The first Christmas Card arrived over the weekend from a former student of my husband. Three photos on a card. Children. Lovely girls. No personal greeting. No signature. Why the hell bother.
so . . . Again. Word for word, is last years post. If I am on your Christmas Card list, I'm delighted. Whether you are a friend, an acquaintance, or merely someone who has repaired my furnace or cleaned my teeth, it doesn't matter. I love a card. I like those cards to be cute, glittery, gorgeous, filled with confetti, festooned with ribbon, city stylized, kissing kousin kountry, red and green, blue and white, black and yellow, and decorated with Jesus, snowmen, zebras, angels, trees, RVs, balls, bells, and whistles.
I also will read your newsletter. If you care to send me the long form, I will happily read it because, chances are, I care. And I really like it when you tuck in a photo of your kids, your dogs or your vacation home. Especially the kid. If I like you, then I probably like your kid. I even want to know if they've made the honor roll or graduated from braces and headgear.
Just please, please, please don't send that one-sided, unsigned, undecorated photo of your dog, kid, or vacation home that poses as a complete holiday card. And when you print out the envelope on your computer and your housekeeper then stuffs all of the envelopes, I'm going to want to tell you to stuff it. Put a bit of ink on the damn thing or don't send it. I'd rather you send me a picture on facebook of your middle finger. At least that's personal.
Happy Holidays Merry Christmas Happy Kwanzaa Happy Chanukah and so on
That's what it is called it this household. The Damn Phone.
When it rings, I ask, "Who's on The Damn Phone?' Or, "Who's calling on The Damn Phone this time of night?"
For the love of Pete, I detest The Damn Phone.
People call you up on it to talk you into doing things you don't want to do. Sometimes it's an out-of-towner wanting to drop off their child so they can get themselves a little afternoon delight. Or a solicitor wanting some money. Or gangs of solicitors wanting all of my money and then some. How about a little (or a lot) of volunteering. Or calls that begin with, "I hope you don't mind, but . . ."
And, of course, the worst. Someone has died.
This morning, I have a lot to do. A LOT TO DO. I've got to clean my house out for the renters, and what the hell, I just better get it done before my mother-in-law arrives on the 21st. That's a long way away you say? But I also have to pack and plan for the movers on the 18th. But I can't turn on the vacuum until people return calls that I made earlier this morning. I have important questions for the head of the school that my daughter will be attending in Charleston. I have to know if the plumber is going to replace my kitchen faucet so the renters don't get flooded out the first moment they need a glass of water.
I hate it when I get my info. together and dial out on The Damn Phone, only to discover I've got to sit by The Damn Phone and wait to actually talk to a real person. I usually make my husband dial out, but since he's on the road, I have to do it.
So that's it. Just a little bit of bitching. But inside I'm seething. I have important shit to do. And I better not find out that these folks I'm waiting on are just standing next to the coffee maker waiting to get themselves a cup. Maybe they are just avoiding The Damn Phone.
Well, I suppose the withdrawal of Santorum is like a tulip bulb ready to bloom. A fresh promise for the future.
But, frankly, everything else is still wintery to me.
Wednesday I had some errands to do. Errands usually take me to Target, because aside from Target, there's nothing else but Wal-Mart. I'm NOT going there.
There I stood in the parking lot, ice pellets peppering my face and blurring my vision. Target lay across the frozen tundra to my left. Past three abandoned strip mall stores. In the gray and icy distance stood the brooding hulk of Kohl's, right past the empty lot of dirt and rock. Further into the murky gloom stood the fucking new Cracker Barrel. The sight of this shopping hell turned my shoes to lead and my heart and soul to black stones.
So, unless Santorum changes his mind, I'm pretty much shutting up until I feel warm again. God knows when that will be.
It was always the hardest month to spell. But then, I always (and still do) have a problem spelling girl.
And it's cold. Damn cold. Especially here in central Pennsylvania. Some folks think that spring is coming when February rolls around. We know better in these parts. It's a good month for snow. And ice. And, I'm just guessing here, domestic violence.
Every February I start to hate the dog. HATE. And speaking of dogs, I really HATE those forever piles of yellow and black snow.
The sun doesn't shine here in February.
Roadkill sticks on the pavement longer in February than any other month.
I know February is supposed to be full of romance because of Valentine's day. Bullshit. Nothing is romantic about someone trying to stick their cold hands down my sweater on the 14th just because they think that is the day to do it. Try it again in May, dude.
And, yes, my daughter's birthday is in February. She is thrilled. She loves the planning. What should the theme be? What games should we play at the party? Party favors? Will there be a party activity? Are we going to make the invitations? ic9w9 dieub8esn 988shtww. That's just me beating my head on the keyboard. I love my little bug, but I start to have panic attacks two weeks before the birthday party.
And this is the month that I am forced to look at catalogs of swimsuits and summer clothes. If I don't order all of our spring/summer clothes NOW, the catalog companies will sell out and that will be it. Unless one of us is a 2T or XXXXXL.
Tomorrow morning, over breakfast, I will make my February 1st speech and it goes like this:
Do not touch me with anything cold this month. Don't make any plans that make me leave the house. Somebody better shovel that damn sidewalk. Do not leave any belongings unattended-- they will be thrown away. February is go to bed early month -- get used to it. Somebody needs to buy me books.
I usually post this on my art blog, but this year, I'm putting it here!
It's the annual "Send a Real Christmas Card" post.
I'm hoping everyone heeds my advice this year, and hoping that it's not too late:
I received the first card of the season the other day. It was festive and handmade by a child. I loved it.
It's pretty much what a Christmas card should be. Perhaps I should call them Holiday cards, since Christmas might not be the winter holiday you celebrate.
Regardless of what you call them, I do have certain likes and dislikes regarding them.
I like them pretty. Cute is o.k. Religious is fine. Snow scenes, glitter, candles, pop-ups, confetti, musical, trees, bunnies, reindeer, Mary, Jesus, Star of the East, gilded, triple-fold, elves, Santa Claus, Saint Francis, birds, are all just dandy.
If I know you well enough, I also appreciate the annual newsletter. I really do want to know (if I like you) where you went on vacation, who got braces or a promotion or straight A's or knocked up. If granny came to live with you, please tell me. If junior has developed a wheat allergy tell me. If that worthless b@stard has left you for another woman tell me and we'll get together and drink some wine. But please do me a favor. Tuck this newsletter into a lovely Holiday card.
If I like you, I will probably like your children. Granted, they may be pesky at times. I really do want to know about them. I actually want pictures of them. School photos are great. Group photos taken at Walmart are good too. But . . . BUT . . . just insert these photos into a lovely card.
I know how convenient it is to make the photo the card itself. But when I display my Holiday cards, I don't want just photos of kids looking at me. I want to see the pretty cards. I want to take the little photos you insert and put them with the other photos you have sent me through the years. After the holidays, I will file them away with the others from previous years and be astonished at how they have grown. Or, perhaps, your kids will have the honor of being displayed on my fridge for the year. If you send me one of those big ole photo cards, its just going to be tossed. How much room do you think I have to store those big photos? Very little. So those big ole photo cards of your offspring will just get tossed away with half-licked candy canes after Christmas is over. That makes me feel bad. But just not bad enough to create extra storage space.
I also know that no one is going to take my advice. You all went to the photo shop back in early October with your red and green scarves and mittens and posed for your Holiday cards. Too late now.
Hubby and I met up for lunch the other day and we did our Christmas card shopping. I chose bears in the winter woods full of bright red Cardinals. Hubby chose some pop up owls in Christmas hats. Whether the recipients like them or not, we chose cards that say something about us. And it will say something about you -- that we think you're great and we want to make your Holiday even better. And tucked inside will be a little photo of our wonderful, gorgeous, achieving, talented, loving, gifted, precious, awe-inspiring child.
I'm sure I've offended a few people out there. I've probably been furiously scratched from your Holiday card list. Even more likely, you will still send out that big ole photo card anyway, whether or not you read this blog.
I know your children are wonderful, gorgeous, achieving, talented, loving, gifted, precious, and awe-inspiring. Just tuck their photo (or perhaps a photo of the entire family, including pets) inside a show-stopping Holiday card that I will proudly display.
I like putting emphasis on certain words when I write or talk. I think it helps to get my point across and every now and then I REALLY enjoy an all-caps word.
There are times when I like to draw out a word for emphasis. I might just want to let someone know that I really like a movie or book by saying that I just looooooooooved it. The 'o' sound is drawn out.
But every darn time I get on Facebook, people are just loveeeeeeeeeeing stuff. That just doesn't make sense to me. I loveeeeeeeeeeeeeeee with the 'e' drawn out just irritates the hell out of me. The 'e' is silent to begin with, why would you draw it out?!?
Am I just being picky? Now that could be read as piiiiiiiiiiiicky or pickeeeeeeeee. But not 'love'. It's not loveeeeeeeeeee. Stop making it that way. Now.
Those of you out there that know the Housewife, know her thinking on housework. Oil and water. I hate it all. I've never met a domestic chore that I like.
After a good couple of weeks in the studio, the Housewife had to make an appearance today to scrape off the crud.
I've included photos. Be damn glad I didn't take a "before" photo of the toilet.
What the heck is a laundry hamper? p.s. this is only a small portion of the dirties.
Which one is the dust bunny and which is the cat toy?
Answer: since I dug them both out from under a table,
they are both dust bunnies and according to the cat, the one on the left is more fun.
After laundry, bathroom cleaning and sweeping, I moved onto dusting. Somehow, it is a less productive use of time than watching paint dry. A complete waste of time, and I do know a great deal about wasting time. Dusting trumps all time wasting (non)activities.
And we're not even going into cooking. The Housewife does not go there! My cooking is generally unsatisfying and often dangerous to people and property. I've been relegated to clean up activities in my house.
And, hell, I just realized there's some ironing to do.
My blood pressure is up. Me feelings of adequacy are down.
How did those housewives of the past not just drop it all and run out in front of a bus?
Well, its lunch time. Soon all of this will be behind me for the next three weeks as the sh#t piles up around me once again. I'm going to enjoy wallowing in it. Until I don't.
I'm guessing that is what my readers are thinking about my blog lately. I've been negligent. I could say I've been tending to other matters, but the fact is, I've been wasting as much time as usual on useless stuff.
I'm trying to enjoy autumn. It's beautiful here in Central Pennsylvania right now (and I so rarely say that). But this year is just not the same. I keep thinking back to this time last year. Sometime during October I went to visit my parents, not knowing it would be the last time I would see my mother in her own home.
Right now, the weather is beautiful. The windows are open and I'm listening to the crickets chirping. I hear footsteps shuffling through the leaves. Halloween is not even on my mind yet, but I am already dreading winter.
It's a long winter in these parts. I'm sure there are some Canadians out there rolling their eyes, but really . . .
I'm going to need some help getting through this winter.
Somebody, please help me think of something positive about 5-6 long, cold months. Please!
But holy crap, I can't take it when people cannot be bothered to type out words!
If you can't take the time to properly text or email me USING FULL WORDS, then I'm going to assume you really don't give a shit or your message is completely unimportant. I will not read what you have to say. If it's more difficult than reading Shakespeare, then I'm not going to do it.
I will not bother to figure out what the hell it is you are saying.
You. √
Ewe. √
U. Absolutely not. Unless you are making a U-turn. Or, if you must, driving a U-Haul.
And then there's R. Spell it dammit.
What is it that you are really trying to say? That you are too important to waste time typing (non)extraneous letters. That you are illiterate. That I am not good enough to read full words. That you are actually trying to piss me off.
What's even worse is trying to read teenage slang written in this freakin' code. I've got no chance of interpreting that, not that I really want to. It would be nice to understand my nieces' Facebook posts, but, well, I'm just too damn cranky and old so I'll just have to remain in the dark.
Am I the only freak left on the face of the earth that actually likes words? There are so many great ones: alleviate, Ethiopia, tangerine, Bossa Nova, sprocket, Alaska (until it was tainted by politics).
I had lunch with a friend the other day. Somewhat older, somewhat more conservative. Lovely home. Except, I must say, for the art.
I think that the art one hangs in one’s home should reflect the character of the inhabitants. Most inhabitants seem reluctant to let it all (or anything) hang out. One must blend. Artwork should match the sofa. Nothing should stand out. Nothing.
Now, I am an artist. Whether I am a good artist or not is up to the beholder, not me. I’m think I’m pretty good, but I also believe I have quite a ways to go. Now, this lady might not be able to stand laying eyes on my creations. Whatever. There’s plenty of original art out there that I wouldn’t hang up in a portable potty in a beer festival parking lot. But this was art purchased from Lowe’s with a $50 discount coupon. Sure, it matched the woodwork and the shower curtain. And it added some needed color to an open wall. But its benefits stopped there.
This woman is not the only person I know who has scored “artwork” at a huge discount. I’ve heard bragging from several friends about their cheap finds. Rarely (never?) are these finds unique works of art with some kind of meaning. Just a smoosh of dull, tired colors. Is this what people really want?!?
What am I to think of my own work and the work of those starving and not-so-hungry artists that head to their studios each day to paint, sculpt, weave, and craft their hearts out? Why is it that original art is almost completely overlooked by the majority of wall-adorning consumers out there? Do these people not buy original work out of ignorance, fear or cost control? Do they really like this faded generic “art” that they buy by the ton? Are they actually inspired not one whit about any original art out there in the world?
I have heard of emergency art. Someone has said to me before and will say to me again, “I just had to cover that hole/stain/useless outlet immediately. That thing was just laying around and I thought, hell, I’ll just stick that old thing up on the wall.” I myself have used something on hand to cover up unattractive blotches and ancient outlets that have no business ever coupling with an electrical plug again. But whatever I do hang in this type of situation will at least have some meaning for me.
Perhaps this woman is giddy with happiness over her purchase. Inspired to the max. Maybe I am just feeling slighted and sullen. I could have marketed the hell out of myself and not left her house until she had agreed on buying five thousand dollars worth of art from me. But that’s not the way I operate. I just nodded and agreed that the new artwork did, indeed, match the towels.
I live across the street from Penn State University. It's a big school. And as far as I'm concerned, it has lots of room to house various activities, whether its education, sports, theatre, or praying. I thought the school was big enough for it all.
Wrong.
Several years ago, a spiritual center was built on my side of campus. A professional baseball player could get a ball through the window from my property if they tried hard enough. All faiths are welcome there. But it wasn't good enough for the campus Catholics. Not sure why, and it obviously doesn't matter as the local Catholic community razed several homes OFF campus (and on my block) to build a Catholic center where folks of other religions couldn't get their filthy hands on their icons and what not.
For about a year and a half, I've heard construction vehicles rumbling past my house which sits six feet from the access alley. When we had the earthquake last week, I thought it was a convoy of construction trucks. Its been pretty much a constant earthquake for the past 18 months.
It can't get any worse, right?
It can.
Here's the email I received 10 minutes ago about the "progress" of the Catholic center.
The following is an update on the construction activities at the Catholic Student Faith Center being constructed in your neighborhood. Thank you all for your continued patience in dealing with the temporary disturbance that will result in a beautiful new building in your community.
The building will be served by a geothermal heat pump system. Part of that system included the installation of wells in the ground that accept and reject heat depending on the season. The CSFC has 17 wells 400’ deep in the area surrounding the building. We will begin drilling those wells next Tuesday 9/6/11. The drilling rig will create a noise disturbance. The drilling will last approximately 1 month, start at 7:00 in the morning and conclude at 5:00 daily.
The overall project is intended to be completed around the end of this year. Again, we appreciate your patience and if you have any question don’t hesitate to contact me. Thanks.
Mac Wright
I'm thrilled that religion has seen the light, as least where the environment is concerned. But if I seem a little testier than usual on this blog, then you'll know why.
I'm assuming this racket will top the two rock bands that practice in the houses across the alley.
Perhaps its time to move to the country and raise llamas.
Once again, the hubby and the kid are covered in itchy red bumps. Mosquitoes. Damn things.
And once again, acquaintances are asking if we are going to be camping out this season.
Hell no. And here's why:
Am I the only person in this world who does not like camping?I know I’m the only person in my (limited) circle of friends who does not.
I do like the type of person that is into camping.Campers are usually a somewhat liberal (I’m talking campers here, not survivalists) and laid back sort of people.These are the type of people with whom I’ll discuss politics, religion, education and the environment.I just don’t want to talk camping with them.
Camping discussions crop up frequently, especially at this time of year.Everyone and their brother is preparing to go out and live in the woods and I get to hear all about site selections, propane stoves, tents, tents to go over top of tents in case of rain, sleeping bags, etc.And I am the lone, quiet, voice that wants to scream “I don’t care!”I am not a snob.I am not an elitist.I just don’t want to pitch a tent, crawl in it, and declare myself on vacation.
I’ve got a nice bed at home.At the end of a very short hallway is a bathroom.I don’t have to put on shoes or take a gun to get there.My hubby is on the far side of our king-size bed and a fan is running so I don’t have to hear his breathing, muttering and flailing.My daughter is in the next room; close enough to know if she is sick, but not close enough to hear her muttering and flailing.I’ve got a lamp and a glass of water by my bed.Also a little fuzzy rug.I know if I get up during the night that the little fuzzy rug will not grab me, disembowel me, and leave me for dead.
And what if I want a late night snack?If I open a bag of Cheetos, everyone in the tent will wake up when they hear that rattle of plastic.The outdoor critters will get a whiff and come to investigate.What if that chicken cooked in a 20-pound iron skillet that I lugged to the campsite was still a hair on the rare side?I just might not make it to the outhouse (or hole in the ground) before that dinner tries mightily to make its way outside of me.I can just see myself soiling my camping jammies upon tripping over a log or sleeping bear.
I’ve never been fond of sardines in a can (is this what you eat when you forget the 20-pound iron skillet?), I really don’t want to pack myself into a tent with several others who have not had the ability to fully bathe in days.I don’t want to smell me.I sure don’t want to smell you.
I’m fond of the little things in life – hot water and other plumbing related niceties, sturdy tables that don’t have others’ grease stains and gum wads on them, dry pillows; dry socks, toilet paper, ceramic plates, wine glasses.Of course, there are little things in life that I am NOT fond of, and these things can usually be found at the bottom of a sleeping bag, the bottom of a creek, or flying up my nose.
I might not roll with the Rockefellers or pal around with the Du Ponts, but, like them, I might be just a bit happier in a hotel with a view and a well-stocked mini-bar.To me, a vacation means good food (cooked by someone else) with a candle on a table (sans used gum) and a chandelier over my head, a hot bath, and perhaps a chance to play with a bidet.I want a uniformed man to bring a shower cap to my door if summoned.I want little shampoos, soaps, and gels.And when the vacation is over and its time to go home, I want to leave my rumpled bed items, towels and garbage behind for the staff to deal with.
I’ll sum this post up by saying:Does a bear shit in the woods?Yes.But I don’t.
Well, it turns out that recent tests and scans have ruled out a cancerous mass on my adrenal gland, so it looks like something else will kill me first.
That's a line I've heard before. First with my dad when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer 10, no 15 years, um, a hell of a long time ago. With radiation and monitoring and pills and shots, the cancer would be under control for a long time. He was told that he would no doubt die of something else first. He's still among the living, I'm happy to say.
I, on the other hand, have NO idea what is going on with me. I've spent far too much time in labs, waiting, being stuck, driving. Far too much time in doctors' offices, driving, waiting, listening, waiting, paying up, and driving again. And there's the peeing in cups and jars and whatever. I can't imagine having one of those paying jobs and trying to take time off for all of this.
I'm damn tired of it. It looks like I've been narrowed down to a potassium-deficient patient for the time being. I don't know which syndrome can be applied to me yet. That might be determined in my drive, wait, appointment, drive, next week that will take up half a day.
But for heaven's sake, this time I will take a book! Ain't much good reading in God's waiting room. Once I strike up a conversation with the 80+ group, I often live to regret it. Not that that age group has nothing to offer. I'm not saying that. But sometimes you just want the conversation to end, and it doesn't. If I don't have a book, I will do my best to stare at the ceiling and avoid the magazines.
First, there's that germ thing. I'm not much of a germaphobe, but I'm going to fret a bit if I pick up a pre-moistened magazine. The 80+ set still believes its fine to lick their thumbs before turning a page. And the choices! Golf Magazine. No. Arthritis today. Not yet, thanks. And my personal fave -- Civil War Times. What the hell?!? Them times is over, right? At least north of the Mason-Dixon line. For heaven's sake, we need to acknowledge all of our horrible mistakes and move on. Not make a glossy magazine out of the damn war.
And you would think I'd feel young sitting among this group. No. I seem to blend right on in. I somehow went from early middle age and ended up on the Osteoporosis Show. Well, I'm not on the show quite yet. I'm in the green room waiting to be called in. And the green room is full of stale danishes and crappy periodicals.
So, the housewife had to run some errands today.Dog medicine had to be picked up, human medicine had to be picked up, Christmas gifts had to be purchased, and outgoing items had to be dropped off at the post office.
If I had the teeniest drop of Christmas spirit in my when I went out this morning, it has been completely squeezed out of my circulatory system by now.
First, a trek across Siberia.Well, across the Target parking lot.A long way to go for medication I don’t want to take.Perhaps the man had already been in line.I don’t know.He came from out of an aisle and snuck up to the pharmacist’s counter in front of me.Could have been he had every right to do so.My possession of ovaries does not automatically put me in line in front of him.But, if you know you’re going to be asking a lot of questions, why not just hold back and let the little lady go first.She’s going to be getting angry later, so better to just let her have some peace for now.Or not.
It makes me deliriously happy to know that my prescription is going to cost more than 3 times what it did earlier.And no one is going to be able to tell me why.Its up to me to make the choice – pay up or die.So, calmly, I take out my wads of cash and change, and place it into the pharmacy cashier’s hand.
After jostling (jousting) for the shortest big box check out line, I reach the cashier and am given a not too pleasant look for having the nerve to supply my own bag.Makes a little extra work for the cashier.In return, she grabs the receipt, coupons for shit I don’t want on my next trip, green change and the jangly change, and, in a vague attempt to aim everything at once into my outstretched hand, misses by a mile and hurls most everything to the floor.“Oops,” I say as I chase rolling coins.I am able to catch the ones that rolled my way.I have to stare at her to get her to pick up the coins that rolled behind the counter.I try to gather my belongings as they are shoved along by the cashier to make room for the next customer’s purchases.
I think I shall attend the next big box chain board meeting and suggest that next to the register, a catapult should be installed for each cashier to launch receipts, coupons and change in a wide-ranging arc.Better than a piñata, and just as frustrating to the customer.
Outside the store, I attempt to reach my car in the parking lot.While passing through the crosswalk, a man swerves his car around me to save himself the inconvenience of slowing down.For some, it seems, picking skin, bones and purchases off of the front bumper is preferable than lightly applying the brakes.
Where to next?More Christmas shopping?Why yes.At the only other store in town?And would that be another big box chain store?Absolutely.What the hell else is left in town?Why not the little gift stores downtown.Well, they all went out of business.What about that furniture and gift store out by the mall?Well, now that’s a mattress center.What about that awesome music store that would have all kinds of neat things for the hubby?Well, they have downsized and eliminated most of the cool stuff.The other side of the store?Well, that was made into a mattress center?What about that store that was across the street?Well, now that’s a Chick-fil-A.Ok.Ok.What else?Say, what about Pier I.There’s neat stuff there.Like hell.It’s now a medical clinic.What about that cool party store across town.Nope.It’s now a medical clinic.Wait.That independently-owned toy store?Nope, walk-in medical clinic.WTF?Yep.Retail in my neck of the woods means mattresses, chicken sandwiches and medical clinics.How do I wrap up those crappy gifts? Wait!There’s still some retail left in town.Tanning salons!Nail salons!Melanoma?Nail fungus?Plenty of walk-in clinics for that!
Since shopping has been cut short, to be done at home from the computer, there’s just one more errand to run.The post office.Good God, there’s a looooong line.But, it moves quickly.The clerks are patient, calm and friendly.Joy!Postal Joy!Who would have thought?
The little bit of Christmas joy received today was furnished by the Post Office!
The 10 billionth Christmas catalog came this afternoon. Oooooooooh. All sorts of products are waiting out there for purchase. But I don't have any room in my home for new purchases. My home is already full of CATALOGs.
For every product you can imagine.
Trees (real and fake) Socks Toys Barometers Bunion pads Furniture Hardware (including floral patterned hammers) Fungicides Calendars (without squares to write information in. WTF?!?
and so on.
Those clothing catalogs have got me going though. If I purchase some of these items, I'll have a dang good time during the High Holidays of Consumerism.
I'll be just gorgeous hanging balls on a perfectly symmetrical tree. I'll be just stunning quaffing magnums of champagne (every third woman in this catalog is lifting a glass). If I purchase the above dress, I know I'll look just like this radiant reveler. (In truth, I'll look like a drunk with a faded tire around my neck.) That Soft Surroundings catalog makes the whole season look merry and bright. Just raise a glass, hang some balls, and be a beaming beauty with your purchases.
Champagne and balls not included. Void where prohibited. Frankly, lady (me), just wear that tired old skirt and pilled sweater that you wear every damn year no matter how many catalogs are shoved into your mailbox.
Now, I'm off to find some twine and tie up the 4,000 catalogs and set them out for the recycling truck.
I can't believe its only the middle of November. I've got a catalog hangover already.
Nothing better than having a bottle of barium for breakfast.
And that yummy berry barium flavor. I'm still tasting it. Delicious.
Had me a CT scan this morning. The barium aperitif was to assist in the scan. And I had no idea that I was going to be injected with dye. At least I could have known ahead of time so I could have dreaded that needle last night. Could have been worse, though. Two lovely young men helped me out. I'm used to the hostile ladies with the "frosted" hair and tightly pursed lips. We're having a look to see if I have Conn's Disease. What's that?
The adrenal glands are located on the top of your kidneys, and produce adrenaline, cortisol, aldosterone, and other steroid hormones that enable the body to respond to stress. Conn's disease is a condition in which the adrenal glands produce too much aldosterone. It is frequently caused by a benign (non-cancerous) tumor of an adrenal gland.
If this is what I've got, there might be some surgery ahead. Nobody has cut into to me since I had my tonsils out at the age of 5. Except for those wisdom teeth.
So, I'll be hanging out at the house today and await the news.
I'll also be enjoying my barium. It's the gift that keeps on giving.
So my new Uppercase Magazine arrived this week, packed full of stylish goodness.
As usual, it is full of luscious photos. And discussions of blogs which feature photography.
I am always impressed by someone who can turn a photo of a cup of coffee, gas pump, used condom, etc., into a work of art.
If a take a day of photos and hooch them up in Photoshop, will it make me a lovely and hip person too?
Doubt it.
Buy anyway, I ran around the house for 30 seconds with my camera and took a small handful of photos and piddled in photoshop (never done that before) and here is a look at my exciting day in the land of housewifery avoidance.
Laundry, with an added dollop of graininess and grit.
Very sick kitty. Can't remember what I did to this photo. Don't care.
Cure (ha) for migraine on large mottled leaf. I altered this photo, too. Don't remember what I did. Have headache. Don't care.
So now, I'm off to pop another pill into the cat, dress the resulting wounds, start the laundry, and pop another pill into myself.
And then I'll dream about my future in photography.
Today’s high is 86 degrees. Not so bad for somewhere in the US in high summer. Its going to be humid, too. The kind of humidity where you one might want to whip up a raft and float upon the humidity and not be down in it swimming.
While central Pennsylvanians will be simmering in mid-eighties heat this weekend, I will be heading down to Virginia to melt in upper-nineties heat. It’s going to suck. I’ll move through it slowly and probably come out of it alive on the other side. I will be traveling with two heat haters though. And they’re going to complain.
I grew up in Roanoke, VA. To a Pennsylvanian, that is considered down south. The old homestead is a little Cape Cod. As a youngster, my sister and I shared a small bedroom on the first floor, as the upstairs had never been finished. By the time I was 5 and my sister was 9, it was obvious we could not share a room that was only 6 x 9 feet. And so, the upstairs was finished and we climbed up there every summer night to lie still and breathe slowly. We did not have air conditioning. A window unit would not come along until I was in high school. We just learned how to deal with the heat. We knew the importance of well-placed wet washcloths and floor fans.
In my early adult years, the hubby and I lived outside of Washington, D. C. This is where humidity originated and still resides. After several years of sweltering (and commuting), we moved to Pennsylvania. Often, it is 10-15 degrees cooler here than in our old digs.
After being here for 13 years, I find myself fantasizing about the south. Not quite in a Gone with the Wind sort of way, but I find there is something down south that has never quite made it up north. No one here has ever made me a pie. Or a loaf of bread. Or a casserole (not sure I’d want that, though). Up here, I pass people everyday whom I spoken to at length at a party and they don’t even make eye contact when I pass them in the street. I could lay (lie, damn! I’ll never get it) dead in my house for days before the smell would attract attention. No pie bringer would ever rescue me.
I want people to know that I exist, even if that means I can see them peeking at me from behind their curtains. I crave porch sitting and want to have a view of others sitting on their porches. I want someone to tell me to drop in any time whether they mean it or not. And if I do drop by, they will be extremely nice to me for 15 or 20 minutes, even if they are missing a plane. By golly, I like it when people smile and wave. They might go off and talk shit about me behind my back. But people will do that anywhere.
Would I ever trade no pies for wet washcloths? How long could I last in the south? Would I quickly be itching to return to Pennsylvania? And if I did itch, would that be a heat rash?
Am I the only person in this world who does not like camping?I know I’m the only person in my (limited) circle of friends who does not.
I do like the type of person that is into camping.Campers are usually a somewhat liberal (I’m talking campers here, not survivalists) and laid back sort of people.These are the type of people with whom I’ll discuss politics, religion, education and the environment.I just don’t want to talk camping with them.
Camping discussions crop up frequently, especially at this time of year.Everyone and their brother is preparing to go out and live in the woods and I get to hear all about site selections, propane stoves, tents, tents to go over top of tents in case of rain, sleeping bags, etc.And I am the lone, quiet, voice that wants to scream “I don’t care!”I am not a snob.I am not an elitist.I just don’t want to pitch a tent, crawl in it, and declare myself on vacation.
I’ve got a nice bed at home.At the end of a very short hallway is a bathroom.I don’t have to put on shoes or take a gun to get there.My hubby is on the far side of our king-size bed and a fan is running so I don’t have to hear his breathing, muttering and flailing.My daughter is in the next room; close enough to know if she is sick, but not close enough to hear her muttering and flailing.I’ve got a lamp and a glass of water by my bed.Also a little fuzzy rug.I know if I get up during the night that the little fuzzy rug will not grab me, disembowel me, and leave me for dead.
And what if I want a late night snack?If I open a bag of Cheetos, everyone in the tent will wake up when they hear that rattle of plastic.The outdoor critters will get a whiff and come to investigate.What if that chicken cooked in a 20-pound iron skillet that I lugged to the campsite was still a hair on the rare side?I just might not make it to the outhouse (or hole in the ground) before that dinner tries mightily to make its way outside of me.I can just see myself soiling my camping jammies upon tripping over a log or sleeping bear.
I’ve never been fond of sardines in a can (is this what you eat when you forget the 20-pound iron skillet?), I really don’t want to pack myself into a tent with several others who have not had the ability to fully bathe in days.I don’t want to smell me.I sure don’t want to smell you.
I’m fond of the little things in life – hot water and other plumbing related niceties, sturdy tables that don’t have others’ grease stains and gum wads on them, dry pillows; dry socks, toilet paper, ceramic plates, wine glasses.Of course, there are little things in life that I am NOT fond of, and these things can usually be found at the bottom of a sleeping bag, the bottom of a creek, or flying up my nose.
I might not roll with the Rockefellers or pal around with the Du Ponts, but, like them, I might be just a bit happier in a hotel with a view and a well-stocked mini-bar.To me, a vacation means good food (cooked by someone else) with a candle on a table (sans used gum) and a chandelier over my head, a hot bath, and perhaps a chance to play with a bidet.I want a uniformed man to bring a shower cap to my door if summoned.I want little shampoos, soaps, and gels.And when the vacation is over and its time to go home, I want to leave my rumpled bed items, towels and garbage behind for the staff to deal with.
I’ll sum this post up by saying:Does a bear shit in the woods?Yes.But I don’t.
I see myself as an artist. Others see me as a housewife. Too often, I see the glass as half-full. With a crack in it. I am usually a quiet, shy person. This is the place where I can be my inner, not-so-quiet self.
This blog is for entertainment (mostly mine) purposes only. If you find a mistake, falsehood, or blatant lie, please feel free to inform me, ever so gently, of my error.
