jumping up and down and waving . . .

Les, if you or Ruth are reading this, I just got a new "Melanoma Matters' mailing from Moffitt with a listing of all the active cutaneous oncology clinical trials as well as pending protocols, in the mail.  I'm sure Dr. Weber has kept you up to date but if you want it, I can send it up.  Let me know:  hawky87@aol.com

jeanne

early morning prep . . .

home from the grocery store and chopping and cutting.  decided to get all the tedious stuff done before the world wakes up and my nose falls into a book or is glued to the Olympics.

first was this weeks supply of mediterranean salad:

followed by the topping for grilled french bread lightly smeared with olive oil:

not sure why i can't take a decent picture lately but my tummy doesn't care.

Kudos for the hometown boy:  Ryan Lochte!!!!  He graduated the year before Kidlet started high school.  and how can you resist the grin?!?!?!

and while i am at it.  could you please take a minute and click on this link and vote for Carlie?  please, please, please and thank you.  Carlie has had a really long road to haul but life is getting better.

it's a beauteous day here in florida.  wherever you are, enjoy the day.  don't forget the sun screen!!

brrrrr . . . citis . . .

my right shoulder has been barking since driving back and forth from Tampa . . . mostly i thought because i had this wee tendency to grab the wheel in a death grip and hold on tight for the four plus hour round trip. 

doing laps apparently hasn't helped the situation and i finally broke down and made an appointment with an orthopedist.  bursitis!

i shouldn't be surprised.  last time it flared up was in 2003 and not knowing what it was, i waited until my shoulder froze.  at least this old dog only waited seven months this time.

i am happily shot up with cortisone and one of the 'caines.  my ice pack and i are having a love affair of grand proportions and tomorrow i start exercising the little devil.  things are looking good.  and, the sweet man gave me exercises for my hip that is not so happy walking five miles when asked politely.  a good day indeed.

and another . . .

Credits:  Paper:  Sugarboo Designs, Staple:  Roben-Marie Smith, Word Art:  Vera Lim.

a change from watercolors . . .

explosions aren't exactly conducive to water colors so I went back to straight digi scrapping for this one:

Credits:  Frames:  Katie Pertiet, Staples:  Lynn Grieveson, Stitches: Anna Aspnes.

I am still in awe that it only took seven seconds to take down the old hospital.  Amazing!!!

EDIT:   Ha ha ha ha.   I just realized that when I flipped the frame for number two, I flipped the photo too.  Yup, that just about sums up my life . . .

kaboom . . . .

it takes something special for me to drag my body out of my nice comfy bed at 6:00 a.m., but i figured this was worth it.  i threw on some jeans and a tee, brushed my teeth and hopped into the jelly bean, heading for MickyD's parking lot.

the streets were already being blocked off, folks were lining up, the news crews were on the ground and in the air.  i was early enough to score a really great spot.  such a small burg: i saw my next door neighbors . . . the good ones . . .  and Kidlet's friend's mom and several other homies. 

as the clock ticked down, all camera's and cell phones went up in the air.  a cop drove down the now empty highway, holding up one finger indicating we were one minute from implosion.

Implosion, you ask?  several years ago, our small town hospital was replaced by a new high tech facility at a different location.  not that we didn't need it but it was kind of sad to say goodbye to the place where Kidlet's elbow was put back together, my dad was treated for multiple myeloma and i fought diverticulitis. 

at the stroke of 7:30, nineteen explosions detonated in sequence and for a second there was nothing and then:

 sometime later . . .

 the walk back to my car.

so worth getting out of bed for.  YAY!!

love these photos . . .

look at this adorable little street urchin!

chic(k) at the beach . . .

My brother-in-law brought over three old magnetic photo albums his mother assembled during her life time.  My scanner and I went to town and now I have a ton of shots of the 9TS as a child.  YAY!!!

Here is the first one I played with:

Alright, I may be prejudice but is he not a cutie!!!  That bathing suit just cracks me up.  Vintage 1947.

patience . . .

this was the last shot i took of my sloth . . . five days before he left the cave for the last time.  it was taken at Moffitt.  i love his beard and his signature tilted cap.  crap, i loved every damned thing about him.

we lived under the shadow of melanoma for seven long years . . . knowing but not.  we balanced a life of scans, tests, blood draws, and trials all the while checking off tics on our bucket list.  we walked the coastal towns of France, noshed our way through Italy, sailed through the Greek isles.  we waved to Prince Albert in Monaco, tromped through the woods of the Amalfi Coast, splashed in St. Barts, river rafted in Dominica, zip lined in St. Lucia.  we booked a trip to Australia and New Zealand but sadly ran out of time.  we laughed and loved and lived an extraordinary life. 

and now, i don't know how to get back to the person i was before Mel and Anoma came to visit.  i miss my best friend.  i miss his spark. i miss my spark.  i know it will come back.  i just have to be patient.

waffling . . .

what an indecisive creature man is.  aren't you glad i lumped you all in here with me.  hi, my name is jeanne and i am a waffler.

after spending several hours on the net googling the salt water pools, i found myself on the fence, worried about scaling, life span of 'cells', ph balance, corrosion, pump run time and the like.  Add in the initial start up cost and well, i dived back into my chlorine laden pool.  at least it is the devil i know, and incidentally back on the road to recovery. 

i miss having someone to bounce thing off of although i will tell you Joanie keeps me afloat more than she realizes.

tomorrow, i will call them back and tell them i have changed my mind.  and then i will head to Denny's for a breakfast of bacon and eggs with my waffle.

taking the plunge . . .

talked to the pool company this morning and being two days late with the tablets in this heat is most probably what let the pool turn.  i cleaned the filter again this morning, added a tablet to the skimmer, added two more gallons of chlorine and decided to convert to a salt water pool.  no more worrying about chlorine, no more filter cleaning.  all i have to do is brush and clean the skimmer.  my idea of pool bliss. 

what really cracked me up was wondering if we could still swim in the tinge.  then i thought, really?  REALLY, jeanne?!?!?!  you grew up on a fresh water lake.  you dunked your tootsies into a pail of salt water when you were done romping  around in the low land muck trying to catch frogs,  to remove the leeches.  you sailed for hours.  you lived in the water from june through august.  you'd sit on the ice and chip a hole with the back of your skate blade down enough to get a drink of water.  you probably swallowed more bacteria than a fish.  speaking of which, you swam in fish poop, turtle poop, duck poop and now you're worried about a little algae in the pool?   your twelve year old self would be laughing herself crazy right now. 

and so we swam.  14 laps, 40 crunches on the side of the pool and an hour of mediocre aerobics. i still love the water.  but i am secretly happy to be taking the plunge to salt.

grumble, grumble, grumble . . .

the pool got away from me again.  not sure if it was all the extra inches of rain in June or the heat or the shade trees being pruned back or me being two days late with the tablets, but whatever, it is about the color of a very queasy air traveler.  not good.

yesterday, i cleaned the filter, emptied the basket of all three leaves and a dead bug and brushed like hell, as my shoulder will attest.  today, i added more tablets, sprinkled in Quick Kill, a gallon of bleach and brushed again.  this afternoon when the pump kicks off, i will clean the filter again and then set the pump to run all night.  amazing the stuff that accumulates in there.

i can do this she muttered.  damn it, i can do this!

speaking of i can do it, i'm up to 12 laps.  with each lap being 60 feet, it will only take me 76 more laps to swim a mile.  snort.

hurry up . . .

Kidlet yelled from her room the other night that I best be updating my blog.  Oh, yeah?

My head has been all over the place lately and none of the stops seem to be on the reality train.

Last night, Kidlet and I went to Cracker Barrel for dinner, not so much because we love the place but because we had a gift card and I was in an, I don't want to cook mood.  So while I noshed down a bowl of Mac n' Cheese, Kidlet scarfed down scrambled eggs, bacon and two huge pancakes topped with baked apples and whipped cream . . . to be fair, some of which is residing in our fridge.  So while she was finishing slurping up, I was checking out all of the other diners, and discovered that while Kidlet was definitely on the young end of the scale there, surprisingly, so was I.  We were in the middle of the 80's and up crowd, who were enjoying the comfort food doused menu.  As I watched one gentleman take his time rising to his feet at the end of his meal, I flashed back to my father's last years . . . the unsteadiness, the inability to do what comes so naturally when one is younger, the faltering steps and shaky hands.  My heart went out to this lovely soul who was enjoying his dinner with his pals.  But it struck a cord that I could not shake.  Having outlived my mother by some twenty years, would I find myself at 86 a carbon of my dad.  Would I be that wonderfully wobbly woman enjoying the companionship of friends at a dinner out.  Would I realize how truly frail I was?  Would it matter?
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And then we headed to the mall.  I had promised Kidlet a pair of Flash sneakers.

Unfortunately, they were not to be found.  Not in any of the 15 stores that sell shoes and as it turns out, not even on line . . . they are that popular.

All this talk of shoes sent me barreling to Dillard's for a fix.  In a couple of days, my doorbell will ring and I be the proud owner of some really comfy if not stylish Josef Seibel sandals.  A far cry from dragging Kidlet away from a pair of black Betsy Johnson heels with ruffles all the way down the stiletto.  Let's just say we agree to differ when it comes to foot wear . . . although I wouldn't complain if handed a pair of Flashes. 
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Monday, Kidlet and I spent the day together 'crafting'.  While she crocheted, I sewed a dress from a pattern I scored on EBay.  I had had the same pattern in 1969 albeit several sizes smaller and made a couple versions of it.  It's an easy pattern and was finished in a matter of hours.  The results however were evident.  While it was cute as it could be, it belonged on someone considerably less than 60.  I will still wear it around the house because it makes me happy.  Lesson learned?  Probably not.
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For a couple of weeks now, I have been spying a little black furry teenager with a very extended belly wandering in and out of the woods behind the pool.  If you'll remember, last time this happened, Snoopy moved in for the next twelve years . . . Snoopy being one of the impending offspring.  The cave is quite stable and content with three beasties and I am not wanting to upset the applecart but truly this poor thing needs help.   I contacted a friend who actually knows someone who lost a kit fitting the general description and I am hoping she will have a home soon.  If not, my friend said she would help.  But for more than a few moments, I was dreaming of turning the pool deck into a sanctuary for this unwed mother.  I must have been ruminating out loud because Joanie, who volunteers oodles of hours at the Humane Society, looked me in the eye and calmly asked if I had taken a lighten bolt to the head. 
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And so while little old men remind me of my life ahead, and a hug from my favorite shoe salesman who loved the 9TS leaves me teary eyed in the present and a hippie dress reminds me of times gone by and a pregnant teen rattles my heart, I feel unsettled these days.  Off balance.  Neither here nor there.  This too shall pass but I wish it would hurry up.

Let's get a few things straight . . .

There is a reason I am not a good homemaker.  I stink at cleaning.  No, I don't belong on hoarders although the cave is loaded with eccentricities other than Kidlet and I.  Remind me to introduce you to Goat.  He is the newest addition.  But see, I get sidetracked.  And that is why I don't clean.  I get bushwhacked . . . or do something stupid.  Today was a double header.  First, I managed to add bleach to an entire load of dark wash, most of which was Kidlet's.  You will hear the explosion when she awakens, unless she is still very much into tye dye.  Then while I started out to de-fur my bedroom, I somehow changed lanes and ended up surfing the net and doing hand wash.  See what I mean?

But I must share this little goodie from today's adventure in cleaning:

They are the newest accoutrements for ceiling fans and are called Furry Fan Fins.   They are hand made by my very own Maine Coon:  Mr. Bear.   If stretched to full capacity, each fin fur is approximately three inches wide by ten inches long.  Think of them as delicate eyelashes for the blades.  They are rather pricey as each one takes approximately two months to make and are only produced during the shedding season.  Shall I put you down for one or two???

Here is Goat:

He hails from Texas and is made of recycled metals.  He was a present from Joanie which makes him even more precious.  Pippin thinks he belongs to her alone and scratches her chin on his horns on a daily basis.  If you look carefully through the stair railings, you can see part of the leather giraffe who overseas the living room.  I don't think you want to know that he is currently sporting the 9TS's leather hat and sunglasses along with a mourning band.

And no, this was not staged.  He is a very well dressed fellow and has a seasonal wardrobe, although he is not particularly fond of the bunny ears. p.s. my family is very used to me.

and so with all these distractions, I find it difficult to settle down long enough to actually complete one chore.  The dust and fur are rampant.  visit at your own risk.

oh and for those that I forget don't know, my name is Jeanne as in Jeannie without the eye or Genie as in the bottle or Jean-Knee but it's spelled Jeanne.  I have no idea why I think it is important you know that unless you happen to come wandering down my street some time and knock on the cave door.  It's always nice when someone can pronounce your name.  And it helps telling friends from solicitors.  And my last name.  Forget it.  It is totally unpronounceable and also not permitted on a post.  Just think more vowels than consonants and you'll be close.

love to you all.

not quite the same . . .

Kidlet and I were all set to go see the local fireworks last night.  Traditionally, the three of us would pack up our portable chairs, find a place within reasonable walking distance to park . . .  anything under two miles is fair game . . . and trek down to the river to wait for the show.  Our little burg throws quite the party.  At each of the four corners of the bridge spanning the inter-coastal, a different flavor attacks the senses.  You can try rock or jazz but we prefer the southwest corner full of country music, ribs and beer.  Ask Kidlet about the year she got an autograph from a very young and up and coming Dierks Bentley. 

We have our spot.  Under a tree on a little rise and stake our claim among the herds of locals and play our standard game:  who knows the most people.  The 9TS always won.  As the sun drops, we'd watch the kids scamper about with their snap-on neon lit necklaces, red, white and blue spinners, listen to Lee Greenwood and Toby Keith sing their patriotic canned best and enjoy the general chaos.

Finally, the barge, dimly lit, out on the water would come into focus and the sound and sites would begin with a resounding crescendo and a thumping, designed to realign the beating of your heart.  Let the show begin.  Huge weeping willows of gold and silver, red hearts, exploding multitudes of light and sounds.  For twenty five minutes we sat rapt in the glory that is the celebration of our country and then, as quickly as it started, it was over and we would pack up our chairs, fight the crowds, get stuck in traffic and finally, head home.  another fourth well done.

This year be it lethargy or general miasma, I wasn't all that excited but Kidlet announced we were going.  While she was splashing in the shower, I stayed immersed in a back to back marathon of Twilight Zone episodes I had not seen since I was eleven-ish.  One of my favorites:  Terror at 20,000 Feet was coming to an end as Kidlet was dragging me off of my bed.

We piled in the CRV she stole from me when she learned to drive at 15 . . .  I have only had visitation rights since . . . and headed to the river.  We were late and the display has already started.  Breaking tradition in a big way, we parked in the lot of a local furniture store a half mile from the show and enjoyed the fireworks.  Kidlet grabbed my paw to let me know that although we were slothless, we were still together and that was more than enough.  When did she get so wise.

She dropped me off at home and headed to Steak and Shake for some sustenance.  Upon her return, smelling vaguely of fried onion rings and burgers, she fired up Netflix and together we watched Terror at 20,000 Feet . . . a show that still causes me to carefully open the curtains on planes.  And while on a roll, I introduced Kidlet to Little Girl Lost, the show responsible for me testing the solidity of the wall behind my bed for eons.    

Her take on my generation's, version of the supernatural was quite jaded as she pointed out the fallacy of anyone being allowed to board a plane with a gun clearly visible.  Ah, my little grasshopper times have changed. 

And maybe next year I will be up for heading to our southwest corner and curl back up under that tree. But for now, I will be happy holding hands with my Kidlet and forging new traditions.

you're begging me to . . .

stop.  i know you are.  but it ain't gonna happen.  i'm having too much fun.  must share.

that's it for today.  no promises for tomorrow.

more . . .

yes, this tut has created a monster.