on being backwards . . .

When I had just turned fourteen, we had our first high school dance. A dance in an all girls country day and boarding school, I hear you ask? Yes, complete with decorated gym. And since I didn't know anyone, my roommate, whose mother had friends in the area, arranged for a blind date. He was a nice boy.

I don't really remember the dance or what I wore, it was the after party I remember. We were transported via the pregnant pumpkin . . . our name for the plump little sawed off yellow school bus used to move the boarders en masse when needed. The after party was held in the basement of a huge old homestead. My eyes went wild when I realized it was one big make-out fest. Should I mention at this point, how sheltered I was . . . or that boys were my best friends and playmates . . . not someone I wanted to be glued to . . . mouth to mouth, in someones darkened playroom. And to make matters worse, we were late and seating was at a premium. I was forced to sit on his lap. Not a parent in sight. Could I please just be swallowed by the earth now!!! And so he and I kissed. The earth still did not move.

Later back at the dorm, we were rehashing our evening. No one else it seems was the least freaked out . . . except me. And then my roommate mentioned that it was indeed possible to get pregnant with your clothes on - her brother having impregnated his girl friend while using a pair of undies for contraception. And so my brain started to reel. I had after all, sat on his lap . . . with our clothes firmly attached, but still. Huge tears rolled down my face. I was 14 and pregnant in 1963. Life was at an end. My friends all looked at me in such sorrow, not a one being any better informed about the birds and the bees. Apparently I began to sob because a housemother arrived and then the headmistress. She being the kindly soul that she was, managed to put two and two together and assure me that I was indeed not pregnant and that life could go on, but not before the housemother had called my father . . . In retrospect, I wonder how hard he chuckled.

consumption . . .

Katie has been home the last couple of days. So nice.

I can't help but notice the inhalation of edibles. Banana's had to be restocked. Strawberries put under lock and key until dessert. Naked grape stems left in an empty bowl, tucked nicely back into the fridge. Lest you think my little muncher is health conscious, let me put your mind to rest. Massive amounts of mini bagels covered in Nutella were consumed on the sofa. Hum!

Come to think of it, there have been various food idiosyncrasies over the years:

*her fascination with pureed sweet potatoes. Nothing else would do. Anything new? Bleck. The first two years of her life, everything was mixed with strained S.P's. Now of course, they are among the untouchables. Sigh.

*chicken. Any shape, any form, the bird is the word. Except for a brief interlude after she found me . . . hand well inside a raw carcass . . . cleaning out a roaster. After declaring her rabid disgust she quickly removed herself from the kitchen never to return. While Chicken Little reigned supreme, we all know that Elsie, Wilbur and Nemo tend to create a more balanced diet. Unfortunately a little subterfuge was needed, enter:

*gravy. Slurp! When I make brown gravy, I make it by the quart. Chicken, turkey, roast beef . . . into the freezer it goes. Why? Because given enough gravy, it disguises all matter of edibles my kidlet would otherwise snub. Gravy is a food group unto itself.

*We won't mention her early proclivity for Teddy Grahams, fruit roll ups or anything strawberry flavored. Or the fact that she ate largely, every third day . . . thereupon dubbed: hungry days. Her pediatrician repeatedly assured me all was well.

*bacon and eggs. Consumed in high school by the half dozen and half pound. Literally. In one sitting no less. Note: bacon need be dipped in maple syrup.

*Chicken-that-smells-good-when-it-is-cooking. A clear favorite.

*Fried calamari. An early love. Until, that is, someone spilled the beans about them not being fried onion rings as earlier considered. That brought a brief hiatus in consumption.

Other fancies have come and gone but I do have visions of a lovely little, wrinkled faced creature, somewhere in her 80's happily dipping her bacon and chicken and smacking her lips . . . eyes lit with pure enjoyment . . .

nancy's flowers . . .

This morning, I noticed that my neighbor had an explosion of white in her front yard. A gorgeous burst of brightness.

This:



and this:



Wowsers!!!

overindulgence . . .

it was a long slow weekend in the cave . . . we happily ate our way through it. Friday lunch we decided to try a new local restaurant . . . the building was awesome: glass, metal, blackness, very slick . . . you just knew there was no pot roast in this venue. We passed the lounge into the main dining room and spied set ups for two, twenty + parties. Hummm. When the host announced we would be sharing a menu since they were running low, our heads came up. Not that we mind sharing anything but a quick check told us the wait staff was running low too. We opted to retry another day and hightailed it out of there.

We ended up at an old favorite . . . the 9TS being on a mission to conquer a rather large burger. Oh, and they, being ensconced in a woodsy, stone ambiance, do offer pot roast. Did I order it? Heck no. I'm not even sure where the pot roast thought came from. @@. But I did order my most favorite salad while the 9TS gnawed his way through his beef allotment for the next three years. Grilled chicken, artichoke hearts, hard boiled egg, bacon, and tomatoes . . . might even have been healthy had I not smothered the whole blessed thing with bleu cheese dressing and cracked pepper.

Friday dinner. Carrabba's of course. Feeling guilty, the 9TS noshed on potato encrusted sea bass while I toyed with salad Caprese with a side of pesto sauce. I literally watched my thighs explode. I guess I don't understand the concept of guilt!!

Saturday lunch? The 9TS was on a meat binge . . . he being down some 14 pounds . . . most of which never left the cave but instead slithered my direction . . . and so we stuffed ourselves with BBQ. Lip smacking, bone sucking goodness. Slurp.

Saturday night was marinated grilled chicken, pasta salad and baked acorn squash. Sunday, the 9TS wanted stuffed green peppers.

Now you know why I am gaining weight instead of losing it. Saturated sating. Monster munching. Overindulgence. Sigh.

a quiet afternoon . . .

To stave off boredom, the 9TS decided to go fishing.



And, of course, I couldn't let him go by himself . . . not that I fish, because I don't. GAH! No fishing for this kid.



But I could, and did, walk the bridge. Insert note to self: Self, don't walk the bridge in flip flops, even if they are old and most comfy, for surely a large blister will ensue. And I could and did, bring my trusty camera and a crossword puzzle or 50. Color me happy.

The 9TS, on the other hand, was not so thrilled. Someone kept nibbling on his shrimp but would not bite. He spent the afternoon feeding the fish.

And then the thief arrived.



Brash little thief. Shrimp loving little thief. It was a hit and run.



Again and again. And when we called it a day and left the remainder of the shrimp up for grabs, he quickly called his relatives and the feast began in earnest. Chow for all. Come one, come all, let the bacchanalia begin!!!!

Did we mind the lack of fish or the blister? Not one iota . . .

He's backkkkkkkk . . .

The other day, to say it rained would be an understatement. It poured buckets. Four inches total. All of the outside beasties took shelter except for the frogs who were already in their safe place . . . or so they thought. As their homes flooded and they frantically placed calls to FEMA, 911 and the Red Cross . . . they fled to higher ground. Much higher ground it seems, because this is what the 9TS dragged me downstairs to see:



Now looks can be deceiving and this little guy ain't so little. He's about the size of my hand. And if you are a faithful and fastidious reader, you will remember, I auditioned for the part of the man-hand object of Seinfeld's derision . . . He was HUGE!!!

Lighting being miserable at night, I scampered outside, dodging his relatives populating the driveway and took another shot.



Am I bound to all eternity to be plagued by this guy and his per stirpes? I pray not!

i'm just saying . . .

the reason we have cell phones is so we can call our husbands, inside the house, from midway up the driveway to come remove the snake that just slithered into the garage about where we put our feet down when we get out of the car.

tag, you're it!!!!

and since I am a pack rat, that's all I have been doing for the last three days . . . tag, tag, tag. Don't understand? Then chances are you are not a digital scrapper. More specifically, not a digital scrapper who just changed platforms. All of the elements of a digital kit have to be organized so they can be easily found at the touch of a button. Want a red button by a specific designer? One tap: a gazillion buttons, two taps, a very specific red button. Life is easy. After literally years of collecting kits and elements while using a PC, everything was highly organized in a program called ACDSee. Literally thousands of sheets of paper and elements of every description. And then, I went Mac. And ACDSee doesn't make a Mac friendly product. Which means Picasa, here I come. And while Picasa is a free program from the makers of Goggle, there still remains all those poor little bytes of goodness that need homes . . . well organized and efficient homes.

If you are a bead worker, think someone tipping over all your cases of beads as you watch in horror as they intermingle on the floor.

Sewing? A nightmare of spools escaping down the stairs, under chairs, hiding with the dust bunnies under the couch.

The old woman who lived in a shoe? Can you imagine retagging all those 9,752 pairs of socks.

It's a good thing I never tried to be an assembly worker. I would have been bored to death within days . . . well unless I was in line next to Lucy and Ethel gobbling up candy. That might have been interesting.

So, if you happened to be wondering why no posts lately, that's the reason. Wanna come play tag with me????

There is something obscene . . .

about the deliciousness of the food at Carrabba's:

A nice glass of cab with some shredded cheese. Is there really a better combination?

The melt in your mouth Caesar Salad . . .

Fried calamari with gravy. Sigh.

The wonderful lemony/mushroom-y/buttery sauce of the Polo Rosa Maria.

The stolen bites of their new veggie lasagna. Swoon.

And waiting in the fridge: the coconut, walnut, chocolate mousse/brownie mini dessert.

I am in heaven and don't give a fig about the calorie count of tonight's dinner. So there!!!

I started out taking shots of truck drivers in their rigs, but they didn't seem to take kindly to it and were much bigger than us, so I kept myself occupied running through "O" town during 5:00 traffic. Gotta love the spirit that town has for its team. Banners everywhere you look.


Credits: Anna Aspnes: Foto Blenz

see this nice man . . .

the one in green, parked along side the silver corvette on the interstate . . . Yeah that guy. He's a trooper. Couldn't you just guess? And he wasn't stopping for a spot of tea. Nope. He clocked someone doing 83 in a 55. Should I leave you hanging? Was it me . . . the notorious lead foot? Or was it the 9TS who is an undying advocate of a mere 5 miles over the speed limit?

Conversation:

Trooper: License and registration!

Me: You scared me, tapping on my window!

Trooper: You knew I was there:

Me: Yeah but I thought you stood by the drivers window.

Trooper: Not on the interstate ma'am. (Boy, I hate being called Ma'am, especially since my bare feet are still on the dashboard where they had been comfortably stashed.)

Trooper: License and registration!

9TS: I have a gun in the car. (Since the trooper was about to see it in the glove box anyway.)

Trooper: GET OUT OF THE CAR!!!

9TS: I just thought you should know.

Trooper: GET OUT OF THE CAR NOW!!!! (the 9TS knows that tone and scrambles out and over to the officer.)

Me: Psst! He's a retired cop.

Trooper to 9TS: Is that true?

Insert ongoing conversation between 9TS and nice man. OK, Chief, don't let it happen again. And at this point, we should be back in the car headed on our way. But no.

Me: Could I take your picture please.

Trooper: Why?

Me: Because we drive to Moffitt a lot and I get bored and take pictures of things along the way. Today I've been taking shots of truck drivers. (All this while said camera is hanging around my neck.)

Trooper: OK, but it's not going to land on MySpace or something.

Me: Only my blog that hardly anybody reads . . . .

off again to tampa . . .

to see if the 9TS qualifies for a melanoma vaccine trial. Fingers crossed please.

EDIT: He did!!!! He has the right antigens and will start in June or August. Hooray!!!! Thanks, Kel.

the gubby . . .

Credits: Brushes - BSilvia, Obsidian Dawn

waves . . .

You know that little pain that hits behind your eyes just before you start to cry even though you don't want to? How your nose turns pink before the first tear has left your eyes. How the exhaustion hits in waves and sends you to shore into the hands of the kindness of friends and acquaintances alike?

Yesterday, Nancy brought over the bread loaf and when I felt the warmth in my hands, the bread being still hot, the feeling came.

When the mail brought notice that Joanie had honored Snoopy with a donation to the Humane Society, it hit again.

When your daughter leaves her normally tornado hit room in perfect order . . .

And this morning when both the referrals specialist at Moffitt and from our local insurance company called to assure me this next visit was handled and covered from both ends. Whoosh.

And when your husband, who is sick and tired of being sick and tired, starts unbidden to rub your feet because he knows exactly how good it makes you feel . . . another wave.

Now I am way past the point of being hormonal so I am just going to chalk it up to being surrounded by the very best of friends, family and extended family. I love you all.

mother's day . . .

Katie came home and I got to snap some shots!!! Happy Mother's Day to me!!!!


Credits: Foto Blenz - Anna Aspnes, Paper and elements - Amanda Taylor

And, my next door neighbor delivered a hot out of the oven bread loaf. I can feel my hips widening inch by inch but it is so stinking good, I don't even care. Thanks, Nancy. Yummo!!!!!

yoga on the pool deck . . .

I had absolutely no excuse this morning. I couldn't even fabricate one. The weather is drop dead gorgeous early in the a.m., before the heat settles in . . . one of our yoga yaya's lent me some perfect CD's . . . and so I trudged out to the pool deck, music seeping from my laptop as I centered myself on a pool pad.

I have to say, with the warm breezes, the gurgling water, the birds trilling in the background, I think I found nirvana. Om. Om. Om. I did about half an hour until I was rudely interrupted by the 9TS bearing my cell phone with a message from Katie saying she was on her way home: that being the case, he gets special dispensation and all is forgiven. Back to settling in, but the mood was broken and so I headed into Savasana. I might still be there, totally relaxed and laying in the sun watching my breathing but for the call of nature . . . . no, not that!!!! One wily neighborhood cat decided at that particular moment to declare ownership, at full volume, of his ounce of territory . . . . or perhaps he doesn't care for yoga . . . who knows.

But yoga on the pool deck is a good thing . . . . a major do-again . . . as soon as I have a chat with the 9TS, the mangy cat, the chattering squirrel and whomever else apparently has no conception of yoga etiquette. Harrumph!! Snort!!

Blenz . . .

I bought a Foto Blenz Template kit by Anna Aspnes, in anticipation of our getaway next month. Still being a little left brain - right brained about Mac, I decided to go for a test run. Very run of the mill layout, but I can see I am going to love these templates and they will ensure my photos make it into an album. Soooo excited.

David and Goliath . . .

Ever since Bear out sized Snoop, which was probably at the end of his fifth month . . . Bear being Maine Coon and Snoop being a rather small Siamese/alley cat . . . Bear sought to make Snoop his personal toy. He would bathe him, pounce on him, steal his food, sit on him, nudge him out of the way, use him as a pillow, follow him into his hidey holes and just generally make a pest of himself.

Which is not to say that small is not sassy. Snoop would take just so much and then POW!!! the boxing match was on. Fast footed Snoop always got in more punches and jabs than the slower, lumbering Bear. One final swat and he'd head for higher ground leaving a somewhat disgruntled and dazed Bear in his wake.

There were times, especially in winter when I would find them sacked out, Snoop in the curve of Bear's "Baby Huey" body but more often than not, chaos reigned . . . especially at 4:00 a.m.

But now that Snoop has departed, Bear has gone into mourning for his little buddy. He searches Katie's room for him, wanders around listlessly and hides under my bed for hours at a time.

I wonder if Snoop knows how much Goliath misses him. I like to think he does.

finally . . .

some relief. The poor 9TS has been in never ending pain since his last operation. Finally the other night it culminated as he asked me to look at one of the incisions. I will save you the details, but it seems the poor sad sloth had been growing his very own abscess. A very well fed, well attended abscess. I called Moffitt and they said, do not pass go, head straight to our local PCP, who promptly lanced it, cultured it and ordered elephant sized antibiotics for a relatively medium sized sloth. Today he felt remarkably better. Yay Sloth!!!! Life is good again.

Rest in Peace . . .

My sweet blue eyed Snoop.

it is time . . .

to run away again. To celebrate what is, instead of what might be. We are packing our bags next month and leaving for parts unknown, charting a course o'er the deep blue sea . . . It is once again time to soak up some far off ambiance, relax, nosh and find ourselves again . . . redefining what is.

I cannot wait. We need this jaunt. This exploration into unfamiliar territory. This chance to reconnect and unwind . . . to explore that which will create memories of a life time.

more loveliness . . .

from the Farmer's Market . . .

sigh . . .

I am going to miss the soft breezes wafting though my bedroom every morning . . . the sounds of various feathered friends waking up and singing their sweet songs . . . the smell of wet grass . . . the cats each perched on a sill, noses to the screens, watching a world so different from their own . . .

But alas, this is Florida and summer is here.



It's not the heat . . . I love the deep penetrating warmth on my old bones. It is of course, the humidity . . . air so thick you wonder if you can breathe . . . that miasma which sucks the starch out of clothes and people alike. A permeable dampness that invades the soul.

And so, today, we will shutter the windows and turn on the air conditioner and sleep at night within the habitat of our own making. We will bathe in the cool air and enjoy all that is this small southern town.

Until next fall, sweet air, I bid you adieu . . .