while the 9TS . . .

sleeps, I play:

Credits:  Template: Tiffany Tillman, Stitched:  Anna Aspnes.

the skinny . . .

It seems the 9TS's guts are in an uproar and can't settle themselves down.  So, he is back on prednisone for the foreseeable future.  The problem with steroids is that long term usage comes with its own side effects . . .  nastier than those it is designed to cure.  So he is starting off on 60 mg a day and tapering to hopefully 10 mg a day and there he will stay, if indeed, 10 mg works.  If we have to raise the dosage, we   go to plan B. We are also repeating the Remicade.

Plan B puts my sloth back in the hospital for three days.  They will insert an IV and feed him intravenously.   When they are sure everything is going the way it is supposed to, the 9TS and his IV will be sent home to the cave.  A visiting nurse will come to rule the roost and he will be off solid food for three weeks while his bowels take a vacation . . .  cruise the Riviera, sip good French wine, and bake in the sun. 

Just as an aside, we stopped by the business office on our way out, to find out how our tab at this little establishment was doing.  We still have not received the bills from last summer.  Bottom line:  $760,000.00.   I think the Four Seasons have nicer rooms and better prices.  I'm just saying . . .

ugh . . .

two and a half weeks post prednisone and the 9TS slid down hill once again.  I called Moffitt this morning and we are headed back over tomorrow.  Sigh.  Cannot this man catch a break?  He is so tired of feeling sh . . badly.   my heart breaks for him. 

disaster #3 . . .

well, since they come in three's, we are good to go.  I just went to feed the beasties.  I opened the pop top of their cat food with my right hand, holding the can in my left.  The top came off and the entire contents hit the floor.  Pippin was pleased to be part of the clean up crew.   I am going back to bed.  With a bag of fritos and a diet pepsi . . .

oh, and photoshop:

Credits:  Template: Anna Aspnes, Font: LB_Typewriter, Foliage Stamp: Katie Pertiet, Quote Marks: CRenee.

 Joanie thought the acorns looked like olives shoved into caps.  Yep.

oops . . .

Yesterday, before heading for Carrabba's for dinner, I realized I hadn't finished myJen's present.

Let me back up.  One of my eccentric loves is organic coconut oil mixed with patchouli and slathered on my body.  Oooooo, it feels so good, soaks right in, smells delicious and takes away the world's woes.  I promise.  And since, myJen . . .   that's her name: MyJen: because, well, she is . . . loves patchouli too, I decided to make her some of my brew. 

I keep mine in a sealed apothecary jar.  Very unexciting.  It must have a lid.  Being organic, it becomes liquid when it is warm and solid when it is cold.  Go it?   Anyway, I needed something much better for myJen.  So, Joanie and I were on a twofold mission when he hit Renninger's the weekend before . . . find the proper container for myJen's potion.  And we did.  A lovely round glass fish, cut in half horizontally.  The lid being as large as the bottom.  Put together, the clear glass fish was perfect for a bathroom counter.  The bottom half had a scooped out section perfect for my goop.  I was delighted with my find.

Fast forward back to yesterday.  We were running late.  The 9TS, being two weeks off his prednisone was feeling not so well, but insisted we go to Carrabba's.  I had forgotten to load myJen's present.  Made a batch, poured it in the fish, stuck it in the fridge.  All was fine.  I ran upstairs to grab a good length of scotch tape to seal the fish for delivery.   I needed help.  The 9TS volunteered to hold him, while I wrapped the tape.  The fish jumped as fish are prone to do.  And crashed to the floor in 1000 pieces and a smear of patchouli and coconut oil.  Mess.  Horror.  Tears.  Sigh.

When myJen asked about the gloom, I told her the story.  One Ativan, two Crown Royals, a Polo Rosa Maria, two of myJen's Ritz crackers dipped in homemade fudge and all was right again with my world.

The 9TS wasn't quite as lucky.  All he could manage was a small bowl of their divine minestrone and a Momma Rosa mini dessert.  We think we see more prednisone in the future.

Harold and Timothy, the celebration . . .

Thanksgiving was quite perfect.  The usual suspects were gathered around the table which sagged, loaded with Timothy Turkey, Harold the Ham, mashed taters, sweet potato casserole, roasted brussel sprouts, roasted asparagus, relishes galore, hot crescent rolls and butter, stuffing, gravy . . . everything but cranberry sauce.  Who although invited, didn't quite make it:

and after dinner there came pumpkin pie, homemade hot apple crisp with vanilla ice cream and brownies with caramel swirled through the top.  Slurp.

Everyone rolled home stuffed to the gills and full of warm cheer while I waddled up to bed and collapsed.

Outtakes:  

Amen.

today . . .

the house will get cleaned

the sweet potato casserole will be made

the brownies will be made

the 9TS will battle the crowds for the last pumpkin pie

the apple crisp will be made today and baked tomorrow.  to be served bubbling hot with vanilla ice cream

the dips will be made

the deviled eggs will be made

and I will gain 10 pounds

*******************************************************************

yesterday, Joanie and I attempted our five mile walk.  out of the neighborhood and down the street, Mother Nature decided to spit.  another couple of blocks and she had a temper tantrum.  Joanie and I looked like contenders from the age 60+ category of a wet tee shirt contest.  drowned rats.  i pulled out my cell and woke up the 9TS to ask him to please close the windows.  Joanie and I sloshed our way home.  it was a very good day for a duck.

*******************************************************************

today I will be humming We Gather Together.  give it a try.

err runs . . .

Macy's to pay a bill and see if I can't spend some more.

Honey Baked Ham to pick up Harold.  And stuffing myself with samples of Red Velvet cake.

Elements of Design for a present for my SIL and discover it's a winter wonderland in there.

The library to prove I really exist and get a new card.

Pet store for cat sustenance.  Anti hairball so I can stop cleaning the rug.

Grocery store for Thanksgiving grub.  And wine.

Learning that I can't vacuum the backside of the carpet without it being eaten by my Animal.

Timothy and Harold . . .

while I was home playing with Photoshop, the 9TS was out chasing Thanksgiving dinner.  I had asked him to stop by Publix on the way home from the gym and pick up a 16 - 18 pound bird.  He called sometime later with panic in his voice.  Both nearby stores were out of the size I wanted, but he had some nice man scouring the freezer for a tom for our table.  Finally he tells me they found him a 14 almost 15 pound bird:  SOLD AMERICAN!  Timothy is now resting comfortably in the fridge thawing, in time to share the spotlight with Harold the Ham. 

Wondering why I havn't been doing updates on my sloth lately?  Because he is doing so well.  Great news huh?  He's still on good drugs but headed in the right direction.  We're hoping to have more goodness to share after his appointment at Moffitt next month.  Fingers perpetually crossed.

Oh and since I was playing, I'm going to share.  This is from this weeks challenge at JessicaSprague.com.  It is a template challenge sponsored by LivE Designs.  Love Liv's templates.

Credits:  Template:  LivE Designs, Stitching and water droplets: Anna Aspnes, Starfish: Katie Pertiet.

over hill, over dale, we will hit the dusty trail . . .

yep, Joanie and I faced the battle of the flea market.  Renninger's Antique Extravaganza to be exact, held three weekends a year in Mt. Dora, Florida.  Here's an overview, stolen from their site:

Acres and acres of someone else's treasures.   We parked in the hinter land and trucked on down to aisle 5.  Least you think that means we remembered where we parked, not really.  We would have been wise to leave a trail of crumbs but I am getting a head of myself.

Normally, I drag my camera, but I decided to carry light.  I had a mission in mind.  I needed a very specific Christmas present for Leeza and a something something, for my Jen.  I had told Joanie, without rain, it would be a little dusty in Mt. Dora.  Dress down.  So off we went in jeans and T's.  Joanie in sneaks and me in flip flops, yes folks, this is Florida, it was in the low 80's.  About three trees and an elephant sneeze away, and we were just like Pig Pen with a dust cloud following our every move.

Once down in the valley, we wandered from table to table looking for goodies and geegaws.  We spied metal goats, 1950's broaches, clock parts, stuffed chairs, French linens, sugar molds, fishing balls, trains and Victrolas.  And Yorkies of all sizes, carried in the arms of their beloveds.  One woman pushed a pram with not one but three tiny Yorkies.  I think there was a sale on them in some remote corner of the park, everyone seemed to have one but us.

We successfully found the gentleman for whom I was searching, for Leeza's surprise.  Score one.  Jen's something something was a little more difficult but was finally found.  Score two.  And then we got hungry.  Thirsty too.  And hit food row.  Joanie settled on a sweet little vegetarian gyro while I lusted after an all American hot dog.  Loaded. 

Again, we hit the trail, up one lane, down another, around this corner, under that tree.  We wandered and poked.  We pillaged.  Finally, exhausted, we left the valley and headed up to the flea market itself.  More wandering and picking, more prodding and pilfering. 

And down to the very last, I decided I needed the afore mentioned metal goat.  Dealer number two wanted fifteen dollars more than dealer number one.  Dealer number three was out of the small size I coveted.  We wandered back in search of dealer one but he was lost.  Lost in the rows and rows of flibbertigibbets.  Lost in our memories.  Hansel and Gretel could have done no better.  Ruefully, we headed home goat-less.  Served me right for not gathering him in my arms when I first fell in love.

And so we headed home where I immediately dumped six pound of dust from my feet down the tub drain and back to the earth from whence it had come.   It was a good day away from the cave.

Slurp . . .

I knew I was in for culinary delights this week when not one, but two, fresh basil plants hopped in my shopping cart.  The first was used Tuesday night in a wonderful Caprese salad with fresh off the floor mozzarella, thinly sliced basil, and ripe tomatoes, drizzled with a little olive oil and a sprinkle of balsamic vinegar.  And, I do mean fresh off the floor.  The container of fresh mozzarella balls was apparently practicing its full gainer with a half twist when I opened the refrigerator door.  Splat!  Of course the lid popped open, the inner seal forgot its purpose and rotund blobs of mozzarella took off, while their slightly slimy preservation liquid spread like a tsunami across my kitchen floor.  I claimed the three second rule and corralled those critters tout de suite.  Don't tell.

Tonight saw the demise of a perfectly beautiful aubergine.  However, my little eggplants, the 9TS and I are diametrically opposed when it comes to its consumption.  While we both start out browning the egg and breadcrumbed little disks in hot olive oil, his continue on to be stacked in double layers of marinara sauce and shredded mozzarella . . . popped in the oven for ten minutes and served with a bowl of steaming ziti!  Mine however get lightly dusted with kosher salt and are served with a side smear of herbed goat cheese and a ramekin of chiffonade basil drizzled with olive oil and red pepper flakes.  I ate it all!  And the 9TS ate the majority of his.  YAY Sloth!!!

Sunday night, we will be dining on a baked ziti and sausage casserole liberally imbedded with fresh basil and ricotta.  Slurp!

OK, so maybe you are more in tune with Kidlet's taste buds.  Most anything dipped in chocolate or brown gravy will light her fire.  Although even those two fail when it comes to eggplant, brussel sprouts or escargot.  If that's the case, while I slurp, you can crawl in the corner with a jar of Nutella.  I won't tell.

finally . . .

When Bear and Ninja first arrived, we had sheers on the window that ran along the side of the front door.  It didn't take the little devils long to figure out that they could wiggle their respective noses around, and nudge the curtains far enough to one side to peek out at the world.  And peek they did.  About a month later, I realized that they had also discovered . . . these curtains . . . which came with the house, were rotted from sun and age and they could stand up on their hind feet and rip through the weakened fabric.  Off with the curtains and a quick trip to Joann's.

That was four years ago.  The bag full of fabric sat around for four long years.  Today, I finally hauled it out, made a template from roofers paper and made the replacements.  Never, EVER, will I do that again.  Its been too long since I horsed around with sheers.  They slip and slide, they don't cut evenly.  They are just plain miserable. Or, maybe, I am just plain miserable.  I'm betting on the latter.  Grumble, grumble, grumble.

Anyway, they are up.  And what is the very first thing that happens?  A little nose tries to nudge them out of the way so she can peek at the world at large.  I wonder how long these will last.

God bless Pippin!

Sergeant Preston . . .

OK, along with his sneaker fetish, the 9TS likes hats.  All kinds.  He leans mostly toward brimmed hats with the brim worn in the back.  But all types of chapeaus are welcome in his collection.  Did I mention the hat that followed him home from the Caribbean . . . the one sporting attached dread locks?  I thought not.

But yesterday, he was running low on T's so we made a pilgrimage to Old Navy.  Since my body and the Old Navy prototype are polar opposites, I cruised around the men's department searching for goodies for the sloth.  I hit the big Kahuna.  At first look, he thought I had lost my mind and walked away, but I had planted the seed.   He wandered back and tried it on.  Perfecto.  With no more arm twisting, it made it to the checkout counter and I was regaled with stories of how he used to wear one back home in the Jersey winters, as a fledgling cop.

I now present Klondike Sloth.  King of the Yukon!!

In other news, I made a big ol' tender pot roast last night with taters, onions and carrots.  There wasn't a lot left over.  Slurp.  But I did siphon off the last bits of goodness and stash them in the fridge.  When I offered the tasty orts to Kidlet, she turned me down, "My refrigerator is a dead zone," said she.  "It's like a cemetery for  food."  And then I remembered being of the age where things grew fur in the depths of my refrigerator.  I will eat it for lunch tomorrow instead.

And last but not least, I was fiddling with Photoshop again yesterday afternoon and dug up some shots to match a flamingo Katie Pertiet was offering amongst her new weekly goodies.

Credits:  Template, Flamingo Blendable, Stitching:  Katie Pertiet, Paper: Lynn Grieveson, Dots:  Anna Aspnes, Date Stamp:  Dawn Inskip, Beads: Vinnie Pearce, Fonts:  Eccentric STD and Honey Script.

Other than that, it was quiet in the cave.  Just as it should be.

the heck you say . . .

Yes, we did it.  we got our hair cut. i say we, because Joanie valiantly held my hand.  OFF with my head . . . my rationale is that hair grows and you only live once.  and since my hair grows really fast . . . what the heck.

what the heck I said, as I sat in the chair.  what the heck I said, as she approached me with the razor.  what the heck, when pounds of hair fell to the floor and my cheek bones appeared for the first time in 20 years. 

Who the heck did the 9TS bring to Carrabba's said Jen, Christina, Matt and Hope.  Who the heck indeed.  And after dinner, we headed to the mall . . . the 9TS was happy to be out and about.  He wandered off in search of sneakers . . . he has a fetish.  don't tell.  I, to the nearest makeup counter.  if I don't have hair, I at least need BIG eyes.  right?

Are you expecting pictures?  Wrong. 

This morning, I woke up and ran to the bathroom mirror.  My worst nightmare had come true.  Looking back at me was Alfalfa on steroids.  Hair to the right of me, hair to the left.  Hair sticking straight up to the moon:

I clutched my stomach and asked myself what had I done and ran back under the covers. 

A little while later after pawing at my hair like a mad woman, I looked again.  All was right with the world.  It sat back down like a well trained dog.  And yes, I love my new hair.  And, as soon as someone wakes up, I will share a shot or two.  YAY!!!

minutia . . .

not much going on in the cave these days.  the 9TS goes up and down, feeling good half the day and not so good the rest.  sigh.  as for the rest, just trivia.

the locksmith is coming tomorrow to replace the front door lock which died after 23 years.  may it rest in peace.

tomorrow at 9:30, Joanie and I are going to get my hair chopped.  off.  short.

the fabric I bought for my flannel jammie dress bled.  no more white squares.  sigh.  and yes, I am too lazy to return the fabric.

Robin, your pocketbook is finally finished!!!

Received a wonderful thanksgiving card from Sue!!  thanks so much.

4.79

p.s. i am so thankful for all of you.

p.p.s.   Kidlet, you rock.

facebook finding . . .

last night was not the best in the cave.  Kidlet was waiting for her mid term exam grade to be posted.  She had studied long and hard for her advanced calculus test.  There was a lot riding on it.  When results finally came in, she was devastated.  Many tears.  

This morning I left for our walk before either Kidlet or the 9TS were up and about.  When I got home, he mentioned he had had a chat with Kidlet.

This is what I found on Kidlet's facebook:

My dad's a freaking beast.  I came home in tears one day in 8th grade, upset because I'd gotten my first and only B that year (in math of all things). Even though I wasn't supposed to get any money because I hadn't gotten straight A's, my dad gave me $20 and the second best statement ever - "I'm proud of you" (the first best being "I love you").  Guess who just came upstairs and gave me $20 following that disaster of an advanced calc test?  My dad, with the second best statement ever.  My dad's a beast, and he's proud of me.  That means more than any GPA ever could.

She has since met with her instructor and is on track for completing the course satisfactorily.  I'm not sure which of two I am more proud of.

4.71

the art show . . .

the first weekend in November you can always find us at the art show.  always.  especially considering it was downright chilly and spitting from the heavens.  but it wasn't anything some curly fries and a sausage/onion/pepper hoagie couldn't cure:

I'm sad to say, the art was pretty much the same old, same old, except for the man who drew with dirt and only dirt:

good thing he liked all things brown on brown.

And then there was the wood carver.  A man after my own heart.  You can see why here:

 and again with Hired On:

 and Pressure:

This guy just cracked me up.  The end.

things that go bump in the night . . .

I was chatting with Joanie this morning and for whatever reason, our conversation drifted around to little children and their antics: good and bad.  I had to confess the two instances whereupon I probably scarred two little boys for life.  I did.  On purpose.  Although neither, I admit, were my shining moments.

Episode One:  Kidlet, age three/four was afraid of the dark.  One of the little boys in daycare delighted in nothing better than shoving her in the outdoor bathroom, turning off the light, slamming said door closed and leaning against it to prevent my now hysterically crying child from escaping.  Grrrr.  This went on for several days in a row, as reported by a very tearful and hiccuping Kidlet, when I picked her up.  A couple of days later, I was running a little early and the whole gang was out back playing.  No Kidlet in sight but I could hear her screams.  The little monster child had done it again.  I released my child, bent down to the culprit, picked him up under his little armpits, looked him straight in the eye and told him if he ever locked Kidlet in the dark again, I was going to send the boogie man over to his house to gobble him up in the middle of the night.  I never raised my voice and calmly set him down.  He never bothered Kidlet again. 

The star of the Episode Two, was Biter Boy.  This kid, age 3 ish, was a nondenominational biter.  He bit every kid in sight.  After he bit Kidlet the first time, I went in and complained to the head of the school.  The second time I told her I was not paying all that money to have my child munched on.  Fix it.  The third time, I cornered Biter Boy, knelt down to his level and told him calmly that if he ever bit Kidlet again, his teeth were going to turn black, fall out and he would never be able to eat again.  Kidlet was immediately taken off on his menu. 

When I think back on it, I probably could have handled things a bit more diplomatically but we're talking about my Kidlet and there isn't too much I wouldn't do to protect her.  However I do apologize if either lad now spends hours on a couch paying some therapist for inordinate stress relative to boogie men and rotting teeth.

4.71

MMEL . . .

just in case you were wondering about my status, I must confess, I have been dyslexic lately and have been 'moving less and eating more'.   Thankfully, I only gained one miserable pound.  My walking partner went on a 12 day vacation and I got freaked about walking in the woodsies by myself and punked out for 10 of those 12 days.  But for the record:

Thursday: 4.71
Friday: 5.00  miles.

We are back on track, said she wiping the last crumb of tuna, pickle and potato chip sandwich from her upper lip.  Slurp!

soccer 101 . . .

yesterday was our granddaughter's first junior varsity soccer game.  I'm telling you, this kid is fearless.  So we joined her mom, other grandmother and aunt and cheered from the sidelines.  I think I need to mention that none of us know one iota about soccer.  I think we need a crash course . . .

 Credits: template, stitching: Anna Aspnes, Paper: MMareda.

so there I was . . .

sitting at lunch with my buds, munching on a yummy little chicken Caesar salad wrap, relaxing after one too many Locust, Bow and Cobra poses, when this little chickie walks in with this really cute hair cut.

She wandered through and sat outside in the garden.  After staring out the window, drooling over her hair, I did what anyone would do, I grabbed my cell phone, put it on photo and waltzed out and asked if I could take some shots of her head.

Turns out, she is a hair designer and cuts her own hair.  Slurp.  I think I may have to go by her salon and have a chat . . . my bangs would need to grow out a tad. 

Not that I wanted to make her a swirly face but since I don't know her, I didn't know if she'd want to be plastered all over the net.  Trust me, she is cute as a button.

I'm thinking it would be a good alternative to this:

 What do you think?