Well, thank goodness. I couldn’t be happier with a year – and it hasn’t really begun yet. But like so many, I’m looking forward to November, with a weather eye on the upcoming primaries. Rumor has it Perry and Gingrich will be able to squeeze onto the Virginia ballot. Don’t know if that’s true, but if wishes were horses Newt or Rick would take Richmond.

I never, ever make resolutions. Or don’t remember doing so. Same thing. But this year, my spirits are high even without the aid of alcohol, so…

It’s a pretty short list.  Not saying my life is perfect or I don’t have flaws to work on, but that stuff is more behind the scenes, so to speak. I erased #4; that was just ridiculous. For example, do you want to hear about my resolution to finish a crochet blanket? Me either. Or the wish to see Ireland? That’s not even a resolution.

Hope everyone has a happy and safe year. Hold your loved ones close and whisper those sweet words they’re longing to hear… “New President”.

Gate at Kinloch Laggen by Dorothy Carse

Bou started it, with her 3 x 5 index cards. Actually, there’s a good reason for those.
The comments on that post are classic. Somehow I think the chicken referenced was the Bloggess’ 5′ metal bird, but I could be wrong.

Then VW weighed in with her end-of-life wishes. Have to tell you, being scattered atop a pretty mountain almost sounds lovely. If I were going that way, I’d want to be scattered around Kinloch Laggan in the Highlands.

My Dad had cancer and it took him an entire year to die, so the arrangements were made at leisure. Very traditional; the laying out, service at the home, graveside, big box lowered into the ground. To me, hideous. I never got over that box in the ground and do not wish the same fate for myself.

As Bou says, it’s good for the children to hear nice things about the deceased. It’s good to mark the occasion solemnly, to grieve the dead properly. But the pastor didn’t even know my father, called him ‘Johnny’ and said a lot of silly things that didn’t matter, which is when I hardened my immature heart toward the man and quit his church for good. Yes, it was childish but I was enraged, mostly with my father for dying.

Mom was, at least when it came to death, very logical. She made her arrangements well ahead of time, buying a traditional ‘plan’ at a local funeral home. She didn’t want anyone to be put out on account of her death… or maybe she simply wanted some control over the uncontrollable.

Like Bou, she tried talking about it, but I wouldn’t listen. If we didn’t talk about it, how could it happen?

Mike and I have no plans, unless you count the time he told me to just throw him out with the garbage. So, for the record: Do not spend any money on my dead corpse, other than whatever the priest needs for last rights. Donate it to medical research. If you want to get together and talk about me afterward, maybe the three of you could meet at the nearest Starbucks for a cappuccino.

First, some random images.

Like the wind... well, maybe a small breeze.

It's a banana tree. No, really.

Birdbath, just because.

This is the over the hedge part… storm rolling in… and no storm.
I’m so damn exciting.

This morning

And this made me smile…

Mike’s on vacation and HULU is streaming Father Ted. There, at least two excuses for neglecting the blog.
I have photographic evidence of the former; Mike hamming it up at Lenscrafters, holding what looks to be an alien torture device up to his face. Mike, eating at T.G.I.Friday’s, but all you see is the top of his head.
Yes, I must log simply everything.

Plus, I always get a little down right before a birthday. Doesn’t everyone? The specter of death, uncompromising in its black finality, rears its ugly head and forces us to think about things best left for those sleepless 3:00am reflections.

In the same vein, Mrs. Who’s post about visiting her and Bitterroot’s probable grave sites… wigged me out just the least little bit. I don’t care if I’m dead or not; someone puts me in a box… and buries it… underground… well, I think my blood pressure just spiked.
Here’s what I want: a Viking funeral, no skimping on the sacrificed slaves. Barring that, please just donate my body to science.

Meanwhile, new life abounds. One of my babies from years past, now grown up and a duck in her own right, brought her ducklings over this morning for an early breakfast.

It was very early and everything was soaked. She brings them round at a decent hour, I’ll get down on the ground for some good shots.

It’s been quite some time since I did one of these, so why not?

My Conservative Identity:

You are an Anti-government Gunslinger, also known as a libertarian conservative or Tea Partier. You believe in smaller government, states’ rights, gun rights, and that, as Reagan once said, "The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, ‘I’m from the government and I’m here to help.’"

Take the quiz at
About.com Political Humor

No surprises here!

Stolen from LeeAnn…

Simply to right wrongs, you understand. Hey, if obama wants one, why shouldn’t I?

Email etiquette is one way I’d utilize my private force, so when people send me bizarre, half formed messages like ‘she needs to have surgery on Feb 21′ I can have the perp dealt with swiftly.

Just kidding, of course. But GAH! Some people are chronically challenged when it comes to bad grammar and spelling, yet both can be overlooked. But what’s wrong with adding a couple more descriptive words in a message you’re already writing?

Tonie, I’m talking about you. Don’t make me send Guerrero over there.

I’m off to the ophthalmologist, so who knows when I’ll find out what’s really going on…?

EDIT: K has her tubes [ears] removed on March 21st. Was that so hard?

I can’t see a damn thing; I hate having my eyes dilated.

My ophthalmologist is a micro-American but I simply think of her as a leprechaun. The woman makes me feel like Sasquatch. The top of her head is level with my nipples. I don’t use that word lightly; it’s just that nothing else stands out on me at nipple-height.

Each year I have to do battle with the overpowering urge to keep my responses to her questions sane, since my brain is quietly spouting gibberish.
“How are your contacts, Pam? Still doing okay with those?” “Oh, yes, doctor! In fact, they’re magically delicious!”
“We’re going to have to change your glasses prescription this year…” “Ah, the pot ‘o gold at the end of the rainbow!”
And so on… “If I had three wishes, I’d waste one on perfect vision”.

It’s sad.

One of Mike’s acquaintances died a week ago today.

A man in his 40′s, he’d been all over the world, flying most of it. He’d been in the Navy and was a “flight instructor’s instructor”, an accomplished aviator. He’d just come back to the states after living in Brazil for 4 years and his wife still lives in a small town there.
Last Friday night his motorcycle tangled with a box truck and suddenly -it always seems so sudden, doesn’t it?- he was dead. Just like that.

A couple days later, the owner of the flight school had to go to the morgue to identify his body, as he had no relatives in the area. There were no clues at all to next of kin, so Mike broke into his brand new laptop, which yielded no clues.

I searched for his name on Facebook and unfortunately found him. I say unfortunately, because he only had two ‘friends’, one of them his wife. She’d posted something in Spanish to his wall about two days after he’d died, but the closest I came to translating it was two phrases: ‘where are you’ and ‘love you dearly’. Evidently his cell phone expired in the crash as well and she had no idea he was dead.

The next few days I couldn’t leave that thought alone, that she didn’t know. Her husband, whom she loved dearly, had been killed and she did not know. Of course I personalized it; I’m a married woman. My frustration and prayers were as much for every woman who receives that call as for her.

Today she knows. This morning I visited her FB wall again to see ‘luto’. ‘Mourning’. Is that any better? Not really.