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?
Monday, February 6, 2012
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...
Saturday, January 28, 2012
15 Friggin' Degrees!
"Have you fed and watered the cluck-clucks yet?" I mumbled, pulling my shirt over my crazy mass of red curls.
"Nope," J said whooshing by me with his backpack to grab his books in the room we affectionately call "the library," which is really our dining room, which is next to the kitchen.
"POOP. We're out of coffee filters," I hollered after him.
"Ugh," J groaned, letting his bag fall with a clunk onto the table.
"Ok, so you'll take care of them and I'll meet you out front to ride together to grab coffee?" I offered.
"Sure. Sounds good," he said brightening as he pulled on a hat to head outside. I grabbed my shoes and my coat and headed toward our front door, remembering as I unlocked it that I'd forgotten my mug. Turning on my heel I tripped over Obie who promptly growled his angst over breakfast...
He hadn't had any yet.
Sighing to myself, I reminded him what a lucky kitty he was to have meal service so early, and quickly snapped back a cat-food can lid and fed the two monsters weaving my feet, barking at them to, "SIT," which they promptly did because they were starving, since it had been a whole night since dinner.
Yes, our cats can sit. We actually call them dats, because since they like dog-type activities; belly rubs, sitting, fetch, we think they have earned their "d."
That done, I grabbed my mug and jogged out of the kitchen. As I strode outside, the front door banging behind me, I was suddenly struck by the last dream I recalled having during the night. It had woken me up this morning at 4:04 AM in a luke-warm sweat. Shivering to myself, I foggily remembered the details.
Last night I had a dream about wasps. A whole hive of them. Chasing me from inside my parent's house. I had to grab a pink comforter (I don't know why it was pink) and RUN THROUGH the mass of angry winged insects with their floating, creepy, dangly legs and out the front door, up the driveway and onto the dirt road into the dark of the night.
Now, I have respect for all the creatures of the universe, but it is also my opinion that something that can sting you repeatedly, with malice, venom and fervor is an insect to be avoided. Add on top of that the epi-pen I have to carry around with me, and well..... it wasn't a dream but a nightmare, seeing as how one tiny wasp sting can kill me.
I have no idea what this dream is supposed to mean. I admit that I have a healthy respect and fear of yellow and black striped or designed insects with long abdomens ending in wicked protrusions, antennae curled heads and the aforementioned terrifying, slow-motion dangling, swaying legs, but it's WINTER. All the wasps are hibernating or dead. Sigh....
Proof again that my dreams are often crazy (this one was actually tame... I've dreamt a lot of zombies, morphing shadow people, being shot to save other people, parallel universes....) and if I needed reassurance that the yellow jacket, hornet and wasp species were all lethargic and frozen, I GOT it when I ventured out the front door.
HOLY MOLY it was COLD this morning! As in, 15 whole degrees. I thought I'd moved OUT of New England.... After what seemed a mini-eternity (I'm sure it was all of 5 minutes) J pulled up and we went to get coffee.
Why it's so goshdarn difficult for people around here to make a good cup of joe, I don't understand. Most places can pull an espresso shot that tastes BETTER (even if it's too slow and a bitter draw) than their brewed coffee, which almost always tastes burnt, watery or sour, no matter how early one arrives to get the "A Team," baristas. Well, whatever Trevor. I'm resigned and used to it, and I only order dirty chai or espressos from coffeeshops.
After receiving our drinks, J grabbed me for a quick smooch and a "Have a good day," as he rushed back out to the car to head to work. He works weekends and the buses don't run promptly or often, so he commutes. I gave him a quick squeeze in return, and steeled myself for the two and a half block frigid walk home, clutching my mug for warmth.
I greeted Radio Guy #1 as I trudged up the sidewalk, and he responded with a grin.
"It's goddamn cold this morning," I said, my breath forming little crystallized clouds as I spoke. He laughed and reminded me that I could come over and record the Public Service Announcements if I liked. Which I did.
So I got to spend the morning at the microphone, something that NEVER gets old and is ALWAYS fun, even if you're a perfectionist like me and don't often like the sound of your voice in the playback. I got to hear myself as a chipmunk, a drunk, someone on speed, and what I might sound like if I were a dude. Let me just say, we had a BLAST!
Jake the amazing golden, by the way, is doing much better and his chipper self again. I know because he felt up to bringing me his ball, not for me to throw of course, but to rest his head on my thigh with his tennis ball in my crotch to say if I decided I would be amicable to throwing said ball, he might be okay with that if I was okay with a small game of tug of war to gain the privilege.
I think now I'm going to do what I planned on this morning: clean the house with dust mite spray, decide what to cook for supper, pick up some recycled paper coffee filters and maybe bake another cake. The cake I bake today, shall maybe have a little brandy in it, because if it's going to be 15 friggin' degrees out, I want something with a little nip to take away the chill for J when he gets home.
Cheers!
"Nope," J said whooshing by me with his backpack to grab his books in the room we affectionately call "the library," which is really our dining room, which is next to the kitchen.
"POOP. We're out of coffee filters," I hollered after him.
"Ugh," J groaned, letting his bag fall with a clunk onto the table.
"Ok, so you'll take care of them and I'll meet you out front to ride together to grab coffee?" I offered.
"Sure. Sounds good," he said brightening as he pulled on a hat to head outside. I grabbed my shoes and my coat and headed toward our front door, remembering as I unlocked it that I'd forgotten my mug. Turning on my heel I tripped over Obie who promptly growled his angst over breakfast...
He hadn't had any yet.
Sighing to myself, I reminded him what a lucky kitty he was to have meal service so early, and quickly snapped back a cat-food can lid and fed the two monsters weaving my feet, barking at them to, "SIT," which they promptly did because they were starving, since it had been a whole night since dinner.
Yes, our cats can sit. We actually call them dats, because since they like dog-type activities; belly rubs, sitting, fetch, we think they have earned their "d."
That done, I grabbed my mug and jogged out of the kitchen. As I strode outside, the front door banging behind me, I was suddenly struck by the last dream I recalled having during the night. It had woken me up this morning at 4:04 AM in a luke-warm sweat. Shivering to myself, I foggily remembered the details.
Last night I had a dream about wasps. A whole hive of them. Chasing me from inside my parent's house. I had to grab a pink comforter (I don't know why it was pink) and RUN THROUGH the mass of angry winged insects with their floating, creepy, dangly legs and out the front door, up the driveway and onto the dirt road into the dark of the night.
Now, I have respect for all the creatures of the universe, but it is also my opinion that something that can sting you repeatedly, with malice, venom and fervor is an insect to be avoided. Add on top of that the epi-pen I have to carry around with me, and well..... it wasn't a dream but a nightmare, seeing as how one tiny wasp sting can kill me.
I have no idea what this dream is supposed to mean. I admit that I have a healthy respect and fear of yellow and black striped or designed insects with long abdomens ending in wicked protrusions, antennae curled heads and the aforementioned terrifying, slow-motion dangling, swaying legs, but it's WINTER. All the wasps are hibernating or dead. Sigh....
Proof again that my dreams are often crazy (this one was actually tame... I've dreamt a lot of zombies, morphing shadow people, being shot to save other people, parallel universes....) and if I needed reassurance that the yellow jacket, hornet and wasp species were all lethargic and frozen, I GOT it when I ventured out the front door.
HOLY MOLY it was COLD this morning! As in, 15 whole degrees. I thought I'd moved OUT of New England.... After what seemed a mini-eternity (I'm sure it was all of 5 minutes) J pulled up and we went to get coffee.
Why it's so goshdarn difficult for people around here to make a good cup of joe, I don't understand. Most places can pull an espresso shot that tastes BETTER (even if it's too slow and a bitter draw) than their brewed coffee, which almost always tastes burnt, watery or sour, no matter how early one arrives to get the "A Team," baristas. Well, whatever Trevor. I'm resigned and used to it, and I only order dirty chai or espressos from coffeeshops.
After receiving our drinks, J grabbed me for a quick smooch and a "Have a good day," as he rushed back out to the car to head to work. He works weekends and the buses don't run promptly or often, so he commutes. I gave him a quick squeeze in return, and steeled myself for the two and a half block frigid walk home, clutching my mug for warmth.
I greeted Radio Guy #1 as I trudged up the sidewalk, and he responded with a grin.
"It's goddamn cold this morning," I said, my breath forming little crystallized clouds as I spoke. He laughed and reminded me that I could come over and record the Public Service Announcements if I liked. Which I did.
So I got to spend the morning at the microphone, something that NEVER gets old and is ALWAYS fun, even if you're a perfectionist like me and don't often like the sound of your voice in the playback. I got to hear myself as a chipmunk, a drunk, someone on speed, and what I might sound like if I were a dude. Let me just say, we had a BLAST!
Jake the amazing golden, by the way, is doing much better and his chipper self again. I know because he felt up to bringing me his ball, not for me to throw of course, but to rest his head on my thigh with his tennis ball in my crotch to say if I decided I would be amicable to throwing said ball, he might be okay with that if I was okay with a small game of tug of war to gain the privilege.
I think now I'm going to do what I planned on this morning: clean the house with dust mite spray, decide what to cook for supper, pick up some recycled paper coffee filters and maybe bake another cake. The cake I bake today, shall maybe have a little brandy in it, because if it's going to be 15 friggin' degrees out, I want something with a little nip to take away the chill for J when he gets home.
Cheers!
Thursday, January 26, 2012
5:00 AM Wake Up Call
Bleary-eyed, I turned to look at the glowing hellish red of my alarm clock.... 4:49 AM it read, the little colon blinking at me fiendishly... Smirking. My clock was smirking unabashedly at me.
"Why am I awake?" I thought with a cranky sigh... well, it was one of those mornings. One of the earlier ones. We were going to have to get up in less than an hour anyway; 41 minutes to be exact. I rolled onto my side, suddenly flushed and wishing the covers were lighter. Uncomfortably, I forced my eyes closed and stuck one leg out into the cooler air of the bedroom to radiate my extraneous warmth.
"Must. Try. To. Sleep. A. Bit. Longerrrrrrrrrr..." I whispered to myself with a sigh.
Tinkle... rustle, rustle....riiiiip, crunch, crunch, crunch, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle...
"GodDAMN it SEUSS! LEAVE THE BOX ALONE!" I said, slapping my side of the bed frame.
The younger of our two maine coon cats loves to eat inedible things. He particularly loves plastic covered anything, buttons, cardboard and paper. Apparently this morning, it was VERY IMPORTANT that he get into a box full of empty metal film cartridges (tinkle) and a package of letter paper (riiiiip, crunch).
Upon my thumping, he leapt onto the bed, fixed me with a reproachful look and whined pathetically.
"Mmmmmrrow," which translates to, "But you put it under the bed. For me." I grabbed him and none too gently, rolled him up in a corner of the comforter. "Puuurrrrrrrrrrrr," went his motor loudly. Realizing I was cold after having sat bolt upright to holler at the kitty, I scooted back to J, his body delightfully warm....
"DING-DING, DING-DING-DIIIIING-DING," sang the alarm!
J had to be up to catch the early bus, and so I had to be up too. I couldn't in good conscience let him head out to class with no lunch, no breakfast, and therefore no sustenance.
Why is it that whenever a body knows they have to wake up earlier, say an hour or more earlier than usually, to do some extra task in the morning, there appears a tiny, crabby, angry elf that pokes the person in the brain, delightedly waking them up half an hour-ish before the alarm clock sounds?
Conversely, why is it that when one doesn't have to rise early, but say, has an important meeting that day, it's so easy to sleep through the alarm.... I bet that damned elf whispers a spell delicately in the ear of the person. Soothingly it distracts the brain and the auditory system, blocking out the normal body wake-up response... which must be difficult for the little bugger to do without sniggering.
So this morning, we got up early.
It was black outside. The air thick, chalky, dark and with a viscosity that could be likened to molasses.
After sending J on his way with two thermoses full of hot food, a hot breakfast of backyard eggs in his belly from our "cluck-clucks," (Eenie, Meanie, Miney and Moe) and fresh coffee laced with cinnamon, I decided that early or not, molasses or not, I was going for my morning walk.
But first, a shower... and some coffee... and feed the yowling mini-lions...
Somehow, I missed the sunrise. Dag-NAB-IT!
Stepping out into the cool morning light, I was struck by the sky, streaked with blue and pink, the trees reaching and unfurling awkwardly upwards, as if they were caught mid-stretch into a twisted, gnarled positioning of limbs.
It was brisk out and delightfully refreshing. I traded my cranky pants for some cheery ones, my coffee finally kicking in.
Peeking over at the driveway on the North side of my house (I live next to a radio station) I saw that Radio Guy 1 and 2's vehicles were parked in their regular spots on the East side of the building. Thinking to myself that I hadn't bothered them in a while, I decided I should bring them some cake.
Everyone likes treats. Most people like cake.
I am frequently messing around in my kitchen due to food allergies, and I quite enjoy doling out my sweet-treat experiments forcefully and cheerfully onto my neighbors, most of whom are male and many who find it exceedingly difficult to say "No, thank you," to a redhead in an apron holding a plate of something warm that smells like chocolate, vanilla, pumpkin, or all three.
Last night I'd made an organic red-velvet cake (gluten-free and vegan because I cannot eat eggs or wheat) on a whim, simply because I'd never made one. It turned out LOVELY.
J is always marveling at my cooking capacity, because I don't often measure when I bake (or cook), nor do I set timers for things. I have always found that it's simply easy for me to eyeball/feel measurements, and I "just know," when it's time to take something off the stove or out of the oven. My grandmother was the same way.
I know that there are a lot of folks out there who believe you MUST MEASURE, especially when baking. I say, do whatever works for you as an individual.
Surprisingly, and contrary to some published popular opinions, my method does NOT mean that 90% of the time, I have burnt or raw, half-done disgusting things in my kitchen. In reality, my friends and family (many of whom suck at lying) tell me I'm a darn good cook.
On the exceedingly rare occasion that something's not come out edible as well as pretty for my efforts, it's usually because I was emotionally upset while creating said dish. No kidding. I cannot cook ANYTHING when I'm out of sorts, because it's a recipe for disaster.
Ha. Ha.
If I'm angry, sad, grumpy or distraught it is INEVITABLE that the cake will stick to the pan, the cookies will burn, the pot will boil over, the sauce will scald, and the veggies will dry out and harden, and I will be a giant GRUMP GRUMP.
Cooking digression now finished... The guys next door like cake, so I brought some over.
We then had a nice discussion covering topics such as why Jake, the amazing golden retriever (who was lying at my feet) wasn't acting like himself, why work is amazing until people get involved, and how it's really frightening when folks over the age of 90 who can't bear to have their independence or their driver's license taken away, decide to solve their navigation/transportation problems by having their grandchildren "tell them directions and when to turn, signal and stop," or by "memorizing where the stop-signs are."
Whoa. Scary.
Just in case any of you were wondering, when I'm old and spunky, my grand-babies (provided they have passed their driver's license exam) will be carting me around.
Yes, that's right. I'm going to have lil' chauffeurs. Which reminds me of when my cousins and I would drive our Mimi around.... Hmmm, must blog about some Mimi stories... she's good stuff.
Which brings me to a thought: This has turned in to a lovely beginning to the day.
Maybe I'm being too Pollyannaish, but I really think that it's the little things that can change something boring and mediocre into something quite wonderful.
Taking the time to have a nice chat over a cup of coffee and some red-velvet cake to discuss dogs, compassion and blue-haired drivers took me from an early, rude awakening into a pleasant peaceful place.
That's a damn fine morning.
"Why am I awake?" I thought with a cranky sigh... well, it was one of those mornings. One of the earlier ones. We were going to have to get up in less than an hour anyway; 41 minutes to be exact. I rolled onto my side, suddenly flushed and wishing the covers were lighter. Uncomfortably, I forced my eyes closed and stuck one leg out into the cooler air of the bedroom to radiate my extraneous warmth.
"Must. Try. To. Sleep. A. Bit. Longerrrrrrrrrr..." I whispered to myself with a sigh.
Tinkle... rustle, rustle....riiiiip, crunch, crunch, crunch, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle...
"GodDAMN it SEUSS! LEAVE THE BOX ALONE!" I said, slapping my side of the bed frame.
The younger of our two maine coon cats loves to eat inedible things. He particularly loves plastic covered anything, buttons, cardboard and paper. Apparently this morning, it was VERY IMPORTANT that he get into a box full of empty metal film cartridges (tinkle) and a package of letter paper (riiiiip, crunch).
Upon my thumping, he leapt onto the bed, fixed me with a reproachful look and whined pathetically.
"Mmmmmrrow," which translates to, "But you put it under the bed. For me." I grabbed him and none too gently, rolled him up in a corner of the comforter. "Puuurrrrrrrrrrrr," went his motor loudly. Realizing I was cold after having sat bolt upright to holler at the kitty, I scooted back to J, his body delightfully warm....
"DING-DING, DING-DING-DIIIIING-DING," sang the alarm!
J had to be up to catch the early bus, and so I had to be up too. I couldn't in good conscience let him head out to class with no lunch, no breakfast, and therefore no sustenance.
Why is it that whenever a body knows they have to wake up earlier, say an hour or more earlier than usually, to do some extra task in the morning, there appears a tiny, crabby, angry elf that pokes the person in the brain, delightedly waking them up half an hour-ish before the alarm clock sounds?
Conversely, why is it that when one doesn't have to rise early, but say, has an important meeting that day, it's so easy to sleep through the alarm.... I bet that damned elf whispers a spell delicately in the ear of the person. Soothingly it distracts the brain and the auditory system, blocking out the normal body wake-up response... which must be difficult for the little bugger to do without sniggering.
So this morning, we got up early.
It was black outside. The air thick, chalky, dark and with a viscosity that could be likened to molasses.
After sending J on his way with two thermoses full of hot food, a hot breakfast of backyard eggs in his belly from our "cluck-clucks," (Eenie, Meanie, Miney and Moe) and fresh coffee laced with cinnamon, I decided that early or not, molasses or not, I was going for my morning walk.
But first, a shower... and some coffee... and feed the yowling mini-lions...
Somehow, I missed the sunrise. Dag-NAB-IT!
Stepping out into the cool morning light, I was struck by the sky, streaked with blue and pink, the trees reaching and unfurling awkwardly upwards, as if they were caught mid-stretch into a twisted, gnarled positioning of limbs.
It was brisk out and delightfully refreshing. I traded my cranky pants for some cheery ones, my coffee finally kicking in.
Peeking over at the driveway on the North side of my house (I live next to a radio station) I saw that Radio Guy 1 and 2's vehicles were parked in their regular spots on the East side of the building. Thinking to myself that I hadn't bothered them in a while, I decided I should bring them some cake.
Everyone likes treats. Most people like cake.
I am frequently messing around in my kitchen due to food allergies, and I quite enjoy doling out my sweet-treat experiments forcefully and cheerfully onto my neighbors, most of whom are male and many who find it exceedingly difficult to say "No, thank you," to a redhead in an apron holding a plate of something warm that smells like chocolate, vanilla, pumpkin, or all three.
Last night I'd made an organic red-velvet cake (gluten-free and vegan because I cannot eat eggs or wheat) on a whim, simply because I'd never made one. It turned out LOVELY.
J is always marveling at my cooking capacity, because I don't often measure when I bake (or cook), nor do I set timers for things. I have always found that it's simply easy for me to eyeball/feel measurements, and I "just know," when it's time to take something off the stove or out of the oven. My grandmother was the same way.
I know that there are a lot of folks out there who believe you MUST MEASURE, especially when baking. I say, do whatever works for you as an individual.
Surprisingly, and contrary to some published popular opinions, my method does NOT mean that 90% of the time, I have burnt or raw, half-done disgusting things in my kitchen. In reality, my friends and family (many of whom suck at lying) tell me I'm a darn good cook.
On the exceedingly rare occasion that something's not come out edible as well as pretty for my efforts, it's usually because I was emotionally upset while creating said dish. No kidding. I cannot cook ANYTHING when I'm out of sorts, because it's a recipe for disaster.
Ha. Ha.
If I'm angry, sad, grumpy or distraught it is INEVITABLE that the cake will stick to the pan, the cookies will burn, the pot will boil over, the sauce will scald, and the veggies will dry out and harden, and I will be a giant GRUMP GRUMP.
Cooking digression now finished... The guys next door like cake, so I brought some over.
We then had a nice discussion covering topics such as why Jake, the amazing golden retriever (who was lying at my feet) wasn't acting like himself, why work is amazing until people get involved, and how it's really frightening when folks over the age of 90 who can't bear to have their independence or their driver's license taken away, decide to solve their navigation/transportation problems by having their grandchildren "tell them directions and when to turn, signal and stop," or by "memorizing where the stop-signs are."
Whoa. Scary.
Just in case any of you were wondering, when I'm old and spunky, my grand-babies (provided they have passed their driver's license exam) will be carting me around.
Yes, that's right. I'm going to have lil' chauffeurs. Which reminds me of when my cousins and I would drive our Mimi around.... Hmmm, must blog about some Mimi stories... she's good stuff.
Which brings me to a thought: This has turned in to a lovely beginning to the day.
Maybe I'm being too Pollyannaish, but I really think that it's the little things that can change something boring and mediocre into something quite wonderful.
Taking the time to have a nice chat over a cup of coffee and some red-velvet cake to discuss dogs, compassion and blue-haired drivers took me from an early, rude awakening into a pleasant peaceful place.
That's a damn fine morning.
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