dichotomy . . .

I have a lead foot when it comes to my little red Miata. I love scooting around the back roads . . . faster than the law allows . . . top down . . . screeching around corners . . . spewing gravel . . . it just makes my heart soar. Toad of Toad Hall has nothing on me.

But . . . every weekday morning, I take my granddaughter to school. I behave. I drive carefully and follow the speed limit . . . I grumble about speeders in the school zone, I bemoan those ignoring the yellow safety lights . . . I have precious cargo.

At least once a week, usually twice, I see him. He drives a big gold Ford truck, weaving through lanes to gain an extra inch. Cutting people off, gunning off the lights, tailgating, honking, gesturing slow pokes out of the way. He plows in behind me until all I see is grill work in my rear view mirror. I tighten my knuckles around the steering wheel and hold tight. He soon gets tired of trying to bully me into speeding up and swerves around me. I call him FLASH. I don't much like him.

Since they have been widening and resurfacing that stretch of road, there have been more cops out than normal. Somehow, FLASH has sneaked under the radar all these months. But not today. Having blown past me as if I were standing still, there he was . . . pulled off to the side of the road . . . police lights flashing. I felt the small upward tug at the corners of my mouth give way to a full fledged smile and on into a delighted grin. It has made my day.

the cast of characters . . .

Someone asked who was who, or is that whom? So I have collected all the players and am pleased to present . . . . in no particular order . . . the 9TS:



He is king.

Then there is me. It's my blog and I am, as usual, behind the camera. I like it there:



I am, of course, married to the 9TS er . . . king . . . .

And then there is my offspring, Katie:



She is up and running but thankfully remembers where her favorite meals can be found and wanders home when hungry.

And then there is the menagerie. Snoop is oldest, so he comes first . . . proprietary rights after
all:



we found him in the woods behind the house. After 15 years he finally lets me pet him. He's our high strung personality . . . oh wait, that would be me . . .

And then comes Moak:



He belongs to the offspring but visits often . . . to the dismay of the twins.




I had to wake him up to get that shot . . . he was not happy.



Sometimes, he gets matted . . . and then he gets shaved . . . and then he loses all dignity . . .
and then he pouts until his hair grows back. It takes months. He can get quite grumpy . . .

Finally, come the twins. Bear first, he is bigger:



the twins came from a shelter. Bear doesn't know he isn't a bear. He doesn't even know he is a Maine Coon cat.

and lastly there is Ninja. She is smaller but shaped like a football . . .



She is our monster child . . . into everything . . . it's very disconcerting to see two yellow eyes staring from the dark. She is the proud possessor of five white hairs. Otherwise she is quite invisible at night . . . .

That is everyone . . . the entire entourage. Now you know who is who . . . or is that whom?

if you really want it . . .

Moak is a rather large, slow, lumbering beast. He's an easy going sort of soul, taking life at his own pace. He has three speeds. Slow, slower and beyond cold molasses running up hill. His topping the scale at close to 20 pounds, doesn't help things much. Does this bother him? Not at all. He gets where he wants to go . . . in his own sweet time . . . . something that is bound to drive you batty in the dead of winter when it takes him a full five minutes to amble through the door . . . letting in the Arctic air with him. And yes, yes . . . we do have Arctic air down here. I am sure of it.

But there is one flaw in his armor of sluggishness. One Achilles heel. Lizards. Show this behemoth a chameleon and all bets are off. He'll leave you in the dust. His bones and frame are, admittedly, a few nano seconds ahead of his blubber which makes for amusing watching, but once in motion, he's faster than Roadrunner escaping Wiley Coyote.

The other day while Katie, Moaky and I were relaxing in the sun . . . each ensconced on our own chaise, I saw his fur start to twitch. Two seconds later he had gone from recumbent squidge to fearsome predator. In a flash he was on the tail of one lackadaisical chameleon who foolhardily slipped through the screens and onto the pool deck. Silly wayward lizard.

Moak almost got him and would have too, except that the lizard dove head first into the pool and Moak draws the line at anything smacking of dampness. Eyes aglitter, Moak was weighing his options.



I am not fond of lizards. Katie, has since she was very little, had an affinity for the little creatures. Thus, any encounters requiring removal, fall squarely in her domain. And since the lizard was getting exhausted and Moak was salivating copious quantities of unwanted fluid into the pool, Katie was called upon.



The lizard was evacuated to a safer climate. Moak, scowling his discontent, ambled back to his chaise, plopped himself down and glared one more look of deep disapproval before closing his eyes and visiting the sandman once again.

Credits: Katie Pertiet: paper, flowers, date tag, pin. Roben-Marie Smith: torn paper. Jessica Sprague: mask. Fonts: My Old Remington, The Real Kristen. Pattie Knox: staple. Kristen Creech: flower brush. Anna Aspnes: stitched frame.

insomnia and chaos . . .

I was exhausted tonight. I think yoga beats the stuffing out of me. I was snoring before the end of Dancing with the Stars, which of course means . . . in all likelihood, that I will wake up in the middle of the night to twiddle my thumbs . . . again.

At first being awake in a quiet house is a wonderful thing. It's spring and the windows are open. I can hear the train in the distance who who-ing it's lonesome cry. . . . the soft sounds of tires on asphalt from a few blocks away . . . an occasional dog waking from a deep sleep, woofing his disapproval . . . the soft whoosh of the sprinkler system next door.

The 9TS wanders up. He too, cannot sleep.

One by one, the cats come to visit. They like to snuggle against a warm body. Pretty soon, all three are curled up keeping us company. But since Katie is home for a visit, so is her Moak. Although Moak grew up here and is used to the lay of the land, the twins moved in after Moak moved away with Katie. The twins do not share well. They are spoiled . . . territorial . . . demanding. Tonight in the wee hours, Moak wandered in to visit as well. It was a visit not well received by those already ensconced on the bed. A guttural noise . . . some fast scuffling and the fur began to fly.

I grabbed Bear while the 9TS lunged for Moak who ran into Katie's room and woke her as well. Ninja scrambled under the bed away from the fray. Snoop, a bundle of nerves on a good day, was furtive and tense, shifting his weight ready to flee . . . eyes wide. It's 1:45 and the whole house is up and rocking. Who needs HBO!

TYL . . .

Life has been a little challenging lately. But if I needed affirmation that the good Lord watches over me, I have gotten in it spades.

1.) Kelli sent me the quote I mentioned a few posts ago.

2.) My roommate, from freshman year in high school, who does not have access to my blog, sent me the same quote out of the blue.

3.) Katie mentioned, while on a ride, that she thought I needed that quote.

4.) Paula, my neighbor who moved away last year, and who does read my blog, rang our door bell tonight. In her hand was a framed quote. One guess what it was. She told me she had had it for a while but had not hung it. When she read my blog she said she knew she had to bring it down to me since they would be in the area.


Amazing. Simple amazing. Thank you Kelli, thank you Lisa, thank you Katie, thank you Paula, TYL.

redux . . .

Papers: Jessica Sprague, Flower: Vinnie Pearce, Stitches: Anna Aspnes, Swirl: Fei Fei, Fonts: You are Loved, ck-Ali's_writing, Retro Rock Poster, Georgia.

genetics . . .

We were nosing around an antique/junk store today. Katie found an ancient typewriter she dearly wanted. In the midst of haggling over price, we had a short conversation with the man:



He: What does she want this for?

Me: Photography. She is my quirky kidlet.

He: Yeah, I noticed the Boy Scouts of America shirt.

Me: Yep, quirky.

Katie: And when I grow old, like you, I'll be eccentric too.

Me: (Chuckling softly) It's genetic.

life . . .

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass . . . it's about learning to dance in the rain.

Kelli sent me this little gem . . . just when I needed it most. All this time, I've been holding my breath waiting for the storm to blow over. I was getting pretty blue in the face . . . blue in my soul. Now I know it's time to learn to dance. Baby steps at first . . . embracing what is. We are ready. We can do this. The sun will shine again and when it does, we will be there faces raised.

Thanks, Kel. A lot. A very, very lot.

complacency . . .

Ninja is THE most complacent cat I've ever met. She just puts up with anything. One of the things she loves the most though, is to be carried around in Katie's t-shirt. Check her out . . .

I’ve been a member of an online group of friends for close to ten years . . . brought together originally on AOL’s scrapbooking board; we’ve since found a new more private home on Yahoo. Scrapping is no longer the glue that holds us together. We’ve morphed past that stage. We’re from all over the country, from all walks of life, all ages. We are Heinz 57 at its best and I love these women.

A couple of days ago, someone posted this little goody:

So after landing my new job as a Wal-Mart greeter, a good find for many retirees, I lasted less than a day.

About two hours into my first day on the job, a very loud unattractive, mean-acting woman walked into the store with her two kids, yelling obscenities at them all the way through the entrance. As I had been instructed, I said pleasantly: Good morning and welcome to Wal-Mart. Nice children you have there. Are they twins?”

The ugly old woman stopped yelling long enough to say, “Hell no, they ain’t twins. The oldest is nine and the other is seven. Why the hell would you think they’re twins? Are you blind or just stupid?” So I replied, “I’m neither blind nor stupid, Ma’am, I just couldn’t believe you got laid twice. Have a good day and thank you for shopping Wal-Mart.”

My supervisor said I probably wasn’t cut out for this line of work.

I replied back that I wasn’t sure why I loved this joke so much. Today, Dana answered, “Because just like me, you are trying to figure out how many people from this board you could see actually saying/doing something like that? ;o)”

I had to laugh. She’s right. There are two, I know, who would be right there with me if I let my mouth fly. Another three would only need a tiny nudge to join in the fun. The rest? Well, while all but one might not be up for it, they wouldn’t disapprove either. And I know I’d see the corner of their lips curl up in a hint of a smile. Gotta love them.

snooping the net . . . .

I admit it. I spend way too much time snooping around on the net. But once in a while I find a gem or two that either cracks me up or takes me back down memory lane. Yesterday, I found both. This little goodie comes from an online version of The Handbook of Private Schools, 1920 edition.

KENT PLACE, Summit, N.J. A School for Girls. Mrs. SARAH WOODMAN PAUL, A.B., Wellesley. Miss ANNA SOPHIA WOODMAN, A.B., Wellesley.

Kent Place is a home school and a working school, providing an attractive home life and sound academic training from primary through college-preparatory work. There is individual attention and close contact between girls and teachers.

There are now on the ten acres of grounds four buildings,— the House, the Gables, the Gymnasium, and the School House,— with earth tennis courts, a hockey field, a basket-ball field, and adequate room for other out-of-door sports.

The Gymnasium is modern and well equipped. The School House was built in 1913. Especial attention was given to providing in the best possible way for the four important requisites: space, heat, light, and ventilation.

The House is devoted exclusively to the home and has room for thirty-five girls. The Gables, a modern private house opened in the fall of 1918 to meet the needs of the growing school, provides a home for ten of the older girls and contains an isolated infirmary under the immediate care of the registered nurse.

The school offers a college preparatory course preparing for the comprehensive and old-style examinations, and a general course which is largely elective and may include work in the Home-making Department.

Write Mr. Sargent, 14 Beacon Street, Boston—See pace 767.

MAY FESTIVAL IN THE SCHOOL GROUNDS

Here I am, some 47 years later . . . it's a graduation ritual.

Don't I look thrilled??? Not. Definitely, a "I think you had to be there" item but it made me chuckle. And just as a note, our class did them in. They closed the boarding department that summer. The day school is alive and well.

I also found this little description of my one and only venture to summer camp:

STAMBERG: Yeah. No electricity in the cabin, no running water in the cabin. They were cabins, and when it rained, you pulled a canvas curtain across the windows and you had to go down a little boardwalk to the facilities, and you brought in pitchers filled with water and poured them in basins in order to brush your teeth. So it was pretty rugged.

Trekking down to the latrine in the dead of night, in the rain, was not one of my most favorite memories. (We soon discovered it was easier, if not less sanitary, to sort of balance our bottoms out the windows.) Nor was, come to think of it, the poison ivy . . . a favorite memory. But it was the summer camp my mother had attended and so, that summer after her death, I too attended Camp Po-ne-mah. It closed down some 25 years ago. I was not responsible. For all that I didn't like and for all the homesickness, they had horses. Put me and a horse in the same sentence and I was, as they say, a happy camper.

My mother (on the right), as a happy camper . . . I don't think her butt ever hung out a window . . .



See the notorious windows????



And here I am circa 1962


All I need to complete the ensemble is an over sized pocketbook with a huge can of hair spray and a tube of white lipstick hanging out and I'd be the epitome of Jersey Girl style. In case you didn't catch it, I'm the tall, skinny, slouching one, second from the left with her mother's cankles.

Then, I found this guy's description of his drive around the lake where I grew up:

". . . I think I should take it once more around the lake. Then I think, no, that may not be a good idea. Let's be more specific about why it's called the Rust Bucket. The tires are cracked, under inflated. The chassis is sagging from rust. . . . So, I get in, and I'm off. Decide to head toward the bridge first. I figure if it's gonna melt down, it'll be after a ways, so I better get over the bridge early. Shouldn't clog up the bridge for my neighbors. That wouldn't be good."



Insert: The bridge is a single lane "road" running across the top of the damn at the end of the lake. Very narrow and very creepy. Water on one side and a sheer drop on the other.



"Well, over the bridge and off past West Beach, head poking out of the little thing like George Jetson. . . . Then it's off up around the bend, through the woop-dee-do over by Columbo's house. With thirty-five year old shock absorbers and tires maybe nearly as old, let me tell you, it was one heck of a woop-dee-do. Roller coaster class. Then down around the north shore. There it is, Indian road. I come to a stop and consider whether I should venture out onto a main road. Should I stay or should I go. The car is unregistered, uninsured and no plates. A wise man would have turned around and gone back the same way rather than keep going. I am not a wise man. I look both ways, then onto Indian Road for the 900 feet before I can get off onto the east side of the lake for the rest of the trip around. I should be worried, but I'm not. Wisdom is a burden. Stupid people are happier. I'm smiling my way down Indian Road like a bobble-head doll in a Tonka truck.

Then it's off Indian, back onto Pines Lake Drive, past a couple more walkers, a dog with a man on a leash, a nice old lady out picking weeds. Up the hill towards the school. Come on lil' Red, you can do it. Drop it to second. Fingers on the choke. But red puffs his way to the top without the need for extra oxygen. Past Pines Lake school. Then down the hill. This part could get tricky. Needs brakes. Real ones. There's a turn at the bottom. Oh boy, and there are cars parked on either side for someone's barbeque. This'll really make it interesting. Obstacle course. Well, I'm all in. Pop it into third. Head down the hill. Tap the brakes to make sure they're there. WeeeeeEEEeeeee!!! Lil' Red's tail is swingin' around like the town hussy at church, headed for a communion wafer and a sip of wine, knockin' down chairs on both sides of the aisle . . . Whew. Made it through the gauntlet. All parked cars intact. Then a nice leisurely spin down along the park to the Vale road entrance and safety in the driveway . . . . "

Excerpt from Jim Buonocore's blog "QBaroque". I finally found some one more loquacious than I. . . . wish he had more posts on his blog.

Did you catch his mention of the turn at the bottom of the hill? It was that hill, with my sister riding shotgun, that I first realized, at age 17, that braking was a requirement to successfully navigate that corner alive. It is also the hill I got called out for in the middle of 4th grade social studies for riding without hands on the handle bars. We all rode that way?!?!?!

And one last blog called: The Pines Lake Redhead:

"Growing up in Pines Lake was truly the perfect childhood for me. I couldn’t have been happier and I have only the fondest memories. Everything in Pines Lake revolved around The Lake. The social hub was South Beach. No, not that South Beach. During the summer there was every possible activity to do outside! Swimming, diving, sailing, kayaking, canoeing, windsurfing (does anyone do that anymore?), fishing, tennis, frog & turtle catching, basketball, gossiping, picnics, parades, arts & crafts, knock-hockey (anyone know what that is?), and summer jobs. In the winter, if we were lucky, we got black ice and could ice skate, play hockey, and ice fish."

"Needless to say, I was very active. I was out the door from sun-up to sundown. In the spring and the fall we played in the woods and I would come home with leaves and twigs in my hair. When the weather got warm and The Lake wasn’t officially open yet (open season was Memorial Day to Labor Day) we would go down to The Glen. We had to climb down a rock-face wall to get down there and no, we weren’t allowed to go down there. But it was so much cooler down there in the shade! We would catch crayfish and just dangle our feet in the ice cold stream. Looking back through the eyes of motherhood, I would have killed my kids if they hadn’t fallen and broken their necks first."

"There were two drawbacks to being the Pines Lake Redhead. First, I was the Pines Lake Redhead! There were two redheaded brothers that were a few years older than me. But as far as I can remember, I was the only redheaded girl my age. I was my family’s calling card. People wouldn’t have any idea of my parents’ names but they knew that they belonged to me. I could have never have misbehaved and gotten away with it. Well, at least it forced me to keep my nose clean." Boy can I relate to this!!!!

"Then there’s the obvious problem with being a redhead and spending so much time in the sun. I may not have tanned but I sure did freckle! Not much could have been done about it though. SPF 15 didn’t even hit the shelves until I was in high school and lifeguarding. Yes, lifeguarding. I’m in my 30s now and I’ve already had one piece of skin cancer removed and several other pre-cancerous spots."

The Glen:



What's truly weird about her blog as I read through it, is that not only do we both have red hair and grew up at Pines Lake, but we're both shooting with Canon D series cameras, have migrated to Florida and ruined our skin. Things that make you go hummmmm.

Anyway, that is Katie, me and the 10TS a couple of years back. I dragged them down to the Glen since we were up that way. That's the brook and the rock face behind them. Sweet huh?

No wonder I love snooping the net.

Ferns are good . . .

The 9TS would be perfectly happy in a condominium. You know, where someone else is responsible for the maintenance and yard work. He made that abundantly clear years ago. I, on the other hand, wanted a house with two cats in the yard . . . or three as the case may be. To compromise, I mow. He edges. It's a good compromise. Gutters too, fall in my territory, so a couple of days ago with beautiful weather in the offing, I gathered my big leather 'man' gloves, the ladder and the hose and relieved the front gutters of their dead leaves, crawly animals and various and sundry other gunk. Then I ran out of gas. The back would have to wait a day or two.

Today being another glorious day, armed with my aforementioned gear, I hit the back gutters. I did remarkably well until I got to THE space. Let's back step for a moment. Our house is a bi-level, two story job with an extreme rise in roof elevation. Roofers take one look and go whoaaaaaa and run the other way. The painter, made sure he had a harness on before tackling the upper roof level. In the back of the house there is a spot where the gutter from the top roof (which has NEVER been cleaned), drains down to the lower roof over the patio. The problem is the pool cage also runs along that area for about four feet creating a spot that can only be cleaned by a sucker footed midget or a contortionist. That is where I stopped. I did shinny up into that notch just once. That was enough. As I skidded and slipped toward the cement below, my life flashing before my eyes, I promised the good Lord that if I survived, I would never again wedge my body up there. I always keep my promises and have been ever so grateful for the strength of the screening on the cage. Whew!

The 9TS will have to come up with some creative device to clean that section. There are ferns growing there. Nice ferns. Pretty ferns. Maybe we should leave them alone ferns. I'm just saying . . .

Meanwhile, I'm off to relieve myself of debris, spider webs and anything else I may have collected on my person during this mornings venture.

more fine feathered friends . . .

Credits: Paper: HRoselli, Swirl: Anna Aspn, Alpha: CRenee, Tag: Michelle Coleman, Font: CK Ali's_writing, Frames: Something Blue Studios.

ever want to just fly away . . .

Credits: Paper: Carrie Stephens, Ribbon, Staples and Stitches: Roben-Marie Smith, Heart: Taylor Made, Pin: Vinnie Pearce, Font: Amazon.

OZ revisited . . .

I am not a Florida native. Not that I wouldn't be proud to be one. Heck, I hail from Jersey. I know not to throw stones. I live on the coast and I love it. But sometimes, I forget that if you venture inland just a wee bit, the denizens of New York, Michigan and Toronto disappear and some real characters are sure to be in the offing. I entered their territory today. It was scary.

So there I am tooling along the interstate on my way home, watching the needle of my gas tank indicator sink lower and lower. Nope, I wasn't going to make it. Mile marker 311 and I am headed down the off ramp, having seen a friendly Mobil sign a mile or two back.

One short block and I had entered 1951. The ancient pumps were beyond my ken. I slowly looked around . . . something the 9TS is always on my case to do BEFORE I get out of the car and I, as usual, had paid him little heed. It was a two pump operation complete with a mechanic's bay . . . oh, and one large but seemingly indifferent hound. I headed into the ramshackled building. This was not Mayberry folks. Nothing warm and cheery going on here.

Inside, the proprietor was chatting with two of his cronies. I'm guessing from the amount of grease, they worked the bay. They both nodded and greeted me with a 'howdy Ma'am' and sauntered off. So now I'm left with Charles Manson meets Bubba and my knees started to knock. I explained that I couldn't figure out the pump and he grabs my credit card . . . does something with it and tells me now the pump will work. I asked for my card back and he says, "Not til you're done filling up." I don't like being parted from my card so I run like the dickens, get 12 bucks worth of gas and force myself back inside . . . hand out. He's looking at me and looking at my card and out of my mouth blurts . . . 'You must get a lot of pump and runs here to keep my card.' He nods behind me and says, "Lady, see that brick, wrapped in blue?" "I can haul that through a window and knock a person clear silly." "Nobody gets my gas without paying." "I'd a let you pump your gas right away if you'd pushed the right button but since you came waltzing in with your card, I was a going to keep it, to make sure" As his hand reached forward, my card in sight, I grabbed it faster than greased lightening, bolted for the car and left a little rubber in his lot. About 15 minutes down the road, my heart calmed down to a mere gallop and my white knuckles eased up on the wheel. Remind me to stay on the coast.

Scrapbook Alchemy Rocks . . .

so I have been taking these hybrid courses at JessicaSprague.com I love this design. I mean love it. Thanks, Jess. And, yep, that's my kidlet and I am so proud of her.


Credits: Design by Jessica Sprague, paper by Basic Grey, Wings by Katie Pertiet, Fonts: Georgia and Seeing Stars, Alpha by American Crafts.

Poor Wilbur . . . poor me!

Spring is officially here and it's time to be lounging with the morning paper and a cup of Suisse Mocha coffee, on the pool deck. Doesn't that sound just perfect? Ah, I can see myself now.

Just one small hiccup. A winter's worth of screen grime, furniture mold, tile grunge and spider infestation. YUCK. And I do mean YUCK. So this morning I put on a pair of nasty old shorts, ratty sneaks and an ancient T and started hosing down the deck . . . dodging spiders all the while. Once I got the top layer of crud off, I started in on the tubular furniture with bleach and Comet. Then the cushions got their 50/50 bleach water bath . . . . and the towel holder and the floating chair etc. etc. I started in on the spiders but got grossed out and retreated. Why you ask, do we have so many spiders? Because our back yard is woods . . . . as in overhanging trees. And the little monsters like to do acrobatics from the tree tops and create their lovely little geometric designed webs from the roof of our pool cage. Tomorrow, we will pick up four tubs of industrial chlorine and do the deck, and hose down the screens and finish eliminating Charlotte and her 20,000 some odd relatives.



And then I will be a most happy camper, swilling coffee or wine, depending on the time of day and once again happily ignoring the inside of my house calling . . . clean me . . . clean me!