stretches, leaches, deteriorates... and it makes food and liquids taste extremely strangely.
Ok, enough about containers. Back to the way people like things. Everyone likes things the way they like them: plain and simple, or flavored and complex. J hates pickles and olives. I love them. I don't like the smell of raw meat or eggs, it doesn't bother him in the slightest. However, we both love each other and get along and that's what life's about. Part of being with someone means accepting that disagreement happens all the time, over everything. It's the fact that you love someone ANYWAY that matters.
J will never understand why I hate immediately cleaning out the cast iron pan we have designated to cook eggs in (it smells too strongly, I have to wait until it's dry.... and harder to clean) and I will never understand why he forgets to clean out the coffee grinder after he's put the fresh coffee from its well, into the filter.
Life. Goes. On.
Plus, having learned each other's little quirky idiosyncrasies we now have things to sweetly tease each other about (ONLY good-natured teasing of course) and we make allowances and compromises for each other all the time. I actually love compromises; it keeps me from becoming too set in my ways.
He keeps me on my toes, and if I wasn't on my toes a bit, I'd have shitty balance, and who wants that?
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Carpe diem, carpe noctum...
" It smells like snow out here," the thought struck me like a butterfly would if it had landed on your shoulder on a breeze-less day.
The sky was gray; not plain gray, but gray with a purple, black, charcoal lining.
Gray which soaked into the clouds trying to reflect the morning sun's rising. Gray that seemed to cloak the trees and their gnarled, dancing branches in a hooded veil of silver. Gray that caused the street-lamps to have a golden, haloed glow even at 7:03 in the morning.
It felt like the witching hour, as though if I said the wrong thing, the crow following me this morning (and he did follow me, cackling every once in a while along the length of my walk) would swoop down, land on my shoulder and berate me for disturbing the moment.
The trees seemed to breathe, as though if I turned my eyes away for a moment, they could exhale in relief, only to have me look back at them, now holding my own breath to see if I could note their gently, slowly, minutely waving trunks, the roll of their breath expanding downwards from the sky.
Time felt still, as though I had stumbled upon a scene forever frozen by my presence. The magic could not float on the mist, nor crackle from branch to branch, nor gust over the crow, waiting to float on its currents.
The trees this morning seemed more alive to me than usual. Trees are always alive.
They are the ancients holding the wisdom of the earth. Just as the elephants, sea turtles, whales, and other enormous, seemingly ancient species have knowledge of soulful things that we humans can never quite grasp.
Even the smallest mite has a world all to it's own that we can perhaps never even begin to fathom. The trees, the animals, the living creatures who can't manufacture plastic; these beings are the wise ones...
Glancing up and down the street I felt a chill begin at the top of my head and trickle slowly down me. Not an unpleasant shudder, like that when you're looking closely at something and recognitive danger hits you full in the face...
"What's that inside that sun umbrella? It looks like a giant rock fell in there.... NOPE! THAT'S A HORNET'S NEST! AAAAH, RUUUUNNNN!!!!"
I frequently have had those moments stun me; nature has defenses that I've a deep and thorough respect for.
This chill, however thrilling and goose-bump raising, was one of awareness, of acknowledgement that the mysteries live on unnoticed every day. The magic in the world resides and pulses, filling up all the gray areas that we take for granted.
I absolutely LOVE trees. I am a self-proclaimed tree hugger; J has even taken pictures of me doing it. Touching a tree is such an amazing experience. The smell, the texture of their barky-skin, the sounds they make, the breadth they hold, the energy that envelops you around them... trees are wondrous, amazing and breathtaking creatures.
When I was a little girl, I lived in the great plains. I felt as though the center of things was where the earth met the sky, and again where the ocean met the sky. In our front yard, we had lush grass and a very, VERY tall soft pine tree. It's sap was delicious smelling (but tasted spicy, bitter and thick) like cinnamon, cardamom and vanilla with a hint of fresh cedar laced earth.
I used to spend hours with that tree, leaning against it's bark (ruining my clothes because sap is not easy to remove) staring up into its branches while lying flat on my back on the ground - the upside down feeling washing over me like some sort of physiological high from my imagination. I still like to lay on my back and zoom upwards in flight, climbing from branch to branch without any fear of falling; just the dizzying sensation that I was up at the top of the tree, riding it's energy like an invisible surf.
That tree had the best hand-holds, foot-holds, and seat. It's first two branches were strong and sturdy; big enough to swing up and sit very comfortably on, but not so big that you couldn't reach around to get a good hold, not too high so that you had to gasp to see if you'd make it into the tree's arms. Those first two branches were supple and comforting. I would lean against a hollow in the trunk; it fit my torso perfectly, as did a dip in the branch my weight was supported by. I'd snuggle up to that pine, breathing in it's smell, sending it warm wishes, love, my secrets, hopes and fears.
When we moved away from that house, that yard and those trees, I cried. I cried myself silly. I felt as though I couldn't bear it; it was such a jolt, a ripping shock to be taken away from the nooks and crannies of nature in which I felt safe.
Years later, as an adult, I went back to that house. The owners had painted it a horrid neon-creamy-peach color; it glowed. In the daytime. That wasn't the worst part of it all. Not the ugly plastic just under life-size greyhound statues they'd put by the flagstone walk. Not the tearing down of the lovely built in porch swing which they'd replaced with a stripey-awning covered monstrosity. Not the empty, desecrated flowerbeds, which we'd had full of pansies and holly, no.... my tree...
They'd cut it's first four branches clean off, and again removed more limbs further up.
I lost my self-control. I felt enraged, angry and hurt. Walking slowly up to my tree, tears streaming down my face I whispered gently, wrapping my arms as widely as I could around the golden, silvery trunk, noticing the sap pools, rivers, like crusted, gooey dried blood on it's sides.
"Maybe it was diseased..." my dad said softly, putting a hand on my shoulder.
Impossible. No sign of rot, no tent-worms, no mites, not even ants were crawling on it's surface. I simply couldn't bear any more. I wanted to protect the tree, to carefully and meticulously dig it up, rent a truck and bring it home with us.
I kissed one of the large, smooth scales on it's trunk, now flaking. Whispering again to my old, dear friend,
"I never would have let this happen. It doesn't matter, except that it does. I love you. Grow strong, send your roots deep. You'll grow even more beautiful branches, and I'll come back to visit. I promise," I vowed breathlessly, my throat swollen, my jaw tight because of the constriction of upset.
I have been back to that tree. The last time was around 4 years ago. I owe it another visit soon. Perhaps this time when I turn down the old familiar street, the tar patched lines gently beating a rhythm with the tires on the gray pavement, I'll see that place again.
The house will be painted a new whitewash, the old 1920's bricks gleaming like new, freshly in the sun.
The flower bed will have purple pansies and marigolds and tulips, winking at me as I pull to the front curb, just before the driveway. The poplars will shimmer at me, their two-colored leaves flipping back and forth in greeting.
A new swing will hang from the end of the pillared flagstone porch, anchored in the ceiling.
The only thing framing the steps will be holly bushes, honeysuckle and red-earth colored planters holding little handfuls of geraniums.
My tree will be glorious. Strong, smooth knots where it's old arms used to be, there will be new branches beginning, supple, young and sprouting confidently. It's shade will again make a large, sacred, special circle on the ground, and I'll lay down,
gaze up into it's depths,
and sigh.
The sky was gray; not plain gray, but gray with a purple, black, charcoal lining.
Gray which soaked into the clouds trying to reflect the morning sun's rising. Gray that seemed to cloak the trees and their gnarled, dancing branches in a hooded veil of silver. Gray that caused the street-lamps to have a golden, haloed glow even at 7:03 in the morning.
It felt like the witching hour, as though if I said the wrong thing, the crow following me this morning (and he did follow me, cackling every once in a while along the length of my walk) would swoop down, land on my shoulder and berate me for disturbing the moment.
The trees seemed to breathe, as though if I turned my eyes away for a moment, they could exhale in relief, only to have me look back at them, now holding my own breath to see if I could note their gently, slowly, minutely waving trunks, the roll of their breath expanding downwards from the sky.
Time felt still, as though I had stumbled upon a scene forever frozen by my presence. The magic could not float on the mist, nor crackle from branch to branch, nor gust over the crow, waiting to float on its currents.
The trees this morning seemed more alive to me than usual. Trees are always alive.
They are the ancients holding the wisdom of the earth. Just as the elephants, sea turtles, whales, and other enormous, seemingly ancient species have knowledge of soulful things that we humans can never quite grasp.
Even the smallest mite has a world all to it's own that we can perhaps never even begin to fathom. The trees, the animals, the living creatures who can't manufacture plastic; these beings are the wise ones...
Glancing up and down the street I felt a chill begin at the top of my head and trickle slowly down me. Not an unpleasant shudder, like that when you're looking closely at something and recognitive danger hits you full in the face...
"What's that inside that sun umbrella? It looks like a giant rock fell in there.... NOPE! THAT'S A HORNET'S NEST! AAAAH, RUUUUNNNN!!!!"
I frequently have had those moments stun me; nature has defenses that I've a deep and thorough respect for.
This chill, however thrilling and goose-bump raising, was one of awareness, of acknowledgement that the mysteries live on unnoticed every day. The magic in the world resides and pulses, filling up all the gray areas that we take for granted.
I absolutely LOVE trees. I am a self-proclaimed tree hugger; J has even taken pictures of me doing it. Touching a tree is such an amazing experience. The smell, the texture of their barky-skin, the sounds they make, the breadth they hold, the energy that envelops you around them... trees are wondrous, amazing and breathtaking creatures.
When I was a little girl, I lived in the great plains. I felt as though the center of things was where the earth met the sky, and again where the ocean met the sky. In our front yard, we had lush grass and a very, VERY tall soft pine tree. It's sap was delicious smelling (but tasted spicy, bitter and thick) like cinnamon, cardamom and vanilla with a hint of fresh cedar laced earth.
I used to spend hours with that tree, leaning against it's bark (ruining my clothes because sap is not easy to remove) staring up into its branches while lying flat on my back on the ground - the upside down feeling washing over me like some sort of physiological high from my imagination. I still like to lay on my back and zoom upwards in flight, climbing from branch to branch without any fear of falling; just the dizzying sensation that I was up at the top of the tree, riding it's energy like an invisible surf.
That tree had the best hand-holds, foot-holds, and seat. It's first two branches were strong and sturdy; big enough to swing up and sit very comfortably on, but not so big that you couldn't reach around to get a good hold, not too high so that you had to gasp to see if you'd make it into the tree's arms. Those first two branches were supple and comforting. I would lean against a hollow in the trunk; it fit my torso perfectly, as did a dip in the branch my weight was supported by. I'd snuggle up to that pine, breathing in it's smell, sending it warm wishes, love, my secrets, hopes and fears.
When we moved away from that house, that yard and those trees, I cried. I cried myself silly. I felt as though I couldn't bear it; it was such a jolt, a ripping shock to be taken away from the nooks and crannies of nature in which I felt safe.
Years later, as an adult, I went back to that house. The owners had painted it a horrid neon-creamy-peach color; it glowed. In the daytime. That wasn't the worst part of it all. Not the ugly plastic just under life-size greyhound statues they'd put by the flagstone walk. Not the tearing down of the lovely built in porch swing which they'd replaced with a stripey-awning covered monstrosity. Not the empty, desecrated flowerbeds, which we'd had full of pansies and holly, no.... my tree...
They'd cut it's first four branches clean off, and again removed more limbs further up.
I lost my self-control. I felt enraged, angry and hurt. Walking slowly up to my tree, tears streaming down my face I whispered gently, wrapping my arms as widely as I could around the golden, silvery trunk, noticing the sap pools, rivers, like crusted, gooey dried blood on it's sides.
"Maybe it was diseased..." my dad said softly, putting a hand on my shoulder.
Impossible. No sign of rot, no tent-worms, no mites, not even ants were crawling on it's surface. I simply couldn't bear any more. I wanted to protect the tree, to carefully and meticulously dig it up, rent a truck and bring it home with us.
I kissed one of the large, smooth scales on it's trunk, now flaking. Whispering again to my old, dear friend,
"I never would have let this happen. It doesn't matter, except that it does. I love you. Grow strong, send your roots deep. You'll grow even more beautiful branches, and I'll come back to visit. I promise," I vowed breathlessly, my throat swollen, my jaw tight because of the constriction of upset.
I have been back to that tree. The last time was around 4 years ago. I owe it another visit soon. Perhaps this time when I turn down the old familiar street, the tar patched lines gently beating a rhythm with the tires on the gray pavement, I'll see that place again.
The house will be painted a new whitewash, the old 1920's bricks gleaming like new, freshly in the sun.
The flower bed will have purple pansies and marigolds and tulips, winking at me as I pull to the front curb, just before the driveway. The poplars will shimmer at me, their two-colored leaves flipping back and forth in greeting.
A new swing will hang from the end of the pillared flagstone porch, anchored in the ceiling.
The only thing framing the steps will be holly bushes, honeysuckle and red-earth colored planters holding little handfuls of geraniums.
My tree will be glorious. Strong, smooth knots where it's old arms used to be, there will be new branches beginning, supple, young and sprouting confidently. It's shade will again make a large, sacred, special circle on the ground, and I'll lay down,
gaze up into it's depths,
and sigh.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Tall fair stranger...
Creeeeak TAPity-TAP-Thud, the screen door chattered behind me.
The air outside was cold...not bitterly cold, but the kind of cold that flushes cheeks, sparkles eyes and mists breath, so that anyone walking about in it has a sort of forced, hassled-cherub look.
My sneakers patted along the pavement, I used one sleeve covered hand to tug on the strings of my hoodie, nestling my ears against the thick, heavy, cotton.
Rounding the corner, I saw a figure approaching, silhouetted in the light morning clear.
Instantly, by the stranger's coloring, demeanor and stature, I was reminded of my good friend B.R. He got married the summer before last - beautiful wedding to a sweet girl. He's a really good guy; fun to be around, handsome, and just generally wholesome (though he can swear readily and well, despite his cheery nature).
"I miss B.R." I thought casually to myself. It felt forever since his wedding (at which my friends K, M and I had a fabulous time. I swing danced and hung out with B.R.'s amazing uncle a lot of the time too).
The gentleman approaching (and I say gentleman because that's definitely what I consider B.R. to be, and this guy was echoing loudly of him) was wearing a khaki coat, a yellow-green-ish scarf, jeans, leather shoes, and carrying a messenger satchel. His light sandy coloured hair was being blown gently in the wind, reflecting gold, and a blue button-down, striped shirt was peaking out from beneath his wrappings. Perfectly pink flushed cheeks against the pale of his skin, gave him quite a youthful, angelic appearance.
He was attractive; in a graduate student, tall, intelligent, pure and energetic sort of way. Definitely not a 'bad boy,' style, unless I missed something.
His eyes were bright green and twinkling as we prepared to cross-paths on the sidewalk.
"Hello," he said lightly, with the gentle suggestion of embarrassment and a quickly hiding smile.
"Morning," I said softly back, grinning at him. I was most likely looking like a cross between a bag lady and a cheshire cat, with my hair wispy around my face from the wind, my cheeks framed by my hoodie and encircled with my purple-plaid scarf.
Maybe I should dress up more for my early morning excursions... he certainly looked put together. We were both carrying the trade-mark first (or perhaps second) cup of coffee (or maybe it was tea, who knows. He could be an English Breakfast or Prince of Wales -- my favorite black tea-- type of guy). He seemed as though he was in a hurry, but would've normally enjoyed a chat with a perfect stranger on a sidewalk.
People are fascinating to me. Every once in a while, you meet someone new who reminds you of someone you already know; someone from your past. You then begin to have multiple associations towards these two people; you like the new one because they echo the old one, of whom you have fond memories and past experiences with.
This guy I passed this morning on my jaunt is probably absolutely nothing akin to the way he's being painted in my head.
However, since I'm probably not going to run into him again (though, who knows) I'll never find out, and thus I feel safe in my assessment and projection onto him.
Perhaps I'm wrong and we'll have coffee and become friends and discuss our significant others over hot beverages... but I doubt it.
Anyway, I think that we attract energies in our lives; we are drawn to people with one or more vibrations that we need. We feel happy and warm and comfortable around them. Conversely, there are people we attract who exist to teach us something, and not all lessons are easy and pleasant, but we all move in cycles in our lives. I think we'll keep repeating our patterns until we learn to change what truth we're believing, performing, assuming or ignoring about ourselves and our actions and reactions.
Now, I'm going to go have cake and tea for breakfast.
The air outside was cold...not bitterly cold, but the kind of cold that flushes cheeks, sparkles eyes and mists breath, so that anyone walking about in it has a sort of forced, hassled-cherub look.
My sneakers patted along the pavement, I used one sleeve covered hand to tug on the strings of my hoodie, nestling my ears against the thick, heavy, cotton.
Rounding the corner, I saw a figure approaching, silhouetted in the light morning clear.
Instantly, by the stranger's coloring, demeanor and stature, I was reminded of my good friend B.R. He got married the summer before last - beautiful wedding to a sweet girl. He's a really good guy; fun to be around, handsome, and just generally wholesome (though he can swear readily and well, despite his cheery nature).
"I miss B.R." I thought casually to myself. It felt forever since his wedding (at which my friends K, M and I had a fabulous time. I swing danced and hung out with B.R.'s amazing uncle a lot of the time too).
The gentleman approaching (and I say gentleman because that's definitely what I consider B.R. to be, and this guy was echoing loudly of him) was wearing a khaki coat, a yellow-green-ish scarf, jeans, leather shoes, and carrying a messenger satchel. His light sandy coloured hair was being blown gently in the wind, reflecting gold, and a blue button-down, striped shirt was peaking out from beneath his wrappings. Perfectly pink flushed cheeks against the pale of his skin, gave him quite a youthful, angelic appearance.
He was attractive; in a graduate student, tall, intelligent, pure and energetic sort of way. Definitely not a 'bad boy,' style, unless I missed something.
His eyes were bright green and twinkling as we prepared to cross-paths on the sidewalk.
"Hello," he said lightly, with the gentle suggestion of embarrassment and a quickly hiding smile.
"Morning," I said softly back, grinning at him. I was most likely looking like a cross between a bag lady and a cheshire cat, with my hair wispy around my face from the wind, my cheeks framed by my hoodie and encircled with my purple-plaid scarf.
Maybe I should dress up more for my early morning excursions... he certainly looked put together. We were both carrying the trade-mark first (or perhaps second) cup of coffee (or maybe it was tea, who knows. He could be an English Breakfast or Prince of Wales -- my favorite black tea-- type of guy). He seemed as though he was in a hurry, but would've normally enjoyed a chat with a perfect stranger on a sidewalk.
People are fascinating to me. Every once in a while, you meet someone new who reminds you of someone you already know; someone from your past. You then begin to have multiple associations towards these two people; you like the new one because they echo the old one, of whom you have fond memories and past experiences with.
This guy I passed this morning on my jaunt is probably absolutely nothing akin to the way he's being painted in my head.
However, since I'm probably not going to run into him again (though, who knows) I'll never find out, and thus I feel safe in my assessment and projection onto him.
Perhaps I'm wrong and we'll have coffee and become friends and discuss our significant others over hot beverages... but I doubt it.
Anyway, I think that we attract energies in our lives; we are drawn to people with one or more vibrations that we need. We feel happy and warm and comfortable around them. Conversely, there are people we attract who exist to teach us something, and not all lessons are easy and pleasant, but we all move in cycles in our lives. I think we'll keep repeating our patterns until we learn to change what truth we're believing, performing, assuming or ignoring about ourselves and our actions and reactions.
Now, I'm going to go have cake and tea for breakfast.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Elvis gets me every time.
Vvvvvv, vvvRRRRROOOOOOM, KA-CHUUUUUUSHHHHHHH, BrrrrrrrVVVVrrrrrrrrr... went the bus.
"Wiiiiiiiise meeeeen saaaaaaay, only fooooools ruuuuush iiiin....." the radio was crooning Mr. Presley over the speakers up in the top front corners of the bus. Taking in a deep breath, I could almost zero in and envelop myself in that sound....
DING-CLICK. SSSSSSssssccccreeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEECH HIIIIIISSSSSSSSHHHHH!
Stupid stops. Stupid whoever behind me wanting to get off. The driver had only made it two blocks for Pete's sake?! Couldn't you have gotten off back when I got on.... oh well.... I must be hungry, that's the only reason I'd be this bitchy at 10:00 PM at night... focus on the music....
"If IIIIII caaaaaan't heeeeelp, falling in loooooove wiiiith youuuuu,"
Ahhhhhh..... I love Elvis. Starting to hum to myself, I pulled my pack a little closer to my sternum on my lap, peeking out the window into the fog swirling around the bus as it moved down the empty street. A few, bland, lonely flickering street lamps lit the road ahead of us.
"YOU have a great voice."
Jerking up my bag, hitting my knee on the seat in front of me, and nearly peeing my pants all at once, I realized the voice had come from the driver in front of me, not some creepy dude sitting in the shadows on a practically empty bus behind me. Though I suppose that would have been considered romantic by some people.
In a horror movie kind of way.
"Oh. Thanks." I said sheepishly embarrassed and turning (I'm sure) the color of a pink tomato.
Jeebus, he'd scared me half to death! I hadn't even realized that I was singing loudly enough for someone to hear... then again, it was just us on this giant blue and white twinkie of a vehicle. I blinked and realized I'd been holding my breath, so I exhaled as silently as I could and tried to focus on the blurry buildings behind the fog as we turned onto the paved-not-quite-interstate-road that would take me toward Newmarket.
"You can keep singing if you want to. I don't mind. As I said, you have a really nice voice."
Not knowing what to do about this statement, I just nodded to him with an awkwardly uncomfortable smile in that big goofy looking mirror that all busses have, so that drivers can monitor their passengers.
You know, make sure that people aren't punching each other, making out, getting to 3rd base or passing around drugs... oh wait, that's what junior high bus drivers did. I'm sure this kid was just a student trying to make some extra money by driving for the uni.
Staring at the zipper on my ridiculously heavy-laden pack, I hoped he wouldn't mention it again. It was really kind of him to say he enjoyed my singing, but it was weird too... though why it's weird for people to compliment each other I don't know. It had to be because we were the only two souls riding on a university bus after 10 at night. Through fog.
My apartment was coming up. I could see the cars in the driveway. Silent, ghostly, mini-whales, sleeping in the deep of the thick, swirling mist. The kitchen light glowed warmly and invitingly at me. I knew my 3 quadmates would be waiting in the kitchen. We were going to do some D.D.R. in the living room with tequila. Best. Roomies. Ever.
DING-CLICK RRRRRRReeeeeeeeKKKKASHHHH HIIIIISSSSSSS!
"Thanks for the ride," I mumbled scooting past the driver. He smiled at me. Not a bad smile at all. His eyes looked tired, and his knit hat had pushed his hair over one eye. He looked goofy, but like he might be sweet and not too scary after all.
"Sing on my bus anytime," he said softly, grinning.
"Sure," I said smiling myself. It was hard not to after making eye contact. Hazel. Why do I have such a thing for eyes....
He winked at me and slid the doors open with a whine and a thump. I turned and promptly fell down the steps of the bus.
"Whoa! You ok?" he said with genuine concern, and a not-so-hidden smile. Man I'm such a klutz sometimes.
"HA! Yeah, fine," I said brushing myself off and giggling like the idiot I was. "Have a nice rest of your route."
"You too. Walk safely." The bus pulled away, growling down the road and I scuffed my feet up our walk way, thinking to myself,
Gosh darn Elvis.
-------------
This morning, as I walked along, humming to myself, I realized I had a tune stuck in my head. At first it was a tune called "Suspicion," by the late, great King himself, and then I switched over to "Fools Rush In."
When I was in college I would often sing on my walks around campus. I'd get out of rehearsal late; sometimes close to 1:00 AM and I always felt safer belting out a song as I trod home with my weapon of a half-full nalgene bottle (thanks C.W.) than not.
The little narrative above is basically a blip of one of the many times I would start singing without even realizing I was doing it. I still do that a lot. J thinks it's funny, endearing and cute, bless him. I don't understand how I, an admittedly auditory person, can sing and not know that I'm making sound.
Oh well, hopefully people don't mind too much. Our giant cats don't. They sing too sometimes. Especially if we're not in the same room that they are. I like to think of them as big ole' gospel cats, meeeowing a call and response spiritual. :-D
Here are some pictures. I've mentioned them enough times that I'm sure some of you wanna' see. So here:
Seuss napping during "Bad Boys," the movie.
All right, I think I've regaled you enough with cats and lost snippets of memories. Have a great day, if you feel like it. If you don't, well, spread the grumpy, I'm sure something amusing will come of it.
"Wiiiiiiiise meeeeen saaaaaaay, only fooooools ruuuuush iiiin....." the radio was crooning Mr. Presley over the speakers up in the top front corners of the bus. Taking in a deep breath, I could almost zero in and envelop myself in that sound....
DING-CLICK. SSSSSSssssccccreeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEECH HIIIIIISSSSSSSSHHHHH!
Stupid stops. Stupid whoever behind me wanting to get off. The driver had only made it two blocks for Pete's sake?! Couldn't you have gotten off back when I got on.... oh well.... I must be hungry, that's the only reason I'd be this bitchy at 10:00 PM at night... focus on the music....
"If IIIIII caaaaaan't heeeeelp, falling in loooooove wiiiith youuuuu,"
Ahhhhhh..... I love Elvis. Starting to hum to myself, I pulled my pack a little closer to my sternum on my lap, peeking out the window into the fog swirling around the bus as it moved down the empty street. A few, bland, lonely flickering street lamps lit the road ahead of us.
"YOU have a great voice."
Jerking up my bag, hitting my knee on the seat in front of me, and nearly peeing my pants all at once, I realized the voice had come from the driver in front of me, not some creepy dude sitting in the shadows on a practically empty bus behind me. Though I suppose that would have been considered romantic by some people.
In a horror movie kind of way.
"Oh. Thanks." I said sheepishly embarrassed and turning (I'm sure) the color of a pink tomato.
Jeebus, he'd scared me half to death! I hadn't even realized that I was singing loudly enough for someone to hear... then again, it was just us on this giant blue and white twinkie of a vehicle. I blinked and realized I'd been holding my breath, so I exhaled as silently as I could and tried to focus on the blurry buildings behind the fog as we turned onto the paved-not-quite-interstate-road that would take me toward Newmarket.
"You can keep singing if you want to. I don't mind. As I said, you have a really nice voice."
Not knowing what to do about this statement, I just nodded to him with an awkwardly uncomfortable smile in that big goofy looking mirror that all busses have, so that drivers can monitor their passengers.
You know, make sure that people aren't punching each other, making out, getting to 3rd base or passing around drugs... oh wait, that's what junior high bus drivers did. I'm sure this kid was just a student trying to make some extra money by driving for the uni.
Staring at the zipper on my ridiculously heavy-laden pack, I hoped he wouldn't mention it again. It was really kind of him to say he enjoyed my singing, but it was weird too... though why it's weird for people to compliment each other I don't know. It had to be because we were the only two souls riding on a university bus after 10 at night. Through fog.
My apartment was coming up. I could see the cars in the driveway. Silent, ghostly, mini-whales, sleeping in the deep of the thick, swirling mist. The kitchen light glowed warmly and invitingly at me. I knew my 3 quadmates would be waiting in the kitchen. We were going to do some D.D.R. in the living room with tequila. Best. Roomies. Ever.
DING-CLICK RRRRRRReeeeeeeeKKKKASHHHH HIIIIISSSSSSS!
"Thanks for the ride," I mumbled scooting past the driver. He smiled at me. Not a bad smile at all. His eyes looked tired, and his knit hat had pushed his hair over one eye. He looked goofy, but like he might be sweet and not too scary after all.
"Sing on my bus anytime," he said softly, grinning.
"Sure," I said smiling myself. It was hard not to after making eye contact. Hazel. Why do I have such a thing for eyes....
He winked at me and slid the doors open with a whine and a thump. I turned and promptly fell down the steps of the bus.
"Whoa! You ok?" he said with genuine concern, and a not-so-hidden smile. Man I'm such a klutz sometimes.
"HA! Yeah, fine," I said brushing myself off and giggling like the idiot I was. "Have a nice rest of your route."
"You too. Walk safely." The bus pulled away, growling down the road and I scuffed my feet up our walk way, thinking to myself,
Gosh darn Elvis.
-------------
This morning, as I walked along, humming to myself, I realized I had a tune stuck in my head. At first it was a tune called "Suspicion," by the late, great King himself, and then I switched over to "Fools Rush In."
When I was in college I would often sing on my walks around campus. I'd get out of rehearsal late; sometimes close to 1:00 AM and I always felt safer belting out a song as I trod home with my weapon of a half-full nalgene bottle (thanks C.W.) than not.
The little narrative above is basically a blip of one of the many times I would start singing without even realizing I was doing it. I still do that a lot. J thinks it's funny, endearing and cute, bless him. I don't understand how I, an admittedly auditory person, can sing and not know that I'm making sound.
Oh well, hopefully people don't mind too much. Our giant cats don't. They sing too sometimes. Especially if we're not in the same room that they are. I like to think of them as big ole' gospel cats, meeeowing a call and response spiritual. :-D
Here are some pictures. I've mentioned them enough times that I'm sure some of you wanna' see. So here:
Oberon sleeping. Something he does very well and quite often.
All right, I think I've regaled you enough with cats and lost snippets of memories. Have a great day, if you feel like it. If you don't, well, spread the grumpy, I'm sure something amusing will come of it.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Reasons I love Sunday mornings...
"Miss, you forgot your toilet paper!" shouted the cashier, running after me, my mini-cart threatening to roll down the cobbles into the parking without my body behind it.
"Whoops! Thanks!" I said cheerfully as she piled it on top of my two filled-to-bursting cloth grocery bags. An apple was attempting to escape through the hole Seuss had chewed in the middle of it's side.
The sun was out and it was a really beautiful morning. Not like the morning I wrote about a day ago. No, today it was 60 degrees outside. Never mind that I looked like some sort of crazed college student with a cold; my red nose and the didn't-sleep-but-sneezed-all-last-night, hair is unraveling from it's long braid, baggy sweatshirt and jeans ensemble.
As J and I had realized yesterday, we'd both forgotten to purchase coffee filters. I remedied that this morning... along with our shortage of apples, sweet potatoes, zucchini, green tea, vegan dark chocolate, almond milk, and all the other number of organic tasty-treats continued that our cupboards were lacking.
I LOVE my grocery store. Sometimes we go to the little one down the street from our house, but my favorite store is UNMATCHED in every way. I love the open layout, the flowers right when you walk in, the produce being up front, the organics easy to find, the friendly hippie staff, the DAVE MATTHEWS BAND piping through the aisles... sigh... it's pretty difficult to beat that place.
This morning, I rode with J to the coffee shop, mentally cursing myself for not picking up the aforementioned filters on Saturday, but hell, I'm only human. On occasion (ok, mostly) I consider myself a spirit with a human form... still...
Then, as soon as I got back to the house, I grabbed my shopping list and away we went! My little yellow VW took me to my favorite store in a delightful manner, radio pumping, windows half-way down (it was such a perfect temperature outside), sunglasses on to keep my lil' eyes from frying and most of the other drivers were at church, or eating brunch, or sleeping in, or whatever the heck people usually do on a glorious Sunday morning. I had open roads and a relaxed, lovely trip.
Normally on Sundays I head to a church and I sing. Note that I did not say I attend service, pray, or recite things I memorized as a small child when I was forced to go. God is cool, Jesus is my homeboy, whatever floats your particular boat. However, my spiritual needs are met in a fashion that does not lend itself to organized religion.
"Why then, oh Love, WHY do you go to a house of God?" The answer is because a man whom I hold very dear to my heart is the leader of the church's choir. He asked me to come and sing, so I do when I'm able. I used to sing for him in another choir, but he retired (I still perform with that choir, we have a super new conductor) and I miss him, so I go and sing church-y music and the pastor glares at me like the little heathen I am. The choir congregation is full of sweet ladies and kindly men, so I don't mind so much.
Needless to say, I did not sing this morning. I sneezed my way to the market and enjoyed myself in the nearly empty store.
HALLELUJAH and GLORY BE, I'm in the GROCERY, and there's ONLY MEEEEEE!
It's the little things in life that matter. Such as not having to squeeze by someone with a half empty cart who has decided not to leave room in the aisle to get by, oh no, but to park perpendicularly to the lane left for passerby traffic in the grocery, while they read each and every label on the tea bins, because HEAVEN FORBID they bring home Lady Grey instead of Earl Grey or caffeinated instead of decaffeinated... but today there was no waiting, no rushing, no crowding and no discussions. :-) It. Was. Delightful.
I'm sure I forgot some item that our house needs. I usually do. On my last two shopping excursions it was sugar cubes. Couldn't remember the damn things. Yes, yes, I know you may think I'm a batty, little old woman, instead of a 28 year old, but on the incidence of tea-time (I happen to quite enjoy tea-time) I like to have sugar cubes because one makes the tea perfectly sweet, and it's not as easy to measure out one cubic cm of sugar in a spoon (I don't give a damn if that measurement is correct or not, it just goes to prove my point).
I think perhaps I forget an item or two subconsciously on purpose, because in the back of my mind, I want an excuse to go back to the market sooner, rather than later and mosey around. Happily surveying and smelling the fruit and veggies, reading ingredients, and listening to Dave Matthew's Band, while some guy in dreadlocks or some gal in hemp gently follows me, shadowing me with a smile in case I have any "shopping queries or needs."
Mmmmmm...
"Whoops! Thanks!" I said cheerfully as she piled it on top of my two filled-to-bursting cloth grocery bags. An apple was attempting to escape through the hole Seuss had chewed in the middle of it's side.
The sun was out and it was a really beautiful morning. Not like the morning I wrote about a day ago. No, today it was 60 degrees outside. Never mind that I looked like some sort of crazed college student with a cold; my red nose and the didn't-sleep-but-sneezed-all-last-night, hair is unraveling from it's long braid, baggy sweatshirt and jeans ensemble.
As J and I had realized yesterday, we'd both forgotten to purchase coffee filters. I remedied that this morning... along with our shortage of apples, sweet potatoes, zucchini, green tea, vegan dark chocolate, almond milk, and all the other number of organic tasty-treats continued that our cupboards were lacking.
I LOVE my grocery store. Sometimes we go to the little one down the street from our house, but my favorite store is UNMATCHED in every way. I love the open layout, the flowers right when you walk in, the produce being up front, the organics easy to find, the friendly hippie staff, the DAVE MATTHEWS BAND piping through the aisles... sigh... it's pretty difficult to beat that place.
This morning, I rode with J to the coffee shop, mentally cursing myself for not picking up the aforementioned filters on Saturday, but hell, I'm only human. On occasion (ok, mostly) I consider myself a spirit with a human form... still...
Then, as soon as I got back to the house, I grabbed my shopping list and away we went! My little yellow VW took me to my favorite store in a delightful manner, radio pumping, windows half-way down (it was such a perfect temperature outside), sunglasses on to keep my lil' eyes from frying and most of the other drivers were at church, or eating brunch, or sleeping in, or whatever the heck people usually do on a glorious Sunday morning. I had open roads and a relaxed, lovely trip.
Normally on Sundays I head to a church and I sing. Note that I did not say I attend service, pray, or recite things I memorized as a small child when I was forced to go. God is cool, Jesus is my homeboy, whatever floats your particular boat. However, my spiritual needs are met in a fashion that does not lend itself to organized religion.
"Why then, oh Love, WHY do you go to a house of God?" The answer is because a man whom I hold very dear to my heart is the leader of the church's choir. He asked me to come and sing, so I do when I'm able. I used to sing for him in another choir, but he retired (I still perform with that choir, we have a super new conductor) and I miss him, so I go and sing church-y music and the pastor glares at me like the little heathen I am. The choir congregation is full of sweet ladies and kindly men, so I don't mind so much.
Needless to say, I did not sing this morning. I sneezed my way to the market and enjoyed myself in the nearly empty store.
HALLELUJAH and GLORY BE, I'm in the GROCERY, and there's ONLY MEEEEEE!
It's the little things in life that matter. Such as not having to squeeze by someone with a half empty cart who has decided not to leave room in the aisle to get by, oh no, but to park perpendicularly to the lane left for passerby traffic in the grocery, while they read each and every label on the tea bins, because HEAVEN FORBID they bring home Lady Grey instead of Earl Grey or caffeinated instead of decaffeinated... but today there was no waiting, no rushing, no crowding and no discussions. :-) It. Was. Delightful.
I'm sure I forgot some item that our house needs. I usually do. On my last two shopping excursions it was sugar cubes. Couldn't remember the damn things. Yes, yes, I know you may think I'm a batty, little old woman, instead of a 28 year old, but on the incidence of tea-time (I happen to quite enjoy tea-time) I like to have sugar cubes because one makes the tea perfectly sweet, and it's not as easy to measure out one cubic cm of sugar in a spoon (I don't give a damn if that measurement is correct or not, it just goes to prove my point).
I think perhaps I forget an item or two subconsciously on purpose, because in the back of my mind, I want an excuse to go back to the market sooner, rather than later and mosey around. Happily surveying and smelling the fruit and veggies, reading ingredients, and listening to Dave Matthew's Band, while some guy in dreadlocks or some gal in hemp gently follows me, shadowing me with a smile in case I have any "shopping queries or needs."
Mmmmmm...
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