Travelogue – Canuck Edition

· Leave a comment ·

My writing has taken a back seat these last couple of weeks while i spent some time gearing up and making a whirlwind round of college tours with my son. My son, just as unusual as his sisters, is intent on a school in Canada. I dealt with the travel, and he made the arrangements for the tours. (I have been surprised at how many people found that “too much” for a kid who just finished his sophomore year of high school. And how many thought it was “too early” to be touring colleges. Both things are done on purpose so that he knows full well what it takes to get what he wants, and he knows he has to make the effort to get there….)  Anyway, with a little help from my middle weedling who has become a budget trip master, and my oldest weedling who graciously took care of Siridog, we set out last weekend for the Atlantic provinces.

In spite of the fact that i have been blessed enough to have traveled a lot of the world, i had never been to our northern neighbors. My son had been to Ottawa, but not east. So we were both excited for the journey. On top of the college tours, we had a few other things we wanted to experience as well. First on the list was a good lobster roll.

We left long before the crack of dawn to get to the airport on time. And to save a good-sized wad of cash, flew into Maine and rented a car to drive the 6 hours to Moncton, New Bunswick. It all went off without a hitch til we set out of the city of Portland.

It appeared to us that Portland is the Newark of Maine.

Trying to get to the interstate, we ended up in a neighborhood where it seemed the entire residency was gathered in the street to shout insults and cusswords at each other. One woman, hair like rusty cotton candy, dirty jeans and tank, boobs at her waist and yet somehow still hanging out, was dead center of the street leading the colorful pack of profane poets. When she saw us waiting for her to move so we could pass, she flipped us the bird and spun around so fast that her boobs were still facing us when she started to walk away – Directly up the middle of the street. Ok, lady, you win. When we finally made it to the highway, we had to pry our fingers out of the grips they had in fear.

Once we were safely outside the mainstream, we googled a lobster roll and found our way to a local joint. Tho it was technically a brewery, to my delight, they also brewed their own root beer. The lobster rolls were spot on. The Maine wild blueberry desserts were outstanding. The rootbeer was perfect. We were in heaven until the bill came.

The menu had listed “Market Price” as the cost of the lobster rolls. I hadn’t thought to ask. I mean, the meal was served on paper plates so we weren’t paying for fancy, and it was important to both my son and i that we start our trip off with a bang (Thankfully, not one on that side street in Portland.) I grew up on Cape Cod, so i know that lobster isn’t cheap, but i was unprepared for the bill. 2 lobster rolls with potato chips, 2 sodas, 2 modest desserts was $74. Seventy-four freaking dollars. My son was apologetic, but i explained to him that it was my own fault for not asking. Besides, it was worth it. The food was good, and it was a yummy start to the trip.

Back on the road – the fast route, not the scenic route – and we arrived in Moncton at what we thought was 2200. We were unaware that they are an hour ahead. The daughter of the owner to our Air B&B was kind and accepted our apology for the late arrival before showing us to our suite. We hit our beds and slept like the dead.

The next morning, we set out for Fredericton after hitting Tim Horton’s. My God, what a wonderful thing to have a place that keep hot tea brewed day and night! The drive to the University of New Brunswick is a beautiful one. Lots of farmland and rural communities. And the University itself was smaller, warmer, and better equipped than we expected. The students who showed us around and the faculty advisor that explained their process to us were a delight. We left with a great impression and a good recommendation for lunch.

Can i just say that smoked fish cakes are surely the nectar of the Canadian gods?

Day 2 was Halifax, Nova Scotia, and Dalhousie University. Dal, as they call it, is an upscale school in a surprisingly city-ish city. I guess i expected more of a fishing village city, so the excess of construction, modern office buildings, and traffic took me back a bit. There were some beautiful Historic buildings nestled in between newer business quadrants, especially near campus. And the school was a Canadian version of Ivy League… Imagine a smaller, laid back Yale where everyone has a slight Celtic accent.

Fish & chips and seafood chowder on the Boardwalk were the order of the day. Then we took a different route back to base to see more of the countryside. Unafraid of getting lost, i drove us along the coastline, dipping into coves whenever the road allowed. All of it was so breathtaking that my son barely rolled his eyes when i stopped on the side of the road for the umpteenth time to snap a picture. I was even able to gather some shells for souvenirs.

Oh, and not to be forgotten, we were also, on the way back to Moncton, able to engage one of our trip traditions…. Homemade ice cream. We happened to pass a sign on the highway advertising it, so we took the opportunity and exited. True to Canadian form, the shoppe was not exactly on the exit, but approximately 5 miles down the road. But it was worth it. We find a homemade ice cream shoppe on every trip we take, and it is always worth it. Homemade ice cream is a gift no matter your destination!

Day 3 was Prince Edward Island. Everything the storybooks say about it is true. In full Spring mode, the island was greener than Ireland itself. The landscape is heavily dotted with lupine and cows. The people are friendly and relaxed. We had a bit of a  disappointment when we found that the Confederation house was closed for refurbishing – My son is a history buff and was eager to see it. But we did get to enjoy St Dunstan’s cathedral. And we had an amazing lunch.

The Chip Shack reminded me of one of the many fried clam stands of my youth, except being in PEI, it served Lobster rolls (For much less than $74) and poutine. And Lobster poutine. Seriously. Lobster flipping poutine. A glorious coronary intervention of perfectly seasoned fries, cheese curds, a gravy that the owner makes from seafood broth, and a huge scoop of lobster meat. Could you come up with a meal that screams Atlantic Canadian more?

I think not.

The food was accentuated by the owner. She was energetic and tatted, singing boisterously along with the radio, and if she is not a direct decendent of Anne Bonny, i’ll eat my hat. She is a Pirate Queen in her soul and it exudes from her like perfume. She made our day and had smiles on our faces as we made our way to the University of PEI.

Tho Charlottetown is a city, it is a much smaller one than Halifax and retains a more of that port-town feel. And it extends to the University. There was plenty of diversity at all of the Canadian schools we visited, but the most at UPEI. In true port-town fashion, nearly half the student body is foreign. In fact, the contagiously congenial man who took us on our tour was a student from the Bahamas.  He waved to everyone we came across, and each wave came with a short commentary about where they were from. Tho he admitted that most of the Canadian students were home for break, it was still evident that my son would not be the only international student by a longshot.

Again we took the long way back. I spent an inordinate amount of time pulled off on the side of the road, admiring cows grazing in a pasture at the oceanside. If i had seen it in a movie, i would have sworn it was fake, but there it was in front of me. The ocean, a few feet of sand and rocks, then a grass pasture full of beautiful cows. After a while, the cows noticed me staring and came over to the fence. Not wanting to be rude, i said hello,  fawned over their home, and asked if they minded me taking their picture. My son was not amused and laid his seat back in the car to nap.

He missed out. Those cows sat there and engaged with me as if they knew what i was saying. Or maybe they just knew that i was taking time with them and liked them. Either way, they stood by that fence and regarded me with thoughtful muzzles for nearly half an hour.

My son perked up just before we hit the bridge back (As expensive as a Maine lobster roll, but definitely impressive!), as there is a little mini village at the front sporting the flags of all the provinces. My son is an amateur vexillologist (One who studies flags… I had to look that up), so of course he knew which flag was for what province, could expound on why each flag was decorated as it was, and listed his favorites in order. His enthusiasm made me smile. Only my kid would get so exhilarated by a bunch of flags.

By now the traveling had caught up with us. And by that, i mean that the food had caught up with us. Apparently, Canadians have yet to get on the fiber train, and days of croissants, fish cakes, and poutine had me feeling like the Pikachu float at the Macy’s parade. So we made a dinner stop at a local Moncton place for salads and a hummus plate. Before eating, i said grace to myself that it would work long before i got on the plane.

Early to bed and early to rise for the trip back to Portland. Thankfully, we left in plenty of time, because my idea of taking a smaller back road wasn’t the best i’ve ever had. First off, i have become spoiled in Chattanooga. When there is massive construction, there is someone with a sign standing in the middle of the road telling you when to go. Apparently, in rural New Brunswick, they stand on someone’s lawn…. Where, of course, i never saw him. My son did, but instead of saying anything let me proceed like the Queen of Prussia. I had to pull onto the grass halfway through the cone maze because there was a semi coming in the other direction who apparently didn’t know the Queen has the right of way. Then, to add insult to injury, i realized about 5 miles after that i had gotten turned around and was headed in the wrong direction…. So i had to tuck tail and head back through the same construction zone that i had just ignored the signs for.

The extra waves of the sign by the guy still standing off in left field let me know he recognized me.

But we made it back to Portland finally, got thru the plane flight without hummus interruptus, and survived my son driving back from Atlanta in his ancient convertible, top down, and thru traffic.

I think that last was when my blood pressure caused the blood vessel in my eye to rupture.

Now that we are home and mostly recovered, i have to say that it was a good trip. My son is a good traveling companion. Tho the whole thing was a lot more driving than i would have liked, he got to see the schools he wanted, and his opinions of each changed with the experience. I am glad we did it.  And i’m glad we’re back. It may be way too hot here in the summer, and i may hate the mosquitos, but i do love the area that i now consider my home. And of course, i love my home itself. I may not have pasture, or lupine, or cows on the ocean, but i have my own bed and my favorite haunts, and my Siridog. The place may change down the road, but the feeling of home when you return… That is the perfect ending to any road trip.

 

To Have My Cake, And Date It Too

· Leave a comment ·

I am really starting to doubt myself.

I bought a short-term membership to a dating website. I put a decent picture of myself on there and a positive and realistic short writeup on who i am. I didn’t expect much. I mean, well, it is what it is. So i wasn’t expecting a thousand Prince Charmings waiting to message me. But i expected more than i got. With a couple of exceptions, i got recommended a bunch of the same basic profile:

Men who looked like Gandalf on crack, can’t put three words together lyrically, and swear they are only 40 years old.

The first time i joined an online dating service, i spent an inordinate amount of time filling out my profile and picking out just the right picture.  When i activated it, it took me a full week to get a single match. And i kid you not, that single match was a man who looked like an old tinker from a fairytale, who listed his job as “ghost hunter”… And who lived over 4,000 miles away on another continent.

It wasn’t the first blow to my ego. Nor the last. Online dating sites keep you humble.

I have met a couple very cool people via these websites. Friends that i might not have met otherwise. So it hasn’t all been for nothing. But on the whole, i have to believe that one of two things are true:

A) I am truly so incompatible that my choices will always have the visage and affect of well-chewed dog toys, or

B) People lie so much that no dating service will ever be reliable, so i either need to lie just as much or stop using them altogether.

And i had actually stopped using them. Then i guess my ego needed a smack upside the head, or i forgot about the lying.

And yes, i realize that people lie because they want to up their chances and make themselves look their best. We don’t want to admit our flaws and potentially hurt our chance at someone good. No one is ever going to post a profile that reads, “I’m generally a decent person. I am smart and funny. But i drink milk straight from the carton, and, typical of my engineering background, i often wear socks with my sandals.” It doesn’t paint the best picture. But to be honest, i’d be more inclined to go for that. At least it is real and probably true, and that scores points with me.

And in the name of all that is holy, random dating site members, if you are going to lie, at least make it plausible. If you look like Mel Brooks from last Tuesday, don’t say you just made Blazing Saddles. And conversely, don’t post pictures of you wearing your Don Johnson blazer because you look young in it. We know that blazer hasn’t seen the light of day in at least 25 years. And what the hell is it with you obviously shady-side-of-the-hill men saying you only want women 25-35? You looking for a date, or someone to adopt?

To be fair, i’m sure most women do the same thing. I’ve been told there are far too many of us posting Glamour Shot photos and posting our weight in kilograms instead of pounds. That isn’t cool either.

If, indeed, you are hoping to meet someone in person, it doesn’t make sense to lie about your appearance.

I am what i am. And i try to market myself that way. But perhaps the readers see it as, “If this is the best she can come up with, she must be really bad!” Or maybe they aren’t really looking for a date at all. Maybe they are looking for an escape from reality.

Now there’s an idea. A dating website that isn’t about real dating, but instead, one that is about fantasy dating. You can be whomever you want and have the kind of relationship you want… But only online. You never meet them, so you never know the truth. You never get to wake up to anyone for real, but you also don’t wake up to the mess they left in the bathroom. The idea does have merit. But i am thinking there are easier and cheaper ways to have that.

Anyway, i’m glad i only bought a short-term membership. Perhaps my ego needed a smack, but it doesn’t need more permanent scars. Rather than the online meat market, maybe i just need to get out more. Meet new people. Let serendipity have a chance. But the last three times i went out like that, i was receiving crass comments and photos before i ever left the venue.

Dude, if “I want to see those boobs” is the best line in your arsenal, you need to go back to 7th grade.

I really shouldn’t care about any of this. Truthfully, i have no reason to complain in my life. I have a great one. Awesome weedlings, a home, a job that i enjoy most of the time, good health, loving friends. Why do i need more?

I don’t.

So i’m just going to quit bitching and get on with life. Forcing a connection isn’t going to work, i have no control over what people post, and Liam Neeson isn’t on there anyway. (If i ever saw him on there, i’d assume it was a lie and go right past it!)  Maybe that’s why i join periodically – to remind myself that i don’t need this. I have plenty, and any icing on the cake is just that… Icing on the cake. And my cake is pretty damned good.

But a little frosting wouldn’t hurt every now and then.

The Dao of Water

· Leave a comment ·

Sitting on the porch while the storm rolls in.

Exhausted from work overnight

and a very taxing week.

I watch the rain and imagine

She is washing the week away.

The thunder rolls are the Universe

telling the stress and wear to be gone.

The Wind is pushing the weight of the week

out of my Sacred Space

as if the strain were

a guest that has overstayed its welcome.

Be gone and leave me.

Almost before my eyes,

the grass gets greener,

the blossoms shine brighter,

and the birds sing louder.

The houses and cars and trash bins look newer.

The air smells sweeter.

What a gift is this –

That the undesired forecast bring such baptism.

The flow of water without,

a template for the flow within.

The Universe

in all Her Glory

encourages me to follow.

A Quiet Mother’s Day

· Leave a comment ·

It’s Mothers’ Day. I’m on the porch with my usual weekend repast of small-batch cheese, sweet baby peppers, and crackers. Beside my plate is a lovely glass of rosé from a bottle my oldest dropped off this morning. It is steamy today, but there is a light breeze that brings in the smell of honeysuckle on occasion. I adore the scent of honeysuckle! I am watching Siridog chase ants and skinks. And directly in the center of my vision is a bird’s nest with four exquisite and shiny blue eggs. I know there are women that like big gatherings, but this is my idea of celebration.

I do wish the weedlings were here. But my youngest is at work, my middle is away at college, and my oldest is a florist (You learn very quickly that the weeks of Mother’s Day and Valentine’s Day, she will be working around the clock. No exaggeration.) All three of them try to show appreciation throughout the year, so this one day a year isn’t something i have to wait for. I am lucky. Rare is the time that i feel unappreciated by my weedlings.

Momma bird just swooped in. She stood on a branch for a while, looking around, as if to make sure she hadn’t been followed, and then hopped into the nest. Not to body shame the poor thing, but she looked like she was about to drop another couple of eggs. I will have to look later.

My own Ma has been gone a long time. But i like to think that she is here with me now, chilling on the porch. If not now, definitely later, when i bring my easel out here. We would talk about things we found beautiful, places we found interesting, and probably plan out our next trip to Atlanta: Ikea, the international market, the flower garden…. We would paint. Hers would be so much better than mine, but she would tell me it was beautiful anyway. We’d try to make tea from the herbs in my garden. We might not succeed, but we would enjoy the effort. What i wouldn’t give for an afternoon like that.

Two squirrels just ran in the yard, obviously playing a game of mating season tag. Siridog is going nuts because they are just out of reach and she wants to chase them so badly! Or maybe she wants to eat them. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.

I wonder about the momma bird, and the other mothers in the animal kingdom. Once their babies are grown, i know some of those children will come to visit their mom. I’m pretty sure orangutans do. Not sure about any others. But regardless, i wonder what they talk about. What is the orangutan equivalent of, “Can i do laundry?” or “Do you want to do brunch?” Does young adult orangutan show up at his ma’s nest and say, “It has been a crappy day. I need a banana. Do we have any bananas?” I wonder.

There is a bee in the yard that must have a broken wing.It is walking up and down the clover. Siridog keeps taking nips at it. I am certain she could catch it easily. But instead she pokes it with her nose, and then backs off like she got stung… Except that her tail is wagging. I think she is playing with it. How odd. Now she is barking at it. Back low to the ground, tail going back and forth so hard, i can’t imagine how she isn’t falling over. She appears to catch it in her teeth and then fling it. As soon as it starts moving where it lands, she goes over and starts the whole process again. She thinks it’s a toy! Poor Mr. Bumblebee. I’m sure he never figured it would end this way.

I wonder, when my weeds start having weedlings of their own, how many of my parenting choices will make their way into how my kids do it. I expect there are a lot of things they will NOT choose to do with their own kids. But i wonder what things they will. Will they ever sit back and think, “What would Ma have done?” And then actually do it? Will they ask advice of me? Or will they want to blaze their own path? I suppose we won’t know til the time comes.

Well, for now at least, “The time has come, ” The walrus said. Momma bird is off again. The squirrels are still playing and reminding me of that scene in The Sword and the Stone. And i’m pretty sure Mr Bumblebee is in Siridog’s belly. I hope you all had a wonderful day.

Now, i am off to paint with my Ma.

 

Straight Talk About Boobs

· Leave a comment ·

There was a time in my life when my nickname was Knox – And it wasn’t because i had money. I had boobs. Great boobs. Damned near perfect boobs.

And then life happened.

Most women, when we are young, our boobs are like toy poodles. You are always on the lookout for something to decorate them. Inexpensive bits of material that serve the same purpose as a dress on a dog. They do nothing but look cute. Bits of material that are so small and flimsy, as a woman who sews, i wouldn’t even have kept them for my ragbag. These things are all about show – Lace, sparkles, and the straps (If it has any) are made out of the thinnest, most gossamer unicorn hair. To be honest, i didn’t get to buy those for long. Somewhere around the age of 16, i went from nubbins to too-big-to-shop-for-bras-at-Woolworths. On one hand, i grew great boobs. On the other hand, bras were no longer a commodity… They required at least a JC Penney budget.

Still, it was pretty cool. I could have a bad hair day the likes of which Sideshow Bob hadn’t even seen, but if undid one more button on my blouse, most interesting parties never noticed my hair. I was still a little bummed that i didn’t have a face like a supermodel, or an ass like an aerobics instructor… But at least i had boobs. It was something.

I somehow managed, after my first child, to keep the ducks swimming above water. Probably because i was young. And because i read somewhere that wearing a bra 24/7 would keep them as upright as a the Dalai Lama. If i wasn’t in the shower, those puppies were strapped in like a firstborn in a car seat. So after i was done with my dairy cow stage, tho i was a bit bigger, i was not too much worse for wear and could still get something kind of pretty at Macy’s. Maybe not with unicorn hair straps, but at least with some lace and sparkle.

I waited nearly 10 years to have my second child. And in that time, i had grown to like the rest of me a little bit more. I guess that is why i wasn’t as concerned about keeping Mary and Margaret in their school uniforms every moment of the day. And i don’t know if it was letting them sleep without the straightjacket, or just my age… But 6 years and 2 kids into my 30s, things just weren’t like they used to be. The girls grew up.

Mary got fat, Margaret got tall, and neither of them fit into the pretty little outfits i had bought them before. At least, not without cutting off my circulation and making it look like i had 4 of them. (In spite of what men might think, 4 boobs is not a good thing.) My ego could have really used a boost, as i wasn’t liking the changes my body was going through. Mind you, this was back before we had stores like Soma. There weren’t many bra companies that made cup sizes larger than D – At least ones that didn’t cost more than my weekly grocery budget – and very few of them looked better than your average surgical supply. My poor girls owned very few party dresses.

The downfall began like this:

Remember how i said that bras in your 20s were like dressing a toy poodle? First the poodle becomes a bulldog. New mom boobs are big, but solid. Those things are like anvils. They could crush rebar if you wielded them just right.  But as your hormones morph, and you realize that a bra isn’t really necessary when you are driving your kid to school at 0630 for a field trip to the Moon Pie factory, they go from fit to fat like an aging highschool quarterback. But you ignore it. I mean, your spouse loves you for your inside, right? And he’s a grown man… He knows that his body is starting to suffer just as much.

Ladies, no. No, he doesn’t. Most men are endowed with some kind of mental magical gift where they don’t obsess over their bodies half as much as we do.

Your kids get older. You are the have-it-all-woman now. Weedlings, work, hopefully some kind of social life. And the puppies somehow became wild boars. An abstract sculpture that defies physics and logic – Basically rocks and gravel set into jello with the occasional hair sprouting out of nowhere. God is obviously a man, because no woman would have the prize for surviving motherhood be Mom Tits. You can, with some effort and a large tax refund check, find a pretty bra, but now they are uncomfortable, and you feel like you just put a tutu on a platypus. You find yourself standing naked in front of a mirror saying, “Well this is bullshit.” (You would shout it, but you just don’t have the energy.)

Life goes on. You make the best of it until somewhere in your 40s when you head out to buy bras and realize you are trying to dress billy goats. You can’t find any outfits to fit them right, and those kids are all over the place. Victoria ain’t got no more secret, and you find yourself walking into a higher end department store, finding the “fit specialist” (Who invariably looks like a prison matron from 1950s film noir) and telling her, “I need a bra that makes my boobs look like they do when i’m flat on my back with my arms stuck to my sides.” And because this feeling is universal for women of that age, she knows exactly what you mean.

If you haven’t started taking Prozac yet, now is the time.

This is also when they start talking to you about putting in small implants to take up all that space that used to be your glorious boobs and is now melted jam. Unless you are very large already, and then they tell you – I quote – “Yeah, there’s not much we can do that will work for long except cut them down and tighten them up.”

Sir, You are not an editor, and my tits are not just a magazine article.

(Ok, i am writing this, so maybe they are a magazine article of sorts… But he isn’t my editor!)

I remember reading a quote by Maya Angelou where she said that she felt, in her silver years, like her breasts were in a race to see which could reach her knees first. Woman, as always, you hold the perfect words. That quote was in my mind this morning when the incident that started this whole rant occurred.

I have a thing for man-tailored silk pajamas. Just my sleepwear of choice. But the tops never stay buttoned. I don’t know if it’s because they are silky, if the strain of containing the liquid platypuses is too much for them, or if i dream about Liam Neeson… But i go to bed with them buttoned and wake with them not. I just accept it as life. So this morning i am lying in bed, enjoying the cool sheets and the sounds of the birds coming in the window.  Sundays are awesome. Siridog crawls out from the covers (Chihuahuas burrow when they sleep) and begins her morning stretches. Usually, she plants her bony little front paws on my sternum and begins her doggie yoga. This morning, she was a little off-center.

Bony paws pinching your tits is NOT the kind of boob attention you want to start your day.

I yelped. She winced. I apologized. She licked my face… While standing on the puddle of boob that formed when i rolled to pet her.

I am ashamed to say that i F-bombed as i lifted her paws. Poor Siridog. She had no idea she had done anything wrong. So, of course, she keeps coming in for more kisses… Standing on it over and over again with those blasted bony paws – I swear, they feel like railroad spikes- Inadvertently making it worse and worse. God love her. I ended up just calling bedtime over, since i couldn’t find a way to lay that didn’t have her standing on the tit slick.

To my silver sister friends – At some point we must accept the fact that we are more than our breasts. And tho it is depressing to watch them head south for the winter and become a thin-skinned Stretch Armstrong, it is the price we have to pay for having contributed to the world. (For what it’s worth, i am told that men face the same feeling of tragedy over their testicles. But i would bet money, it doesn’t affect them half as much. We really need some of their confidence.) This is the way the universe is designed. We get wisdom and metaphysical integrity in exchange for our young bodies and physical integrity.

I am told it is a more than fair trade.

Some days, i believe it.

Unless my dog is standing on my tit puddle.

Saturday Springtime

· Leave a comment ·

The feeling of accomplishment

Dirt under my broken fingernails

The cacophony of wind chimes

Out of tune but still beautiful

Like a 4 year old singing

Amazing Grace

Bamboo and Mimosa saplings bent in the breeze

Bottle bush reflecting the sun in cobalt and olive

As it sinks

My morning’s work newly watered and

Smelling of manure

The leaves green and green and green again

With purple intertwined

Buds of red and pink geranium

The scent only in my mind til they bloom in full

Seedlings of tomato and pepper

Herbs

Both delicate and rustic

In colorful pots strewn about

And in the center

At the bistro table

Mug of tea growing cold

I sit in the splendor of

My makeshift garden and watch the

Garden spinners approach takeoff

There will be no award for this

Upcycled driveway

Unless you count fresh salads and

Pesto

That will come in time

And the mornings spent sipping steaming hot

Mugs amidst the color

And comfort

Of an ersatz Eden

Made with my own two hands

As the birds serenade me with

Their sweet melodious songs

Paradise

 

 

I Question, Therefore, I Am… I Think

· Leave a comment ·

Sometimes i lay awake at night wondering how much of this is real.

Is all of life like The Matrix , an image that is planted in our brain to give us the illusion of a full life? Do i really have three amazing children? Has it really been nearly 52 years since i was born? Are there really such things as blue skies and flowers and beaches and waterfalls? Am i really human? Is this mattress really so shot that i need to replace it, or is someone manipulating controls in a central processing area that makes me think the surface underneath me is starting to get lumpy?

To the controllers i say, would it kill you to conjure up Liam Neeson at my doorstep?

Or is this all a dream? Am i really still an infant in a crib, and the last 51 years have been nothing but a 5 hour night vision? Am i projecting my own future in some fierce REM state?Will i wake up soon and discover that i am just an insanely prolific and virulent dreamer? And if that is the case, does that make me something special? Some person of previously unseen depth and talent?

Am i some 6 month old future DaVinci?

Maybe i am delusional. I’m really 32. Or 102. And i live in an old shack by the beach. The life that i have is a creation of my own mind. Some kind of daydream i thought up to distract me from a pitiful and lonely existence. A way to escape the fact that i don’t even have 20 cats to keep me company. Maybe this decent, but often frustrating, life is merely my coping mechanism.

If i imagined all this, then why the hell didn’t i make myself a little more financially solid?

Are we characters in some larger beings’ computer game? Or maybe they are really tiny, and we only feel full size because that is how we were programmed. All of our movements and actions are controlled by someone in pajama pants who has had a really crappy day and just needs to escape. Maybe we are SIMS, and our day-to-day is just some 12 year old’s imagination.

In which case, that 12 year old needs to get out more.

And could use a good psychologist.

Maybe i am schizophrenic and all of this is a hallucination. Maybe i am really some mousey brown man who just has brain waves so different that it forked off into a boisterous white female in order to cope with all the dichotomy and chemical imbalance and cross-circuitry. Maybe i have another self that this self isn’t aware of. Two distinct selves unaware of each other – And probably better off that way, as awareness of each other would, i think, be a daily fight for control. Maybe all of us have more than one self, but only the stronger one ever gets the chance to be in the lead. How would we know?

It really makes me question those bouts of short-term memory loss, like forgetting what i came into the room for. Maybe it was the other self that needed something from the kitchen.

Now you are wondering the same thing, aren’t you?

Maybe this is all just a single dimension in a very multifaceted whole. Like in Richard Bach’s One, or in one of Heinlein’s novels. Maybe there is another me in another time who leads a very different life. Who is both the most sought-after ME and much-loved author. Maybe there is another thread in time where i look like a beautiful and exotic version of me, and have a life of such love and adventure, that it is the stuff of my wildest dreams.

But then again, that would also mean there is a thread where i am angry and disconsolate and totally hideous. That thought makes this me really sad.

Am i the only one who wonders about this? Whose mind is full of theories on being and life? I’ve always done it… Pondered what is real. It isn’t like i’m some kind of philosophical genius… It’s more that i like, i need, explanation. I need to know why. Why do people behave like they do? Why do i behave like i do? Why do we, as humans, do so many irrational things? Why do i keep making the same mistakes? Why are things the way they are? And why are bacon and salami and full-fat ice cream so delicious, when they are the worst things for our waistlines? And how high were the creators of all this when they designed the aardvark?

Maybe the atheists are right and this is all there is. All of this is real and our perceptions are all there is to reality. I really have been on this earth for 51 years. My budget really has consequences, it isn’t just an educational computer game. There is not another me somewhere who has accomplished all i set out to,  or looks like i do in my best dreams. I will not wake up and discover i have another chance to do it all differently. I am not all i could be, and Liam Neeson doesn’t know i exist. These things are true. This is my reality.

But on the flip side, that means that i really do have three amazing weedlings who are going to make this world a better place. I have really worked for years in a field that saves and improves people’s lives. I have rescued some animals from euthanasia by taking them in. Tho not the exotic beauty of my dreams, I have an esoteric beauty of spirit. I have loved and been loved.  I have given comfort and laughter to many. I might not have made the biggest difference, but i have made some difference. This is also my reality.

And very little of it makes any sense to me.

For someone who needs to know “why”, reality will always be a question. Life itself makes very little sense, even to the most pragmatic of people, so it is understandable that we don’t accept it as fact. People who don’t question it, it seems to me, are people who don’t question much of anything. (In case you haven’t noticed, i don’t advocate that.) I am thankful that most of the people who surround me do question. I am not alone in these swirling thoughts that are probably both madness and genius. Or maybe neither. What do i know?

Hell, i don’t even know that i’m real.

Dignity And Moth Wings

· Leave a comment ·

Ya God/Goddess/Universe… You’re really funny. Ha ha. You got me good.

As i have mentioned before, Chattanooga is the allergy capital of the country – or pretty damned close anyway. And this time of year it is off the charts, especially with tree (Oak) pollen, which apparently i am insanely allergic to. Every year at this time, my head fills up with enough snot to fill an Olympic pool, and then it begins doing daily sprints between my sinuses and my lungs. While it makes these laps, i am either sneezing uncontrollably, or coughing up everything north of my hips. It is very unpleasant.

Of course, because i am so old that, as my son once said, on the very first game show i ever saw, the prize was fire; my body has a hard time coping with the 300 mile per hour gust that is coming from my respiratory tract. (No, i’m not exaggerating. I actually looked it up. A cough can produce gusts up to 300 mph. A sneeze produces a wind up to 100 mph. I read it on the internet, so it must be true!)

Anyway, like i was saying… I’m old. And i’ve had 3 kids. So sneezing or coughing that hard, unless contorted into the bent over yoga pose that i affectionately call the “Mom Maneuver”, well…. All that force has to go somewhere. Especially if you are trying to hold in  said cough to avoid sounding like a duck who has smoked too many cigars, or are trying to kibosh the sneeze because you are in the middle of a parking lot with no tissue in sight. Your body has all this kinetic energy built up. If it doesn’t come out your mouth or nose…….

If you are lucky, you will only pee a little.

In the car driving home from the store yesterday, i wasn’t so lucky. I was in traffic when i felt that twinge that told me i was about to start a coughing jag that would scare a money-hungry Pulmonologist, so i pulled to the side as quickly as i could, but it hit me just as i stepped on the brake. The force! I exploded with a cough so hard that it made me shoot a fart that sounded like a cannon! That made me laugh – even tho i was still coughing – so then i couldn’t hold anything in. A good 15 minutes later, half my lung was in the pile of tissues, i had wet my pants, my tears had smeared my makeup so i looked like an old drag queen on a bender, i had snot on my shirt, and the car stunk of cheese toot.

If i had any dignity, it would have been lost.

But thankfully, i have very little dignity left, so i just wiped my face and drove home.

Since i have been plagued by this for a week, the coughing jags have gotten less frequent, and i was certain i was doing well enough to do my weekly girl maintenance last night before bed. Relaxing bath. Fancy schmancy face masque. Sugar scrub on the feet. Aaahhhh.

Then for the less enjoyable part. I had the wax in the warmer, the usual accoutrements laid out. All good and ready to go. Leg propped and body balanced like i’m in frigging Cirque du Soleil. After the third or fourth application, that lung tickle starts again.  I can feel that mucus engine racing and rumbling like a ’55 Thunderbird. I try to get one more swipe of wax on before it overtakes me….

Bad idea.

I try to bend over so i don’t pee (Because i already needed to before i started), but forgot that my leg was halfway up the wall, so i start to fall over. Toss the tongue depressor/applicator to grab something to keep me from hitting my head because OMG IF I KNOCK MYSELF OUT THE MEDICS WILL FIND ME LIKE THIS AND HOW THE HELL WILL I EXPLAIN IT AND THOSE PEOPLE KNOW ME!!!!!!!!!!! I reach out and grab whatever is beside me – I’m coughing and sneezing and tearing up too much to see it- and because my hand has wax on it, it sticks and jerks my arm back, and i end up on my back on the floor.

Holy hell.

I open my eyes. Over my head, the oversized popsicle stick that is the wax applicator is swinging far over my head where it apparently stuck to the light chain when i tossed it. Back and forth like a puttanesca pendulum. Poe would be pleased.

The fact that my hand is stuck to the toilet seat becomes a happy coincidence, as i would likely be unable to get up unassisted as i have only one leg on the floor, and the other is still up on the sink. I pull up with my hand and push up with my foot…. And make it about 6 inches before falling back on the floor.

My back and ass are stuck to the paper floor protector, and my foot was standing on it.

I wiggle myself til there is bare floor space to set my foot, and manage to stand. The paper is still stuck to my back and looks like giant moth wings. That makes me smile, so i leave them on while i rip off the last swipe of wax that caused my literal downfall and is now as hard as a Klingon Warrior.

There aren’t enough cusswords to describe that pain.

I smile one last time at the wings before trying to peel them off. Thank the heavens that i don’t have a hairy back! I managed to get most of it. (I thought i had all of it til i went to take off my nightclothes the next morning, and found them stuck to my left ass cheek by one last bit of wax.)  Then i started coughing again.

Well, shit. This sucks.

A hot toddy later, my cough subsided enough for me to sleep. The symptoms weren’t nearly as bad today, tho the pollen count climbs again later this week. I’m sure i still have plenty of coughing and sneezing in my future. But given the events yesterday, i’ll be lucky to make it out alive. And since i have no dignity left, i’ll only have indignity left to salvage.

I may have to make myself some more moth wings as a consolation prize.

Darwin Couldn’t Shop Amazon

· Leave a comment ·

Just because i have a bit of a cold and am feeling a bit cranky, let me tell you one more thing that really irritates the hell out of me….

I was shopping on Amazon today – Big surprise there – for a variety of things that i have never bought before. So i do my usual schtick and sort them by average customer rating and start to go through the products.

Item number one was a bamboo bathroom shelf. You know, because i’m still not done with the finishing touches on the back bathroom. Oy. Anyway, i need to find a particular size, so i hone in on that first. Then set my budget. Then sort them by review and go through them one by one. I was already a little frustrated because a few didn’t have the exact measurements listed up top, so i was having to dig for every third one. Then i see one that i really like the looks of, but it doesn’t have the measurements listed at all. I won’t go on a rant about how that is the daftest thing a shelf salesman would ever do – not list the size of the damned shelf. You already know that. And you would probably have done what i did. I went down to the “questions” section, because i figured i couldn’t possibly be the only person with this question. I mean, the picture didn’t even have a book or anything on the shelf to help you guess its size. So i skip to the questions, and there it is, number one on the list, “What are the dimensions of this shelf?”

Yeah! Finally! And then the response. The only response.

“I don’t know. I just ordered it and haven’t received mine yet.”

WTF? HOW IS THAT HELPFUL?!?!?!?!

I look through the rest of the questions while i unconsciously shake my head like i am crawling in my car behind someone who insists on walking down the middle of the parking lot straightaway.

Question number 4: “How wide is this shelf?”

Answer: “Don’t know yet. Will answer when mine arrives.”

SERIOUSLY?!?! Why not just wait to answer until it arrives?!?!?! Do you have nothing better to do? Or do you think the question was meant just for you?!?  ARRRGGGGGGGHHHHH!

I could feel my eye starting to twitch, so i retreated.

I picked one that actually had the measurements listed AND had helpful answers to the questions.  Then i went on to item number 2: A book of Japanese patterns.

For those of you who don’t sew, Japanese patterns are unique. First off, the designs are minimalist and clean – almost like if Ikea made sewing patterns. Second, because they are sparse and minimalist, most don’t come in separate tissue pieces with papers of instructions like American patterns do. They generally come as a book with either instructions on how to draft the pattern, or pattern pieces on paper, overlaying each other, that need to be traced onto pattern paper. The instructions are in the margins or are in the book itself. It probably sounds like a terrible idea, but after having tried my first one, i can tell you that it is genius. First, the pieces and techniques are such that less fitting is required, and there are infinite variations possible. And not for nothing, if you’ve ever bought an article of clothing that has similar characteristics and style (i.e. Eileen Fisher), you know that they can be cost prohibitive for a lot of us to buy already made. So anyway, i had made one that i downloaded online, but wanted to pick out a book that had more designs. I hone in and have to laugh reading some of the reviews. Most of the critical reviews obviously come from people who thought that Japanese pattern books were simply books full of patterns, and not a particular aesthetic and construction method. An easy mistake to make, especially for those new to sewing. I could understand those reviews. But some of them…

“These patterns are made for tiny people. They are made for the twiggiest of twigs.” (Seriously, it said that. “The twiggiest of twigs”)  – Hello, they are Japanese patterns. And Japanese patterns for women, at that. Did you think they’d run large?

“There aren’t many instructions to go with the pictograms, and what there is appears to be in Chinese.” – Ummmm…. I’m going out on a limb here, but i’ll say the language you can’t identify is Japanese. Just a guess.

“All the measurements are in metric.” – Yes, you continental sweetie. Most of the world uses the metric system. These aren’t American patterns, ergo….

“All the dresses are loose and baggy. Not corporate at all. Nothing was fitted.” – Yes, dear heart. That is the point. And considering there is a picture on the front of the book that is very representative of the style, i’m shocked at your surprise. It’s not like there was a three-piece suit on the cover.

And my personal favorite… “I couldn’t get past the photographs… They all have plain white backgrounds and it made the models look like they were in a mental hospital.” Bwahahhahahaha! Ok, i can kind of see that point. But it is supposed to be a functional book, not a coffee table book. The photos are there so we can tell where the seams are and how it is supposed to drape. They obviously didn’t want a background to detract from that. (But i will never look at those pictures the same way again.)

I was a little less frustrated by this search, mostly because some of the critical reviews were so funny. I did eventually pick the book that i wanted. And i was still giggling when i did so.

Item 3 was silicone molds for soap making. Generally, these come 2 ways, individually like custard dishes, or something akin to a 6 muffin pan. Mind you, this is a harder search because you can use these things for baking, too, so you really have to look both places to get the full picture. In a lateral vein to item one, tho the overall dimensions of the pan are listed in each item page, very few list the actual volume of the molds, which is the important part. I don’t care that the pan itself is 9 by 8. Does it make full-sized soaps or the kind that are only good for people with excessive OCD who can’t use the bar more than once?

I find a set of two 6 pans in lovely Celtic designs and think, “Yes, that’ll be perfect, as long as they’re not the size of a truffle.” So i search for some kind of volume measurement. Or at least the measurement of the individual cups.

Nada. Zilch. Zip.

So i go to the questions. Oh boy! And there it is, number one on the list: “How big are the cups? What size soap will they make?”

And the answer… Are you ready? There was only one response. Just one. Even tho it had hundreds of ratings for the product. Just one answer.

“I don’t know. I’ve only bought their donut molds. And those are standard size.”

Dude.

It’s a good thing you aren’t sitting next to me. I would force you to explain why in anyone’s name you would think that was helpful in any way. And then i would smack you.

Am i the only one who is driven crazy by this? Does anyone else think it is possible that Amazon allows people to post useless remarks just because they know it will drive us nuts? Am i the only one who wishes that, in addition to “4 stars and above” and “Prime eligible”, there was a filter called,  “Ones with reviews that are actually worth a damn” or “Questions that actually contain meaningful answers”? I am about to prioritize my need for these just above my need for a bird finger in addition to a thumbs up and thumbs down on most social media platforms.

And you know how badly we all want that bird finger.

With all the money Amazon is raking in, you’d think someone would be policing such things.

Or maybe it is their idea of entertainment.

Anyway, thank you for listening to me complain. I’m sure i look and sound like a goose who just watched a busload of people disembark without a single bag of bread. But hopefully it made you laugh, or at least shake your head in agreement. Because i know you have been there. We’ve all been there. But sometimes it feels good to let it out.

Japanese patterns with Chinese instructions. Really? Sheesh.

 

 

Making It and Digging It

· 1 Comment ·

I spent the weekend on a creative bender. You know, like a regular bender, except without the barfing and with something to show for it other than a bad one night stand and unexplained car dent.

Yesterday i spent most of the day in my yard. I had about 2 1/2 square meters of jungle that i had yet to touch after almost 2 years in this house. There was a large shrub / small tree in the middle of it that i had hoped was a Rose of Sharon or something pretty like that. It turned out to be nothing more than some pitiful leaves on lame branches. Hardly decorative. More like the biological equivalent of a paper bag. So i cut it down.

Remember me saying that my tap dancing fitness routine didn’t prepare me for scraping and painting? Well, it didn’t prepare me for using a bow saw either.

After i got it down, i commenced to clearing out the weeds. We’re talking deep-rooted runner weeds growing for decades in the red clay. Old and rotted wood barriers sunk into the ground with rusty railroad nails. And vines that were dug into the brick of my porch with a grip that rivaled a man with compensating issues. This was no normal bit of garden variety weeding.

This was a green hell.

Two hours i spent clearing it. TWO HOURS for a space smaller than a pool table. That tells you how bad it was. But i got it done, dug two holes, and planted the climbing roses that have been sitting in my driveway for nearly two weeks. Between the dirt and the sun and the sight of the newly cleared area, i felt sore, but accomplished.

After cleaning myself up and making dinner, i went back to work on my sewing that i had started earlier in the week.  I finished up one dress and then took my fabric out to the porch to cut another design. Yes, i actually cut the pieces on my porch. It was too beautiful out to stay inside! A couple of my neighbors gave me an odd glance, but they’ll get used to my weird ways before long.

Sleep and breakfast and then back to the bender. Cleaned and repainted some plastic end tables for the porch. (I inherited them from the previous owner. Apparently, she not only liked her shrubbery boring, she liked beige plastic porch furniture. There is very little about me that is beige. Or boring. Those tables were bugging me with their blandness.) Got them dolled up apple red in between working on the dress i had cut out last night.

The dress is now done. My first time using a downloaded pattern. I won’t lie, it was a much bigger pain in the ass than a regular pattern. But the other dress i had made this week was a pattern i had drafted myself, and i wasn’t willing to trust myself with another so soon. I will say this, both dresses got positive reviews from my son – Remarkable because he isn’t one to give more than an offhand, “It’s ok, ” as a review of most everything that isn’t a computer game. So i guess i did good.

It’s getting towards the gloaming now. I’m chilling on my porch with my fabulously colorful tables while my new creations get their first washing as garments. I’m not quite over my bender, tho. I’ve got 2 more patterns to cut tonight. No doubt that i will keep on later than i should, and i’ll wake up tomorrow with a hangover. Granted, there will be no desperate prayers to the gods for my head to explode or stench of alcohol coming out of my pores, but it will be a hangover just the same. And just like any other bender, i will tell myself that i should exercise moderation more often, tho i know in my heart that i won’t. It may be weeks. It may be months. But some time in the future, i will once again be up to my ears in fabric or paint or dirt or all three, stiff and sore as hell because of the fun-but-not-quite-taxing-enough nature of my fitness plan.

Bless me, Father, for i have sinned. I got drunk on creativity.

And God/Goddess/Universe will smile pour me another.