March 28, 2024 ~ Thursday (spring like temps but still 6″ of snow on the ground)

Every so often I find myself out of the shower, not quite dried off, and wrestling to pull my yoga pants onto my damp legs. It’s kind of akin to wrestling an octopus in a confined space (because well, in this tiny house, it’s a tiny bathroom) … and losing.

But, the alternative options of clothing bring me to bouts of PTSD or tidal waves of gratitude that it’s not pantyhose I’m wrangling with. Oh, those were the days!

I remember in junior high (we called it junior high back then, not middle school) and my mom let me wear fishnet stockings! OMG – hallelujah! I had arrived! I was stylin’. I had white ones and orange ones (why?) … but damn if I didn’t LOVE those damn fishnets! Except for one thing … how to keep them up? There were no pantyhose those days … so, these were regular stockings that you had to use a (horrors!) garter belt with! Yeah – try wrestling one of those things under your clothes without looking like you’re smuggling hardware from the Sears tool section under your skirt! They were lumpy, bumpy, and if you could manage to clip the top of the stocking into the garter clip (without running it) – you had to do it three more times! Two for each leg, one front and one back. Stupid. But, we did it!

Then one day someone invented what I now would call the “leg scrunchee”. A large, covered hair tie rubberband of sorts that you rolled up your leg and around the top of the stocking on your thigh. No more garter belts! Yay! But, as easy as it was for those rubberband things to roll UP your leg … they also easily rolled DOWN your leg! So, you could be in the middle of English class, standing in the front of the room presenting your report on Clarissa Harlowe Barton (aka: Clara, founder of the American Red Cross) and you could feel that rubber band thing starting to roll down your thigh. So, you’d talk faster – hoping that you’d be done with said report before your whole stocking ended up at your ankle in front of your whole class. Trauma at its finest.

And do NOT get me started on those horrid sanitary napkin belt things. OMG. Guys – you have NO idea how easy you have it!

Anyway … for years I got up at the crack of dawn and put on nylons/hose/fishnets … and then finally pantyhose. Big thanks to pantyhose inventor, Allen E. Grant, who in 1959 came up with the idea while coming home from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on an overnight train to his home in NC. He originally called them “panti-legs” … but if he had this idea in 1959, why the hell didn’t we get them until 15 years later?! Because it wasn’t until the late 60s that manufacturers came up with a more affordable product, thus allowing to supply the average consumer. As early as the ’40s costumers were sewing stockings onto undergarments for dancers in movies. (Think how Ann Miller would look in those fabulous costumes without pantyhose!) Original materials were rayon or silk (aka: silk stockings) and in the ’60s the materials changed to nylon (aka: nylons). In 1974, Julie Newmar (Catwoman of Batman fame) patented pantyhose with a “butt band” (supposedly giving one’s behind a lift) and well, the rest is history.

In those “olden days” I’d get up and start my day by showering, drying and curling my hair, applying makeup, and getting dressed (always with pantyhose or stockings of some sort if wearing a skirt or dress). I’d pick out jewelry, eat something for breakfast, and run to the bus for school or work. All before 7am. The whole idea of it all makes me think … damn … that was CRAZY!

And who wanted to EVER wear pantyhose in the SUMMER?! Egad. Yoga pants or yoga capris are bad enough. It’s like wearing a wetsuit in a sauna!

In any case … the years of “dressing up” for school and work are behind me. Somewhere around the turn of this century, yoga pants came into style. They replaced the ever-lovely and oh-so-flattering stirrup pants (snicker/snicker – the ’90s saw them again rising from their popularity in the ’60s). Once again, all I can say is … yay for yoga pants.

I’ve been living in them ever since.

And do I DO yoga? Not on your life. But, damn if they’re not comfortable and (unless your legs are wet) easy to get on and wear.

And yeah, there are days when I miss dressing up. I sometimes crave a freshly ironed something and wearing “hose” and heels and something girly. But those moments and yearnings are fleeting. Every once in a while it is nice. But, on a daily basis? Um, no thanks. I am not Donna Reed or June Cleaver.

In the 1820’s (200 years ago – egad!) … women’s fashions were dresses with large, puffed, long sleeves, high collars, cinched waists, and gored skirts (tighter at the waist/flared at the ankles). They called this the Early Romantic Silhouette. I call it the straightjacket, sweatsuit from hell. I can’t imagine. There are days in the summer when I am about to faint wearing linen capris and a tank top. I cannot imagine wearing a dress like that AND the petticoats and undergarments required for such. I’d be like one of those fainting goats – falling over from heat exhaustion all time!

In the 1920s (100 years ago – when my grandpa was in his 20s and my dad was not yet a thought) … women’s fashions were mostly that of the “Roaring Twenties” flapper style ensemble. A functional dress (ranging from knee length to ankle), which was low-cut and which flattened the bust line rather than accentuating it. It was usually sleeveless or had sheer long sleeves. Extravagant accessories (strings of pearls) were the norm as well as donning a cloche hat. I have a photo of my grandmother wearing such an outfit. It’s amazing and she looked like a million bucks!

Anyway … as I was hopping around my bathroom this morning, trying to get my legs into my yoga pants without causing myself injury or losing a tooth by falling into the bathtub mid hop … I thanked the fashion designers of late for making my life easier than it was or could be. No petticoats, layers of undergarments, corsets, or even pantyhose for me. Now if I’d only dry off my legs better before getting dressed!

In any case … yay for yoga pants!

March 18, 2024 (Monday – over halfway through this month! Crazy!)

I was looking through my pantry last weekend while wondering what to make for dinner when my eyes spied a can of cannellini beans. That one little look brought this little ditty tumbling out of me! So weird how this brain works.

*****

Hannibal

There once was a man named Hannibal – Smith, not Lecter – as one might suppose. He was mild and meek, somewhat of a geek, and wore shoes with holes in the toes.

He was older and gentle, this man they all feared – Nary an acquaintance or family had he. No friends or foes, just his home and his woes … word had him a cannibal, you see.

We were neighbors, not friends. But, as it turned out in the end, he was friendlier than friendly could be. One day he invited, and was so delighted, when I accepted his invitation to tea.

I thought a request for tea was better than dinner …  As such might mean I’d be the main course. But, I agreed, by decree as he was smaller than me, and I figured I could take him by force.

I, for one, simply thought tea would be lovely – outside in the breeze by the sea. My friends were aghast saying I’d be dinner at last, but their advice went unheeded, by me. Perhaps he was lonely and I was his only … a neighbor and friend I could be.

I thought to myself, “Be social. Be friendly. He’s harmless – a neighbor – you’ll see. ” My heart raced as I paced – uneasy and clammy – was the mood and description of me. As I went, I pondered … really, how bad could this be?

How bad could it be – a cannibal tea?

He proffered a dish of fava as I tried to chase the chills from my spine. I smiled and thanked him but said I would have to most surely decline – But he looked so put out, I said I thought I just might … And I then gobbled them up … smacking my lips with delight.

And as it was, the afternoon passed, and we had a nice and most agreeable tea! 

At first, I kept watch – and from him, a far distance. I was so nervous, fearful, and wary. But soon came to know him and laughed at myself as he was anything but wicked or scary.

As he opened his cupboards and showed me his wares, he revealed his folly of staples. He had oodles of noodles, soup, beets, and yams … Tins of all types … stockpiles of hams.

He said he wasn’t much of a cook, he liked more to just open and heat – But assured me he’d put – all tasty and good – something, for us, on the table to eat. I realized then that that we had him all wrong and he was actually so nice and so sweet.

And so it went, with Hannibal’s tea on that day. I’m so glad I went and sat at his table And figured out he’s not a man-eater, just a nice man who’s merely “can-able”.

March 10, 2024 ~ Sunday morning (sunny/warming up … first day of daylight saving time this year! Woohoo!)

OMG … I can feel winter sloughing off of me as I type. It’s to be 65° today here, despite it being not quite mid-March. I’ll take it. AND … we turned the clocks forward last night. Hello Daylight Saving Time … how I will love you for the next seven and a half months (until Nov 3rd, when we “fall back”). Yes indeedy, I am thrilled.

Let there be LIGHT!

And so we have it. Thank god! Winter (here) hasn’t been horrible (I’ve gone through much worse) but six months of brown and ugly is about five months too much. I need green … and with this “springing ahead” of time – I know actual Spring is just around the proverbial corner and with that all things green and flowers. Yippe and yahoo!

We have sprung forward an hour which means, darker in the morning and lighter in the evening. Again, I’ll take it! I always thought (wrongly) that Daylight Saving Time first began to help out the farmers with their harvesting. Not so. Apparently, (after a little sleuthing), I found out that it was initiated as the “Standard Time Act of 1918”, a wartime measure for seven months during World War I, adding more daylight hours to conserve energy resources. Year-round DST, or “War Time” (as some used to call it), was implemented again during World War II. Huh. (However, Hawaii, Arizona, and the US territories do not comply with this – don’t ask me why, it’s too confusing!). And, just FYI – farmers were against this as it decreased an hour of morning daylight for them, meaning they had to rush to get their crops to market.

In any case, it will be lighter later here and I am as giddy as a girl on the day of a school dance. I’m as giddy as an unsupervised dog with an open bag of dog food. I’m as giddy as a hippopotamus being fed pumpkins. Well, you get the idea. Giddy and … happy as a clam!

And, while I’m happy this morning – my brain, like in a car on The Wild Chipmunk roller coaster, has veered around a corner and I wonder – are clams really happy? How does one know? How can one tell? The phrase “as happy as a clam” is derived from the full phrase “happy as a clam at high water.” Clams are collected during the low tide; and during the high tides, they are safe from fishermen. Who knew? (Maybe fishermen and clams!)

But, are they really “happy”? Oddly enough, a little click on the internet gave me this ditty:

How happy are clams really? Happy as a Clam? Not! | HuffPost Entertainment
Kerala, India – A highly respected scientist has determined, contrary to popular belief, that not only are most clams not happy, they are in fact severely depressed! Dr. Patra Gupta, of the Kerala Institute of Undersea Study, monitored over 1,000 clams closely for seven years.

I don’t know which is sadder … that clams are severely depressed (according to this study) or that some scientist spent seven years doing this study? WHY? What sort of benefit to mankind (or clams) was to be done with this study? So weird.

And speaking of clams … my dad used to replace the word “dollars” with other words … smackers, bucks, dough, moolah … and (the determined-to-be severely depressed) clams. So called “old-timey slang” that he, no doubt, got from his dad (who was born in 1896 and was in his prime in the 1920s and 1930s when this terminology developed). The slang term for money would have been popular among 1920s bootlegging gangsters, with the word clam being used as a term for a dollar. It was somehow derived and based on the use of shells as currency in ancient societies and some Native American tribes.

Doing a little research on this, made me think back to the holiday the kids and I spent in Copenhagen. It was glorious. It was fabulous. It was COLD! OMG – it was SO cold. I knew I’d never wear it again, so I didn’t buy one of the gorgeous fox stoles that were sold (everywhere) at the Christmas markets … but damn, I wished I had. They were so beautiful and would have kept me so much warmer. I’m not a proponent for fur sales/wearing but my god, they were beautiful … and dyed … magenta, emerald green, sapphire blue, ruby, eggplant, chocolate, mustard. Stunning! I should have gotten one!

Anyway – while there, we went to the National Museum. It was amazing! The display room I remember most was the “money room” (speaking of clams). This collection of Danish money is the most comprehensive in the world and is called the “Royal Collection of Coins and Medals” having over a half million pieces … money, medals, stones, and other objects related to means of payment. That’s a LOT of clams! And it was displayed like a jewelry store would display pieces … gorgeous! Glass encased drawers and drawers of coins and whatnot from centuries past. It was divine. I’d go back just to see that one room again!

And, here I am – having veered off course – again! I was going to write more on light today, and well, this is how my brain works … being happy as a clam, and then the brain railcar goes down the bivalve track and then veers off to the money route … which morphs into a visit to a museum … and well, hope you are following along!

Anyway, here I am now thinking of bivalves – again – (bivalvia – aquatic invertebrates found living in sediment – usually sand) … oysters, cockles, scallops, mussels, and (those severely depressed) clams … nice as shell souvenirs from the beach but I’m not a fan of eating any of them. My mom loved scallops. My daughter used to enjoy mussels – but I think she read something about them and decided not to eat them anymore. Kind of like me and lobster – the garbage cans of the ocean – however grossed out I am about them, it’s not going to stop me from eating one from time to time (so good)! Hey – I eat Hostess cupcakes and those things have a shelf life of 1000 years and will certainly kill me off before consumption of a little sea poop!

And, again, in thinking about all those sea creatures … and especially cockles (I had to look them up/a cousin of the clam but sweeter and less briny in nature) … and that horrible, horrible (tragic folk tale) song came to mind about Molly Malone who wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets, wide and narrow, selling cockles and mussels – alive, alive, oh! Egad. That is now going to stick with me for at least a week. Maybe two. Maybe longer.

In any case, clams (happy or not) be damned … I’m going to throw something on the grill later and am going to sit outside in the extra hour of sunlight we’ve got and enjoy the heck out of it!

As it was written, and translated from the Bible versions written in Hebrew and Greek, “light – let it exist” or as is stated simpler … Let there be LIGHT!

March 6, 2024 ~ Wednesday (sunny and mild)

I saw a body get bagged this morning – as in a body bag – as in they would soon be on their way to the morgue. I felt awful, as just moments earlier, on my way to an appointment, I was more than muttering (as in verbally out loud to myself and the pink dinosaur that hangs from my rearview mirror) … “What the hell, people, just DRIVE!”

And then, I realized. The 17 cop cars, plastic drape being held up, and coroner’s van were a (dare I say … dead) giveaway. Sorry person – whoever you are – or were. RIP. I said a little prayer.

And in that instant of realization, my heart sank. I didn’t know who that person was, but I knew their life had ended. And I also knew that someone, somewhere, was on the phone or about to get a call that would change their life and turn their world upside down and inside out. I, again, said a little prayer. I know how it is to be on the receiving end.

My thoughts flashed back – like after a turn of a very fast dial on a microfiche machine – to my dad. It’s been over five years since he passed. Since I got that call. His was the last body bag I saw. I didn’t watch as they took my mom from her apartment … perhaps I had gotten over the morbid fascination that humans usually harbor. I didn’t want to see her like that. I didn’t want to see him, either, but I stumbled into the hallway where he was. The EMT’s should have told me. They didn’t. It was awful.

I hope whoever has to identify that person from the parkway today – has someone with them and that someone has the kindness to remove the bag before the deed is done.

I’m not a religious person. But, I am spiritual. I send prayers out to the universe and good vibes out to friends (and people I see along the way) as well as good wishes, be wells, and take cares … all the time. I send our little ditties to remind them that change is constant … that unease means we’re doing something new and growing (hopefully) … and that no matter what the day brings – to breathe and be grateful. Whether I know if someone needs a little boost or not, those wishes go out. Because, after all, don’t we all need a little lift/help now and then? What is the harm in wishing someone well?

So, I say a little prayer.

Our planet is in trouble. February marked the ninth warmest month in a row for good ol’ Mother Earth. Not good. Global average temps set records. Ocean temps set records. And not good ones like “You are the BEST ever!” … more like … “This is god-awful.”

Our country is in trouble. Far too many of those in or seeking office are known liars, frauds, convicted of sexual assault, Holocaust deniers, KKK clansmen, Neo-Nazis, radicals, thieves, criminals, misogynists, religious nut-cases, conspiracy theorists, destroyers of women’s rights, morally bankrupt, dictator wannabees, insulting, divisive, deceptive, spineless and ethically challenged, and even one who is telling the survivors of a school mass-shooting that they are “spoiled little bastards”.

I send out prayers for our planet and country (and us) every day. We need to get serious.

And, we need more help. So, please join me … and do more than say a little prayer.

February 23, 2024 ~ Friday (afternoon/sunny/warmer than Feb usually is – nice)

A million years ago (or so it seems), on this date, my childhood dog was born, Marvin. I’m thinking something like 60 years ago. How is that possible? The years seem to just melt away.

I am having a bad hair day. But, then, how can I tell? It seems all my days are usually bad hair days! But, today, things seem especially stupid in the hair department!

Foregoing any chance of looking like I wasn’t electrocuted, I gave up on my hair styling and went back to my desk. I was looking for a post and came across one from seven years ago (which also seems like a million years ago) … and oddly, it has to do with my hair. Go figure.

It was mid-February of 2017 … I was six weeks into my “hair experiment”. I had been interviewing women for the book I was working on (the same one I’m STILL working on) … specifically about their hair loss due to their cancer treatments. Almost all of them said they’d rather lose a breast than their hair. I was dumbfounded, confounded, amazed. WHY??? Hair grows back – breasts do not. Women are not starfish! They all (basically) told me I didn’t get it. I had no idea how hard it was to lose their hair … had no idea how it made them feel … that I was essentially, clueless. And … they were right.

So, on the eve of that new year – I stood in my island bathroom and did what I felt I needed to do … I shaved my head. I’m sure most everyone who knew me thought I’d gone off the deep end … that I lost my mind and marbles along with my locks. I’ll tell ya – I’ve never been one with a lot of hair. I’ve had LONG hair … but put it into a pony tail and it would look like a rat’s tail. The only thing ever consistently thin on this body has been my hair!

So, there I was, seven years ago – ruing my experiment … feeling sorry for myself … being done. I had less hair than a Chinese Crested … and wanted my hair – even the thin, baby-fine wispiness of it – back!

Here’s that post …

Put a fork in me … I’m DONE!

Posted on February 18, 2017 by Les

February 18, 2017 – From Hair to There

If I were a roast or loaf of banana bread or any other baked good or savory dish in the oven, I’d say … “Put a fork in me-I’m DONE!” But I’m none of those things … not a stew nor a baked dish. Too bad.

This (lack of) hair experiment has me pulling out my (proverbial) hair! Yes, it is beyond my control as to how fast or slowly it grows in/out. And, yes, that was part of this challenge to myself – to grasp the lack of control. And, because I’m a quasi control freak, this was to be a good exercise in patience and acceptance, understanding and empathy. And a life experience. I wanted to know. Yes, I get it.

But I’m DONE. I just want my hair back!

Remember seeing (or having) that one child in Target who was having the hissy fit of all temper tantrums in the toy department? I’m that child.

I’m done. D.O.N.E.

Come on hair – get with the program – grow like Rapunzel’s golden glory! Grow like Tressy’s auburn mane! Haven’t the slightest clue who Rapunzel is? Go read some fairy tales (for god’s sake!). Don’t know who Tressy is, either? Read on.

When I was 7 I wanted a Tressy doll for Christmas. She was the IT item of the year for me. No ballerina tutu or fun game for me … I pined for that doll. I’m pretty sure I broke out into a sweat when thinking about her as a possible gift from Santa! I think I folded a lot of extra laundry those days just to stay on the “nice” list to ensure my odds!

And, alas, Christmas morning revealed NO Tressy from Santa. But, hark! That afternoon, I opened a box from my grandparents and there she was … Tressy … in all her hair splendor. Tressy was a bustier version of Barbie (if that is even possible) but a tiny bit larger so that when you used Barbie’s clothing on her, the fit was a little tight – think Junior Hooker in the making. She had really pretty eyes and gorgeous reddish-brown hair. And that was the kicker … her hair. You could change the length! Talk about nirvana for girls who loved styling hair!

To achieve the length change, she had a key slot in her back and a round (rather large) belly button on her stomach. At the top of her head there was a pony tail. Now, when you pushed in the button, you could pull on the pony tail and more hair would come out (at full length, the pony tail was almost to her ankles)! And if you turned the key in her back the hair would magically wind back down into her head (and I’m assuming body) so that she had a short “do”, once again. It was FABULOUS! She was the BEST ever!

I can’t tell you how many hours I played with that doll. Her ensemble included brushes and combs, curlers and little hair toys and jewels … it was a hair-enthusiast’s dream doll! (And, I imagine, a vacuum cleaner’s nightmare! I wonder how many of those little curlers got sucked up over time?!)

Getting her was great and almost as good as getting one of those beauty school doll heads that you could put curlers on and put under a toy hair dryer hood. I always wanted one of those but never asked for one. I think I was a bit creeped out over a bodiless doll head! In any case, I loved that doll! I was such a hair-nut, it makes me wonder why I never went to beauty school or did anything with hair!

So, yes, I now wish I were Tressy or Rapunzel or anyone else who has more hair than I do at this given moment! I’m done with this experiment. I want life as it used to be. I guess I’m not that great with the reality of lack of control at times.

I remember feeling that way after Tim (my husband) died … it had been months and I remember standing in our closet, my things had taken over the space that once housed his clothing (as I’d removed most of his things) and I remember saying, “OK, come back! This test sucked. I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m DONE!”

How wonderful that would have been – to have the ability to blink my eyes or wave a magic wand and make that happen. (Though I had the awful feeling that if that happened, he would have been really upset with me for getting rid of his stuff!) But that’s not reality. Sometimes reality sucks.

And so, here I am today, thinking similar thoughts … “I don’t like this. This challenge is dumb and going to take far too long. I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m DONE!” Reality is looking back at me in the mirror with a head full of 1/4″ – 1/2″ hair spikes and I have no choice or control over the matter  … once again, I have no magical ability to change things.

I’m in this for the long haul! It is what it is and my hair will grow back in whatever time it takes … and I have to get a grip on the fact that it could be a really long time! Accept it!

And it’s when I look in the mirror and tell myself to accept it and to “get over it”, that I laugh at my ridiculousness over this HEAD. I know that I’m healthy and the hair will grow back and I shouldn’t make such a big, damn deal about it and that it’s okay and just go on with life and ignore the big, round, fat head …

BUT … then I have that wave wash over me … the one that sneaks up from time to time and makes me feel less like myself. The wave that strips my confidence and power and femininity.

And makes me feel so ugly.

Not bald, not short hair – I’m somewhere in between and I feel (still) so naked. Vulnerable. I don’t like it. I don’t want to say that there is a certain security factor or feeling of having hair … but there kind of is. I don’t want to say I hide behind it – but I feel so bare without anything there. Raw. Naked. Fat. Hair has a certain comfort factor and without it it’s like being in one of those dreams where you forget to wear your underwear in public (or in my case, a skirt too short that I have to go up steps sideways). It’s NOT a good feeling.

And as hard as it is at times, I did this to MYSELF! I wanted this! I just can’t imagine dealing with this hair (lack of/slowly growing/oddly growing) while also being sick and having this happen due to meds. It makes me think that hospitals and care facilities NEED (just not should) provide some sort of classes for people who lose their hair to illness or treatments. It is such a mentally difficult thing that I just have to imagine that the depressed psyche would somehow impede the healing process. Why isn’t a class on “inner beauty” and acceptance and gaining confidence in one’s new look a reality for people who lose their hair?

It’s been 6 weeks now (a bit more) and I’ve gone from naked chicken skin (which truly was disgustingly gross) to baby peach fuzz to feeling like a chia pet to Curly from the Three Stooges to militant spikes to … what I’m now calling this … the Awkward Stage. My hair is now, as I said,  about 1/2″ in length … well, in spots! Some hair is 1/4″ and some somewhere in between those lengths! I’ve got a lot of scalp going on – but that was a “thing” when I had a full head of hair. I must be follicle-ly challenged as I’m sure they are farther apart than is deemed normal.

In any case, I’ve got sparseness going on on the left side with some weird cowlick thing going on over the left temple. There is a silver circle over my right temple – that from afar looks like a bald spot. (Lovely, I know!) There is a huge (as in golf ball sized) swirling circular cowlick going on at the top of the back of my head … I’m calling it Hurricane Leslie. (It’s disgusting.) The top of my head has an arete of darkness which makes me feel akin to a Rhodesian Ridgeback. The only place my hair is actually growing with any consistency or length or without problem is at the base of my neck and that is just GROSS! I’ve got this Poindexter “do” going on with these longer wisps … like some wayward carny with a very bad mullet in the making.

So, you get the gist of this. I’m DONE. Or at least I want to be. I miss my hair. I want to get out a curling iron and some barrettes! (And at the rate my hair is growing – I’ll be waiting to do that for at least a year … or two!)

For someone who really likes hair – this really was a rough (dare I say stupid?) challenge. Yes, I’ll say I’m at the place where I’ll call it stupid (and that’s just because I want my hair back – NOW!) … but I know months from now that there will be redemption and I will appreciate this journey and gain insight and understanding and some really awful photos that I can finally show my kids.

I know all that and I know my hair will grow back … someday.

But for now … put a fork in me cuz I’m done!

February 11, 2024 ~ Sunday (Sunny, snow is melting and it’s the Superbowl ~ so what?!))

It snowed yesterday in my little corner of the world. I am not glad for it, other than it brings our thirsty trees and ground much-needed moisture; but I am thankful we only got the 5 or so inches … as it was a drier snowfall … and not the foot or so we could have gotten, if the system had more moisture in it. Be grateful for small blessings.

I just went out and swept off my car and windshield before the snow got too heavy (melting in the sunshine) and broke the glass. It’s happened before. I’m sure there’s a mathematical explanation/equation about the ratio of the weight of the snow, the psi, and the curvature of the glass, etc – but I don’t know what that is … and honestly, I don’t care.

Apathy. I seem to have a bit of it today. And, sadly, I feel it’s become a national epidemic. The unrecognized malaise of far too many. The invisible divider. Uncaring. Not caring. I’m too busy. I don’t want to help. Not my circus/not my monkeys. The “don’t bother me” attitudes.

The definition for that word – is lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern. Yup, pretty much sums up what I am finding everywhere … in the baristas at my local Starbucks, just about every wait staff or service person I’ve encountered in the last too many years, health professionals and their assistants. Sadly, too many people I know. When did this become pervasive? No one gives a shit anymore.

And, speaking of which … I was out walking the other day, pre-snowfall, and I was with Mac (my lab) and he did what dogs usually do while out on walks – he pooped. So, being a responsible dog owner/walker, I used my doggie bag and picked it up. Knowing we had a ways to go, I thought I’d find a garbage can that was out on the curb – ready to be picked up the next day. I figured, if it’s out on the curb, no one would really mind if I dropped the tied bag in with their other garbage. I spied a can … walked over to it … and on the lid was a rather large sticker reading … DO NOT PUT YOUR DOG’S POOP BAGS IN MY GARBAGE CAN!

Okay … got the message. But really? Is that necessary? Your can is filled with YOUR garbage already, waiting for the disposal company’s truck to arrive in the morning … why does it matter? I don’t live in an area where 75 people would be dropping off bags of “doody” in anyone’s garbage cans … so, really, why the ugliness? Why not a sticker that reads … YOUR DOG’S POOP BAGS ARE WELCOME IN THIS GARBAGE CAN. Why not? It’s better than leaving it on the sidewalk or someone’s yard. And, honestly, I’m not a good body “fluids” person, so carrying around a bag of dog you-know-what for a mile is supremely nauseating to me. Everything about it makes me want to puke. Almost. Seriously. (You should have seen me potty training my kids!)

Anyway – what happened to neighborliness? What happened to CARING about your fellow man? You need a cup of sugar? Sure, come on over. You need help shoveling your walk? I’ll come by. You need your plants watered or your cat looked after when you’re out of town? Sure, sure, and sure. The weather is turning, do you need something at the grocery store? I’m going. What happened to us?

I have one neighbor where I live now. I live in an odd/mixed area of the historic town here. I’m zoned residential/commercial so could do a dog grooming biz, since I’m zoned for it, if I wanted to. I did, at one time, but couldn’t because the city council said I couldn’t give a dog a bubble bath here. Something in the by-laws or rules or something said that I could do surgery here, but I couldn’t give a dog a bath. Huh! And when asked why not – I was told it was the way it was. Apathy abounds on so many levels. Not caring enough to change things or look into the odd ruling means I couldn’t do what I thought I could do … and I couldn’t have a dog bakery either. Another ruling. They could have changed it but no one really cared to. I’ve been around these issues (in the past) and it’s not worth me pursuing anymore.

In any case, I am surrounded by healthcare buildings and a house or two that have been changed into offices … a few apartment buildings and duplexes across the street – where I never see any signs of life. And then there is the hoarder next to me. I haven’t seen him in a good 15 years. He has a guy living in a shed (I kid you not) in his yard and I see him … seems like a nice guy. And we’ve chatted, exchanged wayward mail, petted the dogs but that’s about as far as we’ve gone in neighborliness. And it kind of makes me sad. But, I’m solo and don’t know this guy, and (judging) if he were really normal, would he be living in a shed? How neighborly do I want to get? But, I miss neighbors. I miss that connectivity. I miss that built-in camaraderie and oneness and helpfulness. There were still the local oddballs on the island on my little road … but for the most part, we all had each other’s backs. I just don’t see that all that much anymore.

And I find that very sad … but I can also relate. I find it creeps into my life and those around me too easily of late. Yeah – as I said, I’d like to be neighborly but is it safe? There was a guy this week, in his bathrobe, walking along … and I just hoped he’d continue on his way. Is unwillingness to get involved the same thing as apathy? I want a solution and help for homelessness … but I don’t want it done next to my house. Is that apathy or hypocrisy? Is there that fine of a line between all of those things?

Today is the Superbowl and honestly, I could care less. Apathetic? Perhaps to some, but I’m not a commercials gal or a professional sports person. I think they are all stupid. We have children starving in this country. We have BIG problems with unstable housing, food deserts, aging/aged/ailing, healthcare, addiction, education, inequality, environmental issues … need I go on? And there are grown men running around a field chasing a ball, risking brain injuries, making MILLIONS … and millions are watching them do so. Some are there – having paid thousands for a ticket (each) and at least $30 for a beer and a slice of pizza. I’d love to see some of that money go into education and food programs and housing assistance (etc) … it’s big bucks for everyone – except those that really need it. I find it rather disgusting.

In any case … it’s something I wrestle with … those fine lines of apathy and the could-care-less attitude, charity, and neighborliness.

I just want you to know, if you are out walking your dog and are near my house – your dog’s poop bag is always welcome in my garbage can.

February 5, 2024 ~ Monday night (cold, late, dark)

It’s funny when you get a look – however brief it may be – into another’s life. Even if you don’t know that person. So many things run through your head – well, at least, my head.

I stopped into my local Safeway today around lunchtime – an unexpected stopover as my scheduled appointment had been canceled – unbeknownst to me. Lovely. Anyway, I was near the store and thought I’d pop in for some fried chicken (I do love fried chicken – gas station or otherwise!) and an apple. And maybe dog food/kibble, if I could find the kind that I like for the dogs. I left with six other items along with the chicken and apple – but no dog food.

Funny how that goes.

Along with the said chicken and apple, I came home with … puff pastry, a can of white/sliced potatoes, a huge container of blueberries, half of a watermelon, two celery sticks, and a package of romaine lettuce. I wonder what that tells of my diet?

When I checked out, I grabbed the receipt as it was spat out at me from the self-checkout machine. I got home and realized I got someone else’s receipt … apparently it was the shopper’s that used the scanner before me. I didn’t see who checked out ahead of me … but it certainly made me wonder.

Diet Mountain Dew, sushi, and Pepto Bismol.

They spent $1.04 less than I did. I’m pretty sure I got the better deal. But it made me wonder about them … male or female (or fluid)? Young, middle-aged, or older? Introvert/extrovert? Maybe if they didn’t eat the sushi and/or the soda, they wouldn’t need the Pepto! Hmmm.

My puzzling mind started reeling. Certainly (in my mind) it wasn’t a young mother or someone struggling financially. No one would spend nearly $10 on sushi, if so. I pictured someone in the work force with a good amount of disposable income (who could afford $10 sushi for lunch). I was inclined to think it was a guy … but the sushi was a veggie combo and aren’t sushi portions on the lighter side? I would think a male would need more than a few rolls of sushi – but what do I know? I thought of the Mountain Dew … I don’t know many women who drink soda or Mountain Dew, for that matter. But, do guys drink diet soda? And the Pepto … well, it made me think of someone older than 40. How many under that age need an antacid?

Good thing I’m not a detective!

I could have been way off base … and the purchaser could have been a 22-year-old female … grabbing a quick lunch, eating in her car, getting a caffeine spike to finish off her day or be ready for an afternoon presentation … and downing a swig of Pepto to calm her stomach. Who knows?

I’m just going to make sure I grab my receipt next time I’m shopping when buying Cheetos and snack cakes. I don’t need anyone judging my purchases except myself!

February 3, 2024 ~ Saturday pm (cold, snowy, purple skies)

Good ol’ Punxsutawny Phil forecasted an early spring. Hooray and yahoo! However, maybe his prediction wasn’t to include this weekend. The dogs are snuggled on the couch; Mac is staring at me with expectation. No, we are NOT going out for a you know what! It’s still snowing … I think we are at 7″ now … and still it comes down … sometimes fat flakes, other times like sifted powdered sugar. In any case, it’s leaving a white landscape that I do not care to walk around in.

We had thunder last night … at midnight! And, it was 48°. It was LOVELY! As I climbed into bed, I was praising that darling, fat, famous groundhog for his early Spring prediction … I have been needing it. I am NOT a winter gal. I awoke this morning to a gentle rain … it was delicious. I looked out and thought I’d go for a nice, long walk – carry an umbrella, maybe pick up a coffee. It sounded fabulously springlike … and I walked out of my bedroom after getting my clothes, headed for the shower, and realized it was … snowing!

Curses!

Yeah, I sound like the Wicked Witch of the West. Maybe I am her? I feel like it when the weather turns. Not that I’m bound to melt, just that words like, “Curses!” come out of my mouth. Like I said, I’m not a winter gal.

I’ve had the WW of the W on my mind lately. Odd but true. I was out, walking the other day in our beautiful 64° weather (it was glorious/and abnormal for late January – or Feb, March, or April! Yeah – Spring in CO sucks) … and I happened to look at my phone to see how many steps I’d taken. What was I averaging? How was I doing for this new year?

I was okay with the steps taken but was HORRIFIED when I saw how many calories – averaging/on a daily basis – I’ve been burning off. And how many you ask? A whopping 39.7 calories a day. Seriously! HOW is that even possible? I am sure a snail burns off more than 39.7 calories a day! WTF times 157!

I have NO metabolism. Sometime in my early 30s, after having two kids and seeing numbers on the scale that now would only happen if I endured amputation, my metabolism packed up and went south. Or east or to Europe; I don’t know, but it left me – for good. Without so much as a note. Sigh. And so it’s been my absolute pleasure for the last 35 years to do what so many women (and some men) have done … diet/exercise/curse the mirror/and have a closet of four different sizes of clothes. I’ve tried just about everything aside from surgery. And I won’t do that. I’m up 20 lbs from when I moved here … 20 months ago. Yeah, curses!

When I had my tonsils out, I lost 10 lbs in a week … of course, I couldn’t open my mouth and I sipped tea and broth for that time. When I actually could get any sort of food in me – I gained the poundage back … and an additional three pounds … in about ten minutes. Go figure.

And this all got me thinking, again, about the WW of the W and her hourglass. I’ve never had an hourglass figure (nor an actual hourglass, either). I’ve always been one of those rectangle girls/women … broad shoulders, thick waist, no hips. In other words, a smaller version of Refrigerator Perry. But now I’m a medium version of him. Oh, happy day!

In any case … I just shoveled the walk (and yes, I did take the dog for a walk!). I left the driveway to melt or be iced over for the next month – whichever comes first. Usually, the neighboring parking lot’s plow drivers also plow my drive – only right because the clients/staff for that building also tend to park (all too often) in my driveway or park blocking it. But, today the plow didn’t get near my drive. Oh well. Such is life. But, I’m not going to break my back (or have a heart attack) shoveling off this driveway. I’m not going anywhere tomorrow … and on Monday, I’ll cut through the plowed parking lot. I’ve done enough shoveling for the day … month … year! Surely that had to burn off more than 39 calories – apparently my caloric intake allotment for any day if I want to maintain this weight (which I do not). So, guess I’m down to water, tea, some tasty celery sticks, and air. Wonder if I sprayed a fruit-scented air freshener and took a few deep breaths if that would be cheating?

Sure am hoping that rodent of rodents was right … and that I can figure out how to get this poundage off me. Guess we’ll have to “weight” and see.

January 22, 2024 ~ Monday morning (unseasonably warm – I’ll take it!)

I’d like to wish you all a Happy New Year – but we are already three weeks into this new year – so, I’ll wish you a Happy (three weeks in/not so) New Year, instead. Hope it’s a great one for us all.

It’s been a while, again. The lobster has been absent for a couple of months and I feel it in my soul when I don’t write – but I have been “elsewhere” in my thoughts and time.

Mom died the week before Christmas … she was ready, and we were ready (is anyone EVER ready though?). She went peacefully, at home, and that is all anyone can really hope for. She missed her 95th by a month … a long, pretty-easy life. The night she passed, I came home late; I was grumpy and sleep-deprived, stressed and sad, and I brushed past my tree to hang up my coat and knocked off one of my favorite ornaments and watched as it shattered into a million pieces on the floor. I wondered why my heart didn’t do the same. The dogs had been in too long so I had messes to clean up. I got grumpier. Could I take one more thing? And then, in the laundry room, there was a (still alive – and squeaking – omg) mouse in the trap. OMG. Horrors! As I put him outside – all I could think of was that it was a day of slow, lingering death. I came inside and shouted at the ceiling, “I can’t do this … I hope you made it Mom. I hope to God you made it!” … and as the last word left my mouth, one of the light bulbs in my kitchen fixture blinked off and on. WTF?! I exhaled … and took it that Mom “made it” – she’d made it to Heaven. I whispered a very soft … thank you. That was good. A few days later, I brushed by the tree again and a small cluster of bells, hanging on one of the branches, tinkled softly. Okay … I get it … another sign. I took that that Mom got her wings, too. Atta girl, Mom.

This month has flown with holidays, packing up her apartment, arrangements, and all that losing someone entails (contacting whatever friends she had left, sifting through bits of a 95-year-old life) … which also included complete and utter exhaustion. Stress does a number on the body and when you stop for a moment after being on “high alert” for so long … the body (at least mine) turns to a glob of goo or a pile of mush and it’s really hard to get a glob of goo or a pile of mush to do anything!

I’m working on my next book (yay) and came across these this morning … old 100-word smash-ups from when I lived on the island. The local arts center would hold contests from time to time and you were allowed 100 words – no more/no less. Two local actors, one female/one male, would sit on the stage and read the stories out loud. Behind them on a large screen would be a photo of a “mock-up” book with the title of the story and the author’s name. It was always such fun! I was most tickled when the woman read my Ima Goen story. She did such a GREAT job with it. These are all better read aloud – just fyi. I placed 2nd and 3rd in two different years; I now don’t remember which stories won, but it was exciting! Big crowds in the performing arts center … and always a rush to hear someone else read your work. I miss my friends from there, but man, I miss the beauty and green and the culture … and having a reason to write a 100-word smash-up. Enjoy!

*****

By Myself … (Feb 2017)

Countless diaper-changing, bottle-feeding nights. Sleep-deprived days of colic and firsts …  I wished for a moment by myself. 

Giggles, swings, tadpoles, and cat birthday parties. Wading pools, dinosaurs, dolls, legos. Hours of Barbie, Disney songs that still haunt, slumber parties with Mary Worth til dawn.

I wished for a hot bath – by myself – without toys.

Back packs, packed lunches, soccer, piano, scouts. Friends galore, empty pantry, family vacations. Pizza boxes reaching the moon. Mountains of laundry. Whirling days of car pools and errands.

I wished to catch my breath. 

Quiet house. Husband passed. Children’s wings spread. 

By myself. 

*****

I am NOT Scarlett O’Hara  (Feb 2016)

I am NOT Scarlett O’Hara.

Though I do believe that “tomorrow is another day”, I keep hoping it ends up being something other than what it always is—Another. Day. 

It’s been years since that horrible, worst day—not the day he died (though not great in itself)…but the day AFTER he died. After 9,926 days together how was I to go on with my life…a life without HIM?

My shattered heart is mending—apparently too slowly—because everyone thinks I should be “over him” by now. 

I am NOT Scarlett O’Hara…and frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.

*****

The Light (Oct 2015) (This is a two person read. Italics = person #2)

The light comes intermittently—not like a blinking firefly but steady and streaming—reminding me of the lighthouse beacon at the cove.

Her pupils are not responding.

The voice is clinical. It talks about me—but not to me.

“I’M HERE!” I shout. But the words never pass my lips and echo in my head. I feel hollow. Do I feel?

I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do.

It is then that the sobbing begins. I hear the heartbreaking slump of bodies against each other—my parents.

The light returns but it is different—warmer, brighter—beckoning me towards it.

*****

My Fairy Tale  (Oct 2015)

Snow White had it made!

Seven boyfriends—Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Grumpy, Bashful, Happy, and Doc. Not great names and albeit short in stature, but she was adored by industrious, doting miners in a one-bedroom, cozy cottage deep in the woods.

What’s not to like?

A girl can dream. Right?

But, in my fairy tale, they would be tall, dark, and handsome with names like Hunky, Sporty, Funny, Wealthy, Smarty, Arty, and Chef.

However, life usually isn’t a fairy tale and sometimes you get Lazy, Sleazy, Slimy, Horny, Drunky, Stupid, or Broke.

But sometimes, just sometimes, you get a Prince.

*****

The Day After (Feb 2015)

I remember it like it was yesterday; because it was yesterday. 
I should have heeded the warnings. I knew it was coming. And yet, I ignored all the signs. And then it was upon us. And they were upon us. 
Scenes from nightmares: tattered and armed, skeletal, fang-toothed, and bloody; lurching and scurrying with a hundred feet. 
I turned out all the lights – hoping they would pass me by and not stop to feed on me to sate their unquenchable hunger. 
I endured hours, hidden in the darkness, praying for them to be gone. 
Thank God, Halloween is over!

*****

Ima Goen (Oct 2014) (Best read with a slow, Southern drawl – female voice)

You’d think my mama and daddy were humorous folks. Not so.

Contrarily, my name defies their stern nature. My name is Ima Goen…and that’s what I plan on doin’.

I’m sick of saying Ima Goen…cuz I know someone’s gonna ask me, “Where?”

It ain’t funny. So, I’m a goin’. I don’t know where…and I don’t know when but I’m a goin’ somewhere where I can breathe air so fresh my lungs will laugh.

Today’s not the day. But one day I’ll just go. And when I do, I’ll no longer be Ima Goen … I’ll be Ima Gone.

*****

Ode to Leggings (Jan 2015)

Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a pair of long, shapely legs … 

Once upon a time, and long ago, (probably whence I was in 4th grade) – I owned a pair of legs – bar non, from sticks and pink were made.
For twelve seconds, that is, those “sticks” were mine, between baby and adult stages of chub. Good thing I don’t live in Borneo where cannibals would rename me … Grub.  Bob Evans and Jimmy Dean would love me – don’t give either of them a fork … cuz my legs, these days, are no longer sticks, but look like fat sausages of pork!

*****

Realization (Nov 2014)

Realization. It had been a long time in coming. I stared down at my left hand as I slipped the band from the fourth finger. Subtly … like a hurricane gale or a marching band … it hit me and swept away my denial. Awash in grief, I could do nothing but quell the primal howl inside me and try to breathe. Breathe. Keep breathing. Road signs around me silently screamed their directions: STOP, MERGE, WRONG WAY, CAUTION, DEAD END. DEAD. END. I felt sick. Again. All the sleepless nights, unshed and shed tears, my shattered heart … finally it set in … realization.

November 7, 2023 ~ Tuesday night (another day/another night/more meds, please)

I consider myself a healthy person – relatively speaking. Yes, I’m sensitive to almost everything on the planet, allergic to a few others, and a sesame seed away from living in a plastic bubble – but then, it would have to be something other than plastic, because I can’t handle that, either. But, I’m rarely sick.

But when I found myself in the Urgent Care exam room twice in as many months and needing antibios. I wondered. And, when both docs suggested that I have my tonsils looked at, I wondered more and I did. My primary recommended an ENT and a month later, there I was sitting in his office with my mouth open like an ungracious cod fish with him peering down my maw with one of those baby flashlights. He stood up, made eye contact, and said, “Wow.” Oh great! NOT what you want to hear from your ENT! He began furiously scribbling on whatever sheet was on his clipboard (yes, people still use clipboards! I love them – mini-tables / tables on the go – I digress.) … he stopped whatever he was writing and looked at me and said, “Yeah, we’re gonna take those out.”

And so that is what happened last Thursday.

A quick trip to the surgery center, a couple of warm blankets, and a nice chitchat with a very friendly preop nurse (who told me she kissed a walrus when she was 5). Seriously, I did not dream that – that was before I had any drugs in me! The anesthesiologist gave me a very (way too) graphic run-down of what was going to happen and told me that in an hour or so, I’d be waking up – tonsil-free and raring to go.

Well, in theory. I fought everything. I didn’t, but my body did. I fought the anesthesia. I fought the breathing tube. My body refused to give up the goods. Enormous tonsils + a very tiny airway = prying the jaw open. I can only picture myself looking like a human Pez dispenser for an hour or more. Too bad I’m not full of brick-like tasty candies!

The operation took twice as long as expected. The breathing tube abraded my esophagus, they wrestled with the tongue and tonsils, and somewhere along the line, I think a crown got chipped. Apparently, I also have very sharp teeth. My bottom inside lip, tongue, and sides of my mouth were all cut up – making me feel like I’d been chewing on glass shards. My tongue was swollen, black and blue, and too sore to move. (Really creepy.) The roof of my mouth is toric and (still) feels like it’s been on the receiving end of a mouthful of burning/too-hot cocoa or hot cheese. I also had a bruised neck, sore right knee and hip. What – did they drop me? Sit on me? I doubt it – but odd pains in places that should not be associated with a tonsillectomy.

In any case – gentleness was not being had. This was not one of those poetic moments or Dylan Thomas scenarios … “Go gentle into that good night.’ This was, “Get the damn, unwilling-to-leave-the-body tonsils out, and let’s go have lunch” times.

And, so, post-surgery, I woke up (rather slowly), didn’t remember anything the doctor said, was taken home, and had a very sleepy first day and night – drugged up but good. But, I’d been thinking … I’ve had a C-section without anesthesia – this should be a walk in the park, right? 6-year-olds get their tonsils out – how bad can this be?

Let me tell you – pretty $%&(*+$#(%@#@ bad!

So, this past week was a lot of sleeping and a lot of pain meds (that didn’t really seem to work as well as they should have) and broth and tea. Lots of tea. Honey is my new best friend. I am the Goldilocks version of tonsillectomy recovery because the temperature of anything in my mouth has to be just right. Anything hot was too hot, anything cold was too cold and burning … tepid is/was best. And forget about anything dairy (lactose intolerant), or fruity (applesauce/jello/fruit pops = too acidic). What I wouldn’t give for a barbacoa burrito!

In my mind, I’m one of those creepy fish in the depths of the ocean that have that little lightbulb hanging over their mouths — wide mouths ready for food. Well, I’m ready for food – but my body isn’t having it – yet. Willing but not able. It’s been a week!

So, why am I not eating yet? Well, the prying open of the jaw will do that. Jaw hinges don’t really like being pried open! I have ear and jaw pain still and can only open my mouth so much. The first few days I couldn’t do anything but sip … then I got a cracker in … then a baby spoon. So, I can get in broth, tiny bits of scrambled eggs, and have been nibbling on crackers until the ends get soggy/mushy (disintegrated) enough for me to swallow down with a sip of tea. I can now make a cracker last an HOUR! Today I got some noodles in me with the broth – progress!

I know sleep is good when recuperating – it’s the time when the body gets rid of toxins (aka meds/anesthesia/etc) and cells are rejuvenated. I need a lot of cell rejuvenation on a regular day! So, I slept a LOT this past week. And, that’s fine by me – I didn’t really feel like doing much else. Sleep masks pain (usually) and I was in no mood to feel like I was swallowing glass shards or knives all the time – I am not a circus performer. So, sleep was a good escape. I’m perfectly fine, albeit a little woozy/weak from lack of food (hey – and 10 lbs lighter!), but able-bodied and ready to go … I just can’t swallow without major pain!

But, this too, shall pass – and heal … I’m already feeling the gross coverings coating my throat (sorry tmi) and in another week, I’ll be back to my old self. And as in “old self” – the doctor already told us he wouldn’t do this surgery on someone of my “advanced” age in the future. Okay, sonny – nice to know! In any case, I wouldn’t recommend it – not really the staycation of my dreams. Covid was more fun.

And this? Unless you’re 10 … it’s not for the faint of heart … or throat!