200!

Genesis Live : The way we walk










Two hundred post!  Who would have thought we'd make it this long?

I thought it only fitting to post here one of my most favorite albums - favorite bands.  We saw them in concert once - sitting up so we could touch the roof of the stadium.  But they were fantastic.  It was a reunion tour with Phil Collins, absolutely amazing.

I have to credit the first beau with this one.  He was otherwise a complete jerk, but he did introduce me to this band and it my fandom has lasted over many years.

Sadly, though - despite post 200 and a great album... I still am slogging through my writers block and self questioning.  In other words - I've nothing to say. 

Snow day

The Glory of Gershwin








We did have a snow day.  And it was blizzard like.  Sadly it meant four full days in a row off - and what do I have to show for it?  Nothing.

No, really - nothing.  The house was not cleaned.  Projects not done.  Writing?  Well, you're reading it - you know how much that progressed.  Nothing.  The list of things I was going to do - was long, but none of it got done.

What did I do?  I sneezed a lot.  I moaned and complained that I didn't feel good.  I slept a fair amount.  I played Bubblez on the computer....

I did cook a couple of meals - hardly worth mentioning and pointless, as being sick, our stomachs were not really up for them.  I sewed some, the quilt project that has been going on for years. And that about covers it.

Oh, I did bring the car in to the shop and go pick it up.  This was a good thing to have out of the way.  And I have spent some time thinking.  Thinking about writing.  Why do I do this?  Does it matter what I write?  Do I care who or if someone reads it?  If it's published?  How it's published? 

I've thought about all these questions.... and do I have any answers?  Right, you got it.

So... I've gotten nothing done.  I've got no answers.  And i still have no clue about something to write about...

Maybe next year?

Let it snow, let it snow

Let love in / Goo Goo Dolls










The whole state is under a "Blizzard Watch".  I am thrilled.  I have run to the window to check that it is still snowing every two minutes for the past hour.  It is.  Though the National Weather Services says the Blizzard Warning is in effect until 6 pm tomorrow, I am doubt full. 

Mostly I really want a snow day tomorrow.  I am pretty sure it's going to happen, but I am still nervous.  I am reminded of grade school, when I felt the same anticipation.  There is a part of me that finds this sad, and another part that is encouraged that I still have my youthful enthusiasm.

So this is Christmas

The Edge of Christmas









Yes, I did miss last night. Not for any great Christmas eve reasons.  I was just quite literally sick and tired.  Today - I'm still sick, but having gone to bed at 5 pm yesterday and up at 8 am today - not tired so much.

So this is Christmas.  I've totally got writers block.  I feel gross and have got... nothing.  Nothing.  The most exciting thing we did today was try some Goat Cheese and a Fig ice cream.  No, really.  I thought it was okay.  Lulu ate it too.  M.... not so much.

I know you might think, gee having about a week with your stomach not right and being sick, maybe this was not the best idea.  And to that you would be right, but curiosity was strong.

What can I say about goat cheese ice creama?  It did have an earthy, goaty taste like goat cheese does and it is a bit dry.  I know I'm not doing it justice. 

But... I got nothing.

Major storm coming tomorrow.  Maybe my cold will clear and I will have something to say....

To young for toys

Tommy / the who













In addition to my musing here, I also sporadically participate in my work blog. In theory, I write there once a week. In practice, I write there once a month. Thankfully there are three of us who write there, so my lack of involvement is not as problematic as it could be.



But anyway, today, I again forgot it was my turn. However, my colleague, familiar with this forgetfulness without hesitation (or even comment) simply filled in. Her post – on the worst toys ever.


Bad toys have been a running theme at work for a while. It started when (same colleague) read a book on the history of Barbie (and blogged on it.)


“Do you remember growing up Skipper?” I asked tripping down memory lane. Of course she didn’t. I’m old enough to be her mother. “When you lifted her arms she went thru puberty.” I explained seriously.


“No way.” My young friend answered. So… thanks to the glories of the internet, I found the info and pictures. The blog got up dated and we laughed a great deal. We even came up with some completely inappropriate Barbie’s ourselves.


Then a couple of weeks ago I came in to her with the news of Video Barbie and the FBI’s concerns that this really wasn’t safe. This Barbie has a camera built into her necklace (at least it wasn’t her neck) and a view screen on her back. No objectification there, nope. Nope. Again, my colleague couldn’t believe it.


But this has set us off on this trek of bad toys – and bad toys there are:


Pole dance doll. Come on? Really?


Dog tender Barbie – comes complete with dog that poops. Poop doubles as dog food. Great.


The vibrating Harry Potter Broom.


Now really, I like toys. Even stupid crappy toys. Even at the age I am. As I type this I sit at a desk that has a little rubber ducky reading a book. A hamster in a santa hat, a wooden snake that moves like a real one, two snow globes and various other things. And I’m at work. But I really have to wonder about the world some times …

Dream a little dream

Dream a little Dream









One of my favorite books is The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. I’m not even sure why this book resonates with me so much, because by simple description, it would not have been anything I would have picked up.



But after reading it, I had to read her other book and was disappointed that she’d only written two novels. She’d written some earlier non-fiction, but at the time I had wrinkled my noise at this, not wanting anything to do with non-fiction.


Then recently another book appeared by both her and her daughter. It appeared to somewhat be a travel narrative. I have been listening to it.


It is a travel narrative, and a bit of a spiritual journey and a bit memoir and a bit more. It makes me think, why do I worry about what I write? But it has also prompted me to ask myself much bigger questions: Why do I want to write at all? Shouldn’t I pick the kind of writing I want to do? Why aren’t I so introspective as these two women are?


Some of the problems is that each time I ask myself any one of these questions, I arrive at a different answer. It is most annoying.


They have become significant and nagging questions to me in particular in light of this blog and my apparent writers block as to what I am writing about. Hence I tell myself as long as I’m writing something and some post is present that’s all that matters… But I don’t believe it. Which is what prompts the second question: well what is it then that you are writing?


I am writing my stories…other people’s stories…made up stories. But is anything ever really made up? Certainly things I’ve written here are not exactly true, but they are not exactly false either. And doesn’t everyone have stories? Are everyone’s stories important? Is it more important to tell people’s stories than to make them up?


I feel I must have an answer to these questions. That knowing this answer would tell me what it is I should be writing and how. But… I don’t.


In the book, these two women get a great deal of information from their dreams. Their dreams are exotic and clearly filled with symbolism. Mine are not.


In truth, I went to bed last night, thinking: I should dream. I should get answers in my dreams. Let my subconscious talk to me. Let me have insight!


And what did I dream? In truth, the central feature was about… well…dog poop. Yes indeed. I ask for insight and this is what I get. I refuse to believe there is a deeper meaning to this and the obvious meaning is correct. I’m going to try again. After all, one does not learn how to get insights over night right? We’ll see…

Pirate guy

The Pirates of Penzance











“What is the name of that man, who comes in…?” P. asked. I was not actually in the conversation, but eavesdropping. It wasn’t hard to do, the conversation was happening right out side my door.



“Which one?” C asked. I could imagine her brow furrowed. “That man” was not much to go on. We had “that man” who had the great accent (and one volunteer always added ‘nice butt.’ We had “that man” who had tried to set his adult son up with the other librarian, with the adult son present. Then there was “that man” who talked to himself and asked crazy questions. Which one?


“You know, the one who was in here the other day talking about dressing up in Viking outfits and bringing his bed with him.”


“I don’t know which…” Carol replied.


I couldn’t resist. I got up and joined.


“Oh you know who she means. He has the long pony tail, and the cane he wears in his belt like a sword. Oh and he makes whistles.” I added.


“Oh yeah. I don’t know his name.” C replied.


I thought for a moment. “Richard W….” I answered. “He’s not bad. But he did try to pay his fines with a penny whistle one day.” I mused.


“A what?” P. frowned.


“A whistle. He makes them. But … He’s a blacksmith too. And a role player.”


“I see. That must be why he dresses up like a Viking.”


“Yeah – among other things”


“He’s an odd one…” P began with a note of concern in her voice.


“Oh, he’s not that bad. Better than Harold.”


“Or John.” C. added.


“Definitely. Or Frank.” I added as C. nodded in agreement.  "Though he's one yours."  She said to me with a smile.

"Yeah... that's okay though.  I don't mind them.  We similiar interests."

"I'm glad their yours."  C. said with a chuckle.

P. merely blinked at us, unsure.  Apparently she thought this was a an odd one and here we were telling her he was only slightly left of center.


“Who are we talking about?” M. asked rounding the corner.


“Pirate guy.” I answered.


“Oh. He’s okay.” She answered nonplused and went on with her work.

Rock Lobster

The B-52's









I have always loved lobster. There are stories of me, high chair age being taken out to dinner, ordering a Maine lobster boiled and not only finishing the whole thing off, but barely needing help getting into it. I don’t doubt this. I would have been perfectly happy living off the crustaceans. My ideal world being the daughter of a lobsterman.



When I was about 10, my mother and I took a trip to Nova Scotia for a Lobster Festival. I had a blast. My memory and my mother confirmed, I ate lobster for three meals a day for about a week. I remember two things about this trip from so long ago. First, a poor person dressed up in a lobster suit. I wanted the suit. Second was that we ate several meals at what amounted to church suppers. This is memorable to me only because it was THE LAST kind of venue my mother would have felt comfortable doing. I often wondered if we ended up there because it was the only game in town. Many years later when I asked, she laughed and said I was right. It was the church supper or nothing.


It’s been only recently that I’ve been brave enough to cook them at home. It’s surprisingly simple. I credit M. with that. It wasn’t that I had hesitation about tossing these live creatures into a pot. After all they are the sea’s cockroaches. It was that I wasn’t sure how long to cook them.


It’s funny. Lobsters are one of the few things I ate that I have no reservations about knowing what they are, where they come from and that I am clearly eating them.


M’s favorite lobster story though took place when we were back in school and just dating. We’d gone to a local restaurant for some significant occasion, now long forgotten. But the restaurant had a twin lobster special. My eyes lit up and M. insisted I should go for it. I did.


The lobsters arrived, propped up against each other like a dancing couple. Just shy of Daryl Hannah in Splash, I set to work and breaking them down, no meat let in shell. As the meal is going on, M. is growing more and more amused. After a while, I insisted on knowing what was tickling him.


Unbeknownst to me, at the table behind us was a family with two children. A boy, about 8 was facing me. M. said when my dinner arrived his eyes grew big, but as I proceeded to dissect the critter leaving it a mass of shells, his expressions grew more animate.


I felt terrible for weeks. But it has not quelled my desire for a lobster at any chance I can get.

No good witch

Parachute / Guster











Okay, I know – I missed yesterday. For a change it was not because I forgot. It was because I truly had nothing to say. I don’t have anything to say today either, but I feel guilty skipping two days in a row. Which I suppose is a good thing. This guilt.



Last night I fell asleep to the Wizard of Oz. I’m not a big fan of this movie. I really think that Glinda the “good” witch is nasty. She knew from the start that the wizard wasn’t going to help and that Dorothy could go home, but she said nothing. Worse, she wasn’t neutral in this process. It wasn’t like she said, hmmm, well, maybe you need to think about this. She was quite definitive. AND she instigated.


I hadn’t realized the extent that she instigated until listening to the script in my half asleep state last night. The wicked witch might not have remembered the shoes, but it was Glinda that reminded her in a most passive aggressive way. It was almost as if Glinda threw Dorothy under the bus, then taunted the wicked witch. She hinted to Dorothy “Oh those shoes must be very powerful if she wants them…” Well, duh. Why not tell Dorothy then? I really, really dislike her.


In fact, coming up with characters I do like is not easy. My employer is tentatively planning a fund raising event in the spring. The only thing constant about this event is that it will be a masquerade ball. I like this idea. The theme has become ‘come as your favorite character.” I will, I’m sure, be obligated to attend. So I’ve been trying to think – what is my favorite character… I have none.


How can this be? I’ve asked myself and asked myself. Maybe it’s just my current mood? I’m hoping. Because I am truly at a loss.

Instant soup doesn't really grab me

Automatic for the people / REM











In all seriousness, if I were to start my employment paths all over again, I think I would like to be a chef. This is surprising, to me and everyone I know. Why? Because until about three years ago I didn’t cook. I didn’t really know how to cook and I didn’t like to cook.



I didn’t grow up in a household of cooks. In fact, aside from a few specific items and thanksgiving none of the three generations of women that I grew up with cooked. What did we do? You ask. We ate out. A trend that I was just fine with.


When M. and I got together, he cooked. Not only did he claim to like it, but he did magically things. I would open the refrigerator and honestly say, we have nothing to eat in the house. He’d shoo me from the kitchen and thirty minutes later there would be this great meal.


Later when we both had jobs with healthy commutes, I became responsible for one meal a week. It was so bad that the take out Chinese food place knew me not only by name, but by pattern.


“Oh, you late today Miss S…bad traffic?” “Miss S … no dumplings? You always get dumplings, you forgot?” “Miss S… we worried about you last week? You on vacation?” And sadly the answer was always yes. When we moved from the area, I stopped in to say good bye.


It wasn’t that I couldn’t cook anything. I had a stock 4 recipes (chicken soup, pot roast, corn beef and cabbage and meatloaf). Three out of four of these required only that you put the three ingredients in a pot and boil it forever. I also had managed to get down pumpkin pie (with store bought crusts – my contribution to many Thanksgivings.) But mostly, that was it. In my younger days I had tried. I some times managed scrambled eggs. But not baking.


My first (and last) attempt at a from scratch cake turned out to be a wonderful brick. (Who knew that creaming butter and melting butter were so different? I mean melted is pretty creamy I thought. I was wrong.)


After a while I slowly added to my repertoire : roasting a whole bird, stuffed peppers and roasted veggies. The options were still limited. Worse, though I am an only child, spawn from two only children, with no family, when I did cook (and when I cook today) I cook for a small army.


It’s weird. I mean I can follow a recipe that says it serves four and get half a dozen servings from it. So every time I cook there is lots…and lots…and lots.


But I’ve always loved cookbooks. I like to read about food, look at food and of course, eat food. It was just the cooking part I couldn’t relate to. In truth, I think I was scared. I had tried to cook a few things, a few times right after M. and I got together. That is what good girl friends do, right? Cook?


*snort* Yeah. Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. In fact, I remember a few occasions when it was so bad a) not only the cat wouldn’t eat it, but b) we had to throw out the pot. I was the only one I knew who could burn spaghetti, have a hot dog that was part cooked and part raw. Let’s not even get into the mess I made with pancake batter. And I still, in fact, have problems with assembling the blender.


So what changed? The magic of television. Food Channel. Suddenly I was not only reading about food and looking at pictures in cookbooks that seemed magically impossible, but I could watch it on tv. I watched them do things and thought…oh I get it. I could imagine the tastes of things going together. And from watching I wanted to try. And then, there is nothing like success to keep one going. It was very exciting to cook something and have it not only be edible, but actually good.


So about four years ago I started cooking. Now I can even alter recipes or not use one at all. I’m very proud. And, I like it. Maybe when I retire I’ll open a restaurant.

Women get weary...

The Commitments / soundtrack









I have started writing today about five times. Each time I write two sentences and delete them. Why? I am ‘waxing poetic.’ By this I mean, I am rambling in a melancholy, nostalgic manner that walks somewhere between contemplative and just annoying. Well, annoying to me anyway. Some of it is probably the season. Some of it is probably the book I’m listening too. Some of it is because I’m tired, don’t feel good and weary.



“Women get weary, wearing the same old dress…”


Of course the weary also comes from the season…but that’s an endless loop. I am also weary because I have that … vergy feeling. Like I almost have an idea but not quite. I want to do something creative, but are not quite up to it. Like if I could just get a good night sleep, have a day off, get some rest, brilliance would come. It’s the feeling of wanting to sit hunched over a bar in a roadhouse, drink beer, listen to blues and feel sorry for oneself.


But I have gotten sleep. Lots of sleep. I took a day off. And sitting in a roadhouse drinking beer I know will not help. I still just have that almost feeling. And sadly, that’s the good feeling. The feeling I have for home, writing, driving in the car.


The at work, about work feelings are not …well, not so nice. I am still tired and weary, but they hold more of a resentful edge. And sitting in a roadhouse drinking beer and listening to blues with this mood is surely how people grow to buy automatic weapons and open fire.


Don’t get me wrong, my work place is really not that bad. There are just a couple of really annoying things right now…


Perhaps with the New Year… inspiration will come. Renewal will come.


“Take me to the river…”


I keep thinking too, that if I stopped, did something meditative, really ‘contemplated’ things – information would come to me. Half of me thinks: if I listen to my body it will tell me the best diet. If I listen to my heart it will tell me what to write. If I listen to my stress it will tell me what to do with work things. Just relax, let the universe talk to you. And I spend much time thinking – is that a sign? Is that trying to tell me something. It’s not coming from the radio, that oracle that I trust.


The other half of me thinks: You’re a fruit cake.


This is the half I listen to.

Don't tell me about it

Moonlight serenade / Carly Simon










Like the season isn’t bad enough, why do people always want to tell me about their pet disasters? Don’t they realize I’m…impressionable? That I can be very…susceptible to things and have my own irrational fears about my pets?



Last night M. came home with this horrible story. A friend of his at work had recently gotten a cat. The family was bonding with it. And then, due to a odd accident the cat died.


“Oh no…I cried. What happened?” I suppose this is my own fault for asking. Surely something connected to that old adage about curiosity.


However, did M. say – you don’t want to know? Did he have the good sense to NOT tell me? To lie if he must? Nooooo.


“Well a mirror fell off the wall and killed the cat.” He announced unceremoniously as my eyes welled.


“Oh, no. no Don’t tell me.” I wailed and started to cry.


“It’s okay. All our pictures are hung very well. That won’t happen.”


Well that’s a consolation. I mean I’m glad of that fact, but it doesn’t take the images out of my mind or the instant reliving of pain at the lost of a loved one.


I am still haunted by our first cat’s death. She lived a ripe old age, died on our bed, with both of us with her. I think it might be the single most worst moment of my life. And by that point, she’d been sick for days, the end was near. She didn’t seem happy and she was hanging on. I was in agony. So much so, in fact, I had just said to M.


“We have to call the vet.” And oddly enough it was I who got up. I who made the call, made the appointment for 30 minutes later. When I went back to her, I kept telling her – it was okay, she should just die. She did before we had to leave for the appointment.


And with that I swore: never ever ever again. I did not want another animal in the house. I did not, could not, would not go through that again. I still get upset just thinking of it. So how did I get talked into two more cats? Something went afoul.


Thanksgiving we were in the kitty ER with Jack having some sort of a seizure. He seems fine now, but…really. And all I could think of was – I knew I didn’t want to do this. How could I let myself be in this position again?


Don’t tell me disasters, especially about cats.

Lonely mice

Los Lonely Boys










Today is cold. Nasty, windy, bitter cold. Yesterday it started to rain, then sleet, then snow. Today, the wet is gone, but the bone chilling temperature tinged with damp remains.



When I entered work this morning the heater was making an interesting sound. A tinging like noise. C and A are always cold, so it becomes impossible to tell when there is a real issue or not. Eventually, they decide. So in truth, I was going to ignore it. It was still blowing mostly warm air, so I figured they would either say it was fine or would not.


But as the Fates would have it, our maintenance person came thru for some other reason.


“B… our heater’s making a funny noise….” I asked innocently.


“’K. I’ll take a look…” He offered that smile that said, yeah one more thing… I know.


It took him twenty minutes to get the unit apart. Then ten more minutes to find the problem. But only two minutes more after that to find the probably source of the problem and more. The culprit: a mouse.


What a surprise. Mice have plagued us for months. Years. We thought they were gone when the two inch gap in the door got fixed. They certainly lessened. So, in truth, to find out that it was a now deceased mouse caught in the fan causing the heating problem, I was not only not surprised, but perhaps a bit secretly pleased. We’ve been dealing with them – now it was retribution time.


Opening up the entire unit to remove the dead mouse was a start. But in this process, B. discovered a two inch gap along the bottom of the heating unit leading directly to the outside. Not only that but a nice nest in the corner of the unit as well. It was the Hilton for mice.


After cleaning it all out and a bit of muttering came the question of what to do? B’s boss was called in to investigate.


B’s boss should not be one. For the head of a maintenance department he is too impeccably tidy. I have only ever seen him in new crisp blue jeans, button down shirts and always looking like he’s just stepped from golf course or ski slope. He also doesn’t speak to me. Sometimes I smile at him politely, sometimes I don’t bother, but he never speaks to me.


As was the case today. He entered, I looked up smiled and he ignored me. So be it. I know why he’s mad. We’ve had two go arounds with the trash. The sum of which is that he thinks he or his guys shouldn’t have to pick it up and I say he should. His boss agrees with me. Of course, what has been expressed about this has been “miscommunications” and “misunderstandings”. But regardless of how his boss wants to paint it, it’s been clear. He doesn’t want to and has to any way. Oh well.


So after the maintenance guys confer it is decided that screen mesh will need to be put up to block the mice’s passage. This makes sense to me, but it means we have gone from a 10 minute look to a several hour job. One that was not on anyone’s schedule.


B’s boss has decided it is not worth the over time, it will wait tomorrow. So B. has make shift returned the unit to the wall in front of the “hole” which is now covered with a plastic bag. He will be back in the morning to turn off the water so that the heater can be fixed, screen attached, mice blocked. I expect it to take a few hours.


I think this is mice justice and I though I feel bad for those that have lost their lives, I am appreciative of their sacrifice. It is revenge and vindication. Perhaps a small sign that what is put forth does come back. Something I have felt a much needed reminder about.

Places in time

Charlie Brown Christmas









The thing that I like most about holidays, any holiday, is how they mark time. Ask someone about a Tuesday or December 14 and they can’t tell you where they were or what they were doing. Sometimes with a year and context, they might be able to recall where they were and remember things about that time…



“Oh, I was in college, I remember that semester I took English with the guy with the funny hat…”


But to remember the specifics of the day? No can do. But a holiday is different. We might not remember each holiday from every year, but we can clearly remember some holidays and place them to a specific year.


I like the idea that one year ago, or ten years ago or whatever on the very same day I know what I was doing. I can remember what I was seeing and what I was thinking. I like remembering that I didn’t know what was to come. I like how it marks time.


Christmas marks time for me. I remember set Christmases. I remember one year driving home from the mall with my mother listening to the ‘Santa Watch’ on the radio and looking up to the sky and the stars and wondering who else was looking up at those same stars, thinking of Santa.


I remember helping our neighbor wrap last minute presents. She was a big woman, easily 300 lbs with two kids. The kids were around my age, elementary school, but for some reason they had been sent off to bed and I was allowed to stay up and ‘help.’ We wrapped presents and drank eggnog and placed the presents under the tree just right. The next day, the kids swore they saw Santa and an elf putting things under the tree. I didn’t correct them.


I remember the first Christmas with who would become my in-laws and wondering why I was there? There were too many people and I felt lost and lonely. Then came other Christmases, not quiet as overwhelming, but equally as tense.


My favorites though were those first two… driving to the Santa Watch and wrapping presents. They were both long enough ago, before I began to hate the holiday.


Still, even today when I dread the 48 hours that is Christmas, I like the way it marks time. I try to do or think something so that in the future, I remember THAT day along with all the others.

Lou 4 / 99.9

99.9 / Suzanne Vega













The suddenness of her physical form’s demise brought her forward again to waiver uncertainly over the pile of fine grey powder. That used to look like me. She marveled with


“New meaning to ‘over my dead body,’ isn’t it.” She thought the line should have amused her, but it didn’t.


She knew she had waited in the same spot for some time. She was acutely aware that the daylight came and went several rounds before she stirred. It wasn’t like dying before. There was no hunger, no pain. Nothing to indicate she was alive. Well, perhaps she’d contemplated alive was the wrong word, nothing to indicate she was present except her own precarious sense of being.


When she awoke a vampire she was present. She moved. She spoke. She felt. Granted she did not do those things in a normal human way and some of the sensations were exceedingly strange, but she had a sense of life as well as consciousness. She had a sense of the world outside herself, at least up until the moment the sun set. Then a heavy, deep sound sleep fell upon her.


Now, I am nothing, she thought. It was anticlimactic.

To you and all your family, your neigbhors and your friends...

A Partridge AFamily Christmas Card







It tis the season to be jolly… I hate this season. Always have. I hate the cold. I hate worrying about the weather. I hate shopping and I don’t much like giving or receiving gifts during this time period either. So, I am aware that the whole situation puts me into, shall we say, an irritable mood.



But there are other things about this season. I know most people say they like it, but I find it brings out the very worst in people. The season of giving? I find people get selfish. The bullies become more bullier, the self righteous more vocal, the demanding, well, more demanding. Worse, every expects every one else to be gracious and smiling, happy and accommodating. I hate it.


One of the worst parts of this season when you hate it, is that it becomes almost taboo to express this sentiment.


“Oh, no you don’t.” Some people say with a little push. Yes. Yes I do.


“But it’s so pretty…” No. It isn’t. Quiet neighborhoods become landing strips. Houses were not meant to have snow men projected on their sides. Snow men should be made out of snow on the lawn. And just how much money is spent on all this? The purchase of these supplies? Never mind the electricity. I hate it.


The noise is every where. Bells. Bells. Bells. Whining children. The continual questions this time of year to…”Do you want to contribute…” “Do you want to ad a dollar to…” As if people are only in need in this one month.


Media also goes to dogs. Popular music stops, replaced by Christmas music. Regularly scheduled programs are abandoned for Christmas Specials. And have you paid attention to these things? Rudolph is not a nice story. In fact, most of them are not nice stories.


And yet we are all supposed to go have parties, wish each other the best and pretend everything is dandy. I hate it.

a light bulb or two

No Cats / Lee Rocker










I am tired. Again. Or perhaps it is still. This season makes me weary. I dislike it from the day after Thanksgiving until March. I hate the holidays. I hate the winter. I hate the cold. It makes me grumpy and weary.



Today I am not simply weary though, I am truly tired. Yesterday was a long one. It started with a quest to put new lightbulbs in the low beams of my car.


For a while now I had noticed that my passenger’s side low beams were out. I recognized this was not ideal, but I could live with it. I have an appointment in a few weeks to bring the car in on a recall notice. So I thought – I’d have it all done at the same time. Silly me.


Then last week I was stopped for a speeding ticket. I am sure that the officer pulled me over because of my one head light. Of course, I was kind of speeding too, but still.


Then the day before yesterday as I left work, I thought: ‘gee this seems dark.’ Of course the sun is long down before I left so there was no question of need. I got 100 yards from the drive way and thought, “Yes, this is definitely dark.” Pulling off the road I investigated. Sure enough both headlights were now out. I was very annoyed.


Going back into work I called home, very upset.


“Did you try the high beams?” M. asked.


Noooo. Did that even enter my mind? Of course not. So, out I went, across the parking lot, into the car. Sure enough, the high beams work. So, back into the cold, across the parking lot, back into the building to call home and report the news. Five minutes later I was doing it all again.


“Be prepared, people are not going to be happy with you.” M. warned.


Not happy was an understatement! So, muttering “I know. I’m sorry.” I made it home.


But that meant that yesterday, I really had to do something. The internet claimed the parts store opened at 8 and had stock. They were wrong. They were close, but wrong. The store opened at 8:15. I had been sitting in their lot since 7:45. They had one bulb, but I needed two. The clerk pointed me around the corner to another store.


That store opened at 7. Didn’t that figure. They had two bulbs. Next I went to the garage. The one that I had called at 7:30 that morning inquiring, “… can you change a light bulb? In a car I mean…” So after sitting for another 20 minutes and assuring the garage manager that I was certain the lights had not gone out at the same time and this 2008 car was not having electrical problems, I was on my way.


That would have probably been okay. I made it to work on time around 9:30 even. Then I worked my full day. THEN I went to this holiday gathering… That was the fatal part. I didn’t get home til 10 pm. Consequently, today I am tired.

My how you've grown

Really Rosie Soundtrack / Carole King










One of my favorite people is J. She’s an older woman, by that I mean she is in her 70’s. For almost all her adult life she worked as an assistant in the Children’s Department of a nearby city library. A stern grandmotherly type, she developed stock lines over the years.



At the start of story time, she’d explained the importance of being quiet. When meeting a school group, she’d explain how she saw lots of children every day. But she wasn’t good with names. So if any of those listening to her at that moment saw her, say at the supermarket, they should come over and say hello, but not get upset if she didn’t remember their name. She’d remember them! When she did a favor for someone, she’d say, “Oh. Some day you’ll grow up to be rich and famous and then you give money to the library!”


Likewise, as all those little ones grew up and came back, sometimes with money, sometimes just to see her, she again had her stock lines.


“Oh my. Just look at you. You’ve grown up so tall! When was it I saw you last?”


Having been in her position for several decades, J. saw a lot of people pass through. Many staff changes, many growing students. She would confide, she didn’t really remember them all, but she always was friendly and always used the same patter.


One day, she noted a young man lurking in the children’s room. This was always something that one paid attention to: a single man was not typical. This young man was clearly wandering through, looking at the shelves. He had nodded and smiled at her when he passed, but she was talking with a child. When she finished and the young man was still present, she watched a few more minutes. Later she’d say, he just looked vaguely familiar.


With this in mind, she decided he must be one of those many youth coming back to his old haunts. Approaching him with a smile, she went into her usual speech.


“Hi. How are you. My you have grown up so tall. When was it I saw you last?”


The young man looked at her, smiled, blushed and replied. “Two days ago, at my interview. I’m the new Children’s Librarian, S.”


Fortunately S. had a great sense of humor and found the exchange as hilarious as every one else who hears it. J. has never forgiven herself.

Rockabye Baby

Rockabye Baby / Lullaby renditions of the Rolling Stones






One of my first memories is standing in my crib. The sides came to my chin and I had to pull myself up. In later years I’d imagine the view from a reclined position in my crib to be the same as from any jail cell and blame that for an adolescence filled with delinquency.



But at what must have been about six months of consciousness, I didn’t think these things. Instead I remember thinking the situation troublesome. I was bored.


From my standing position looking in one direction I had a good view to the outside. A gorgeous day was framed by the window. Blue sky. My memory thinks it looks cold. In the other direction I remember seeing the sleeping forms of my parents. I remember thinking a good scream would change the situation, but I refrained. I remember also thinking that with some effort I might pull myself up and over the sides of the bars that kept me trapped, but there was no point. I had no where to go.


Instead, I released my grip and allowed gravity to give me the ride down to first a seated then prone position. I would watch the parade of circus characters who marched across the pink background on my wall. I particularly liked the ringmaster for he had the most magnificent of hats. Like a majorettes. There was a seal too, who balanced a ball on his nose and I think maybe an elephant too.

Stray cat strut

Runaway boys / Stray Cats










P and I were discussing cats today day. How there are all kinds. Some choose you. Lulu chose me, there is no question about that. P told me of her kitty, Celia who chose her. It was a very similar story.



Celia was a cat who would follow her, sit with her, come when called. One particularly endearing trait was at bed time, Celia would curl up in the crook of P’s arm. Facing each other, Celia would purr and knead her side.


Celia had a sense of things too, P explained. She would come and curl in when P was sick. She behaved when P was tired and stressed. By our conversation, Celia had passed away, but she had been a wonderful little friend.


When Celia was a teenager, P developed a health problem. Her glands swelled and became sensitive, particularly in that delicate underarm area that Celia liked to knead. Initially they thought it was some kind of virus or infection, but when the antibiotics didn’t work they started to wonder. Finally the doctor’s told P that she had to go in for a biopsy, they were sure sh she had cancer. She was upset and Celia didn’t leave her side.


After the procedure, braced for the worst – the doctors told her, she was going to be fine. The problem was cat scratch fever from Celia’s kneading. The right drugs and all was well.

don't you forget about me

Breakfast Club / Sountrack:

don't you forget about me / Simple Minds








Okay, for those of you who might be following along or are very astute, you will notice, yet another gap in the daily process: yesterday. I have only two words to account for this: Senior Moment.



No really. I completely forgot it wasn’t Saturday. I knew I had posted Saturday. So, it wasn’t even that I had forgotten to post, it was truly that I had forgotten I had slept and another day had passed. Let me tell you, this was a really bummer around 8 pm when I realized I had to come to work today.


“Tomorrow’s Monday??” I had said, heart broken, and checked the date /time on the computer just to make sure. It was worse than any horror movie. But clearly I have survived and we shall resume regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

No place but Georgia

Keep your hands to yourself / Georgia Satellites








There was a peach tree in our back yard. It was pretty old and each year little furry green rocks would form on it’s branches. Squirrels would try to get them, wind would make them fall. For years all I wanted was one of these little treasures to grow into a reach peach.



After seven years of waiting, finally it looked like one was going to make it. I watched that one piece of fruit grow over the days then weeks. Until finally it was large enough and a yellow orange color. It wasn’t fully ripe and it was hard as a rock, but still. It had outlasted all the others.


We picked it with great ceremony and carried it into the house. It was washed and adored. Eventually, we took out the knife to sample our prize. We were too late. In the heart of it’s pit were two bright green caterpillars, both fatter and juicer than the peach itself. I was horrified and have never been found of peaches since.

Road trip

Small Revelations / Chris Smither










Although I was born a Pisces in the sunny state of California, I can barely swim and have never managed to get a deep dark savage tan. Some would say this is because I just didn’t spend enough time there. As the stories go, I was conceived on the East coast, where everyone thought I would remain. However, that was not meant to be.



At some point in February, my parents moved to Southern California, just out side of L.A. for my father’s job. My father’s jobs were some times quick to change. I was born in early March. And we moved back East in early April.


Although my memory is good, I can remember standing in my crib at a year that had to be less than one, I do not remember this trip. The stories however have remained constant.


Even after a messy divorce, both my parents agree: we drove back East early April. Me, my parents and my mother’s mother. She had come West to help with the baby, me. All also agree that we took the Southern route to cross the Rockies at that time of year, but it was a bad ride. The pass closed behind us.


Of course, the details of the story alter a bit depending on who you talk to. My mother says my father was an idiot. That it started to snow on the way up one side of the mountain, but he didn’t care. She claims he pulled off at the top to brush the snow off the sign to take a picture, but the snow was too thick and the picture impossible. As a result of this dawdling, we were all nearly killed on the way down.


My father says it started to snow on the way up and he was getting nervous. Near the top, he pulled out and passed the plow, so that while the drive might have been harder, if we had a problem, someone would find us. He claims there was never a picture.


Who knows?


Everyone agrees on another story. Stuck in a motel room in Kansas, my father went to the desk and asked for a church key, a bottle opener that was apparently required to open my formula. Apparently, a church key is a regionalism. The good Kansonians had no idea what was being asked for, but trying to be helpful… The motel staff combed the town, finally producing the minister, whom confused, produced a church key.


The trip apparently after this was uneventful and we arrived back East where we started and that was the end of my California adventure. However, I’m fairly certain that two other things came out of this trip. First, is my unique relationship to cars and driving. A lot of significant things of my life have happened with some kind of connection with the automobile. However, I cannot prove this connection.


Second however, I am more convinced about. For most of my life, when I couldn’t sleep I would count. 1…2…3…4… While most kids asked for bedtime stories, I’d asked to be counted to. I had no love of math or numbers, I just liked the rhyme of hearing a count. When upset, I’d count to calm myself. I did this into and through adulthood. When I got older and counting was too simple, I’d count backwards. 100…99…98. When that was not successful, I’d increase the start number 1000…999…998…997.


I always wondered about this in myself. Why? Why did I do this? It was, quite frankly, weird. One day, as an adult myself and my father a old man, he sat over a meal rambling and telling stories. This was pretty common and the stories pretty consistent. But this one day, he started talking about that trip across country.


“You loved those magic fingers machines on the beds.” He told me. “We’d have driven for hours and end up in some motel room. Your mother and grandmother would go to eat, and I’d be tired and sore and say go, I’d stay with you. They’d go off and I’d put a bunch a quarters into that machine and the bed would vibrate and we’d both lay there and I’d count to you. You loved it.”


And at the moment, a life time of weird suddenly became perfectly clear.

there's a lady who knows

Stairway to Heaven / Led Zeppelin












I’m not sure most people cannot tell you the times in their life when they changed. Those moments when some little thing within them snaps or shifts and from that point on things are different. They are different.



I know those times, perhaps not all of those times, but at least some of those times. The first time I remember this was as a teenager. Formerly I had been a quiet, shy nerdy, kid. I was until the change moment a bit on the scared side and certainly without the self confidence that was required if you were to become noticeable. Of course, in later years, people would not believe this. They would say, “You? Shy? Quiet? Impossible.” And it is undeniably true that as time has gone on, well, I’ve gotten worse.


The change moment occurred one day in the supermarket of all places. It wasn’t one of those big chain box stores. No, this was the local, small time, family owned and operated market. It was the kind of store that in comparisons to the nation wide chains have no stock, dirty floors and narrow isles. It was the kind of store that still held personal accounts, and one could go through the checkout line and then merely provide a last name and a notebook would appear from on the counter.


On the particular day in question, I was out shopping with my mother. It was a spring day. One of those early spring days that is hot and teasing about the summer that is just around the corner. She’d picked me up after school and I think we had some other required errand. But we were both in good spirits, silly with the sun and good weather.


I remember we had ambled the length of the story, switchbacking through the isles. We were traveling down the last isle, the frozen foods and dairy section, when we both looked at each other with the same thought: ice cream!


“Go pick out a flavor…” My mother suggested as she abandoned our cart to head towards eggs.


“What flavor do you want?” I called, heading the few steps in the opposite direction.


“Whatever.” She called back, as I stood frowning facing the double glass doors. I knew we did not have the same taste and the choices were numerous.


What do to? What to do?


“What’s your choice?” She prompted, and that’s when it snapped.


I don’t think I ever would have done this if I had not been in a silly, mood. But my eyes landed on the Heavenly Hash, and it began.


“Heavenly Hash!” I said, my arms shooting into the air. “Hallaluah! Yes indeed, Heavenly Hash!” My voice was raising and I was trying not to laugh. My mother shot me a look that said, ‘Really?’ And in response, I dropped instantly to my knees before the cart and case. “It came to me in a dream! It did, I say. Heavenly Hash!” I wailed and then collapsed in a fit of giggles as people started to round the isle and I noticed some of the customers and employees taking a step back to see the performance.


“Okay, get up and put it in the cart.” My mother said, eyes rolling, but laughing too. I did, but something had changed. I was no longer shy. It didn’t even bother me a week or so later when my mother reported that the store clerk had asked if her daughter was okay.

nanowritmo / postscript what next?

Sounds of Silence / Simon & Garfunkel











As a Nanowritmo project, I didn't make it - if you have read this November tale, its just over 27000 words.  Still...   not bad, I don't think.

And not bad that we are on Dec 1st and this blog is still blogging along.  This will be post 177 or 178... I forget.  No wonder I'm tired....

The real question is where to do now....Having spent the last month writing on one set thing,  has been good.  Now that that's done, I am back to being lost in a sea of blank paper... or rather blank computer screen.  I shall need to think on this for the next 24.