While the Badger is running free here in the office Bree slips in and retakes her crate. I don’t really believe she’s trying to fit into that itty bitty bed, though.

About once a month I revert to a more primitive state as well; I take a day off ‘life’. That day was yesterday. Oh, I took care of the dogs and made myself a big bucket o’ guacamole, but that’s as far as I was prepared to go. No treadmill, no laundry, no meal prep, no cleaning anything, no errands, no yard work. The man was on his own and I may as well have been five again, playing at whatever struck my fancy.

I highly recommend taking your inner child out for an airing at least once a month. Otherwise, she might suffocate…

If this was Facebook I would tag Bonna.

Is blooming!

Sorry, but I’m not even reading political news right now, let alone commenting on it.

Had an interesting dream sometime in the early hours this morning. Had to be between 4:00a, when I iced the poison ivy on my neck and face, and 7:00a. In it Mike and I had moved into a very large, old gothic type mansion. It had more rooms than Carter has little liver pills. All the bathrooms were horrid and nigh unusable and the rest of the rooms were on the strange to outright frightening side… One I wandered into (while looking for my camera to shoot the paper mill explosion about half a mile away!) had dolls of every kind; some hanging on the walls, some in bins. As I walked close to them, they’d come alive and try to grab me.
Another room looked like the boiler room of a ship, which is where I met a ghost girl. There were other rooms, hallways, all dark and dank and not fit for human life.
Oh, and I saw my Mom. SAW her. You know how it gets harder to picture someone the longer they’ve been gone? I saw her as if she were really standing in front of me. Jumped at her, hugged her hard and held on as she talked and floated me around the house…
Tonie came over for some reason but we did not communicate at all (gee, wonder where that came from?), though she did speak with Mike… and I finally found the camera.
It took some doing, but I finally ran to the front of the property to photograph the mill fire in the distance behind the house…. Only, everything I picked up wasn’t the camera! Binoculars, sunglasses… I’d somehow lost the dang camera again. Other people started showing up, strangers, to watch the fire on the massive front lawn… and I awoke.

I hate dreams like that because though I know it probably stemmed from either the spaghetti or the ice cube, it must mean something. Mustn’t it? And if so, it can’t be anything good, right?

1. Knees :: Bees
2. Law :: L.A.
3. Goodbye :: Again
4. Regrets :: I’ve had a few…
5. Dedicated :: IP
6. Sushi :: Bait
7. Australia :: Down Under
8. Renovation :: Home
9. Honk :: …if you’re horny!
10. Beg :: Dogs

California suburbanites fresh to rural Texas in 1964, my folks rented an older place on the outskirts of a small town. Comprised of at least an acre of land with a pretty little creek meandering through the south side of the property, it turned out to be a magical playground for me.

Stables, run down yet still serviceable, stood behind the house. That fact alone was enough to excite the hell out of a seven year old girl whose prize possession was a Radio Flyer spring horse. Though my parents had their own reasons for relocating, when I was within earshot they told people we’d moved to Texas so I could have a horse and a collie just like Lassie.

It’s comforting to know that at least once in my life I knew what I wanted with some certainty.

Those stables were not to house my horse, but they fed the dream and I visited them with a frequency that can only be described as obsessive. A sweet, child sized playhouse sat mostly unused, as my interests did not lie in that direction.

Actually, there seemed a general sense of confusion related to my choice of activities at the stable and creek, but after gentle persuasion in the direction of the pretty little playhouse failed nobody bothered me about it again.
Dubbed a ‘tomboy’ and left to my own devices I filled the stable with pretend horses.

The two story house had a lovely, light filled kitchen with a cozy built in booth and a massive pecan tree in the front yard whose branches brushed my bedroom window on stormy nights. It took an hour to get to school on the bus and an hour back in the evenings, but I never wanted to leave. School was a distraction from the new-found delights of rural life.

After passing one winter there we did leave; my parents bought a house… if you can call it that. I hated it, but it had land and a barn and in time they added to the land. Mom didn’t care, but Dad loved the land. Loved owning it, working it, loved putting crops in and watching them grow, much like the calves, chicks and piglets. I didn’t learn my love of the life from him, it was already there. But he nursed it as I followed him around like a puppy. We fixed fence, fed the livestock, plowed, harvested, raked… you name it. And I was in Heaven, just a big ol’ donkey farm girl.

I got the horse; more than one. Though they tried, the collie didn’t work out… but I think I did all right on my own.

So why am I thinking about that first Texas house? Romanticizing it even. Well, my sister-in-law’s wealthy friend will give her a couple of horses if she has the place for them. Not just any nags, we’re talking about retired hunters. Gorgeous, winning horses put out to pasture in their prime because she’s ‘been there, done that’. I tell you I can smell the horse.

Not happening, not right now… probably not ever. But since she brought the subject up a couple of days ago, hinting that we could get a place with land together if Mike and I would only move back to Texas… My thoughts have wandered back to that house with the stables…

And all at once I’m seven again and the dream is alive.

The Maori are attributed with the saying “Turn your face to the sun and the shadows will fall behind you.” My version would be more like “Putting on your work gloves is good for what ails you”. Sorta the same thing, one’s just a bit more redneck.

I ate fatty foods Saturday night; some meat pockets made with beef and puff pastry. They were so good; the recipe used golden raisins, onion, beef and potato, all wrapped up and baked in the puff pastry… oh, mama.

Though I’ve been very good about reading labels, for some reason I didn’t that night. They were much greasier -even with extra lean ground beef- than I thought they should have been. Was it the pastry? Unfortunately, that night and the next day I felt like absolute crap… and it didn’t occur to me til the next day that the grease didn’t set well with my system.

Of course my sister-in-law said “A lot of that is in your head”. Had she not been 1,200 miles away she would have found her ass on the floor. I suppose those migraines are a figment of her bloody imagination.

Anyway, I donned a pair of work gloves Sunday and went out to trim trees. The slight drizzle only made it better. As long as I was outside, everything was fine. Love being out of doors and could walk many miles in a light rain. Oh, yes, I am a tomboy and have never been a girly-girl, no matter how much my mother wished I’d play with dolls instead of dogs and horses. Maybe it works for me because I grew up out of doors. Maybe my subconscious revels in memories of fixing fence with my father or even days spent on horseback in the middle of nowhere… Who knows? There are people who absolutely loathe nature and that’s a damn pity.

The great outdoors is a remedy I would prescribe to anyone.

I’d be back out there today, but our weather is a bit… inclement. Rather more than a light drizzle…

I believe these to be Starlings in Autumn attire, taken early this morning and very far away, thus the bad image.
I was only compelled to photograph them because of their strange basket of sounds. Not a chirp or trill, but more like someone whistling low to themselves. Eerie.

Ego – where I and my are found cavorting.

Went to get a haircut last week, which always results in feelings of inadequacy as well as a bit of self-flagellation. Feeling like Mrs. Shrek is one thing, but breaking out in guilt because I care is another. The bright fluorescent lighting and perfectly made up young girls do not help one little bit. I don’t resent often, but when I do it’s at the salon. It’s a fleeting thing, but a vice nonetheless.

Youngest is famous for saying ‘Expectations are just resentments waiting to happen’ but I don’t consciously believe my face should be wrinkle-free at 54 or even have more hair after menopause. It’s a struggle sometimes. I list my blessings, which are so many they don’t fit on all my fingers and toes, and be grateful for what I have… but just when acceptance and gratitude seem a way of life, it’s time for another haircut.

Though I’ve nothing to be vain about, that particular sin has plagued me since self-awareness. When young I aspired to marry Jesus and become a Nun, in the surreptitious way a young Baptist would, of course. Sure that they could overcome any sin humanity had to offer by giving their lives to others through God, it seemed a wonderful way to live. Not glamorous, not at all. Just… without sin. Peaceful. I didn’t want to care what others thought of me and still don’t… but now I know better than to think Nuns have an easy, sinless existence. Everyone tries, everyone stumbles. Everyone suffers.

Besides, I’m too lazy to be a Nun.

Channeling Doris Jean.

This was my second appointment at the salon with Miss T and I was glad, for she seems a lighthearted soul. Late 20′s, single, living with roommates… I gave in to baser tendencies and envied her my youthful memories for the blink of an eye.
We talked, laughed and I started feeling like myself again. That’s when I realized that -perhaps for the first time- I’d actually been feeling my age. What a horrible thought.

Found myself dispensing advice similar to my old friend Doris, with whom I worked from 1979 through 1990. Doris Jean was older than the rest of us, and acted as sort of a mother figure to the girls in the department. She’d elicit our stories of late nights, wild parties, dancing til dawn and then encourage us to go right out and do it again. ‘Make memories now, while you’re young, so when you’re old like me you’ll have something to remember’.
Sage advice and I repeated basically the same thing to Miss T. Some things really do come full circle.

Crazy plumeria.

Low Fat Bites.

Another confession: I ate butter this morning. After craving the salty-sweet creaminess of the real thing for over a month, I was surprised that the sensation was a little greasy. An unpleasant discovery, yet it will be of some help in the future whenever I get a yen for the magic of Land-O-Lakes.

Yesterday I clearly smelled pizza and of course there was none in the house. I really miss pizza. Today it was Chinese food, which I’ve cut down on because some of my favorites are fried. The stuff they advertise as being ‘healthy’ and ‘low fat’ tastes like ass. Sorry. But really, I smelled Chinese. Like stroke toast, not there at all.

Plated and Served

The ducks are gone, every last one. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen Howard, Louie and Dewey. As a matter of fact, in a neighborhood previously abundant in waterfowl, as we have networks of canals, things are sure quiet. The duck population has dropped consistent with the jobless rate… leading me to some unpleasant conclusions. But as I told Mike, if someone was hungry enough to eat those babies, they have my blessings.
I want to think I won’t be fattening up any more for meals… but they’re so damned cute. Maybe I just won’t name them…

The clutter, she is strong with this one.

I cleaned our closet out yesterday, resulting in 2 bags for the thrift shop. Even though I blame Mike for our disorganization brought on by too much stuff, I do my share. Yesterday was an attempt to correct my errors, and I even threw my father’s old shoeshine box away. I’ve hung on to that thing since he died in 1978. It was time. But of course I saved the brushes that were in the box. Baby steps!

I’d never used one of the brushes because the bristles were sort of scrunched up, preferring another, newer one. I went to throw the scrunched up brush out with the box… and saw what can only be his fingerprints on the handle.

It’s a silly little thing, but I had to put my fingers there where his had been. I miss that man.

…in other news…

The sky was wild last night…