taking a hiatus . . .

from my self absorption . . .

perspective . . .

I grew up in the Garden State and as we would say in the 50's, "Golly, it was fine."  And it truly was.  Apple orchards, fruit farms . . . oh how I loved the fruit farms, especially in the fall.  We'd load into the family station wagon, wearing blue jeans, toe capped Keds, long sleeved waffle T's with pictures of Roy Rogers or Hopalong Cassidy

emblazoned on our chests and head over toward Wycoff and Franklin Lakes on the winding back roads. 

After parking in the dirt lot in front of the ancient faded red barn, we'd quickly unload and head for the basket table.  Each size basket was a different price.  There were pint baskets, bushel baskets and the in betweens.  In late September, we grabbed the ten cent bushel baskets and headed out into the apple orchards.  Once among the bountiful limbs, dripping with their red goodness, we would grab, pull and twist until the apples let go and dropped lightly into the woven wood baskets with their worn red dowel handles.  My sister and mother were both taller than I which meant I was often relegated to the less than perfect lower limbed pomes.  Not to be outdone, I would shinny up one of the trees, nest in an upper crotch where the pickings were better and drop my treasures gently to the ground.  Life was good.

Later at home, my mother would start peeling and coring the apples, measuring Crisco from the can, rolling the dough, and mixing until the end result appeared at dessert hot out of the oven.  I was however, not a connoisseur of apple pie.  What I did love was what was referred to in our house as 'squiggles'.  Little strips of dough, twisted and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar and baked until light and crispy. 

Which all leads me to the debacle today of shows such as Jersey Shore, The Real Housewives of New Jersey, Jerseylicious and Jersey Couture. Who are these people and what have they done to my home state?  The Real Housewives of New Jersey is particularly irksome because it is filmed in my neck of the woods: Wayne and Franklin Lakes, right in the center of what was once my fruit farm heaven.  Progress?  I think not.

The women of Pines Lake did not speak as if from Brooklyn.  Not to knock Brooklyn, but really, let's get our geography straight.  I can't image the women I grew up with uttering the "F" word with the ferocity and complacency in which it is tossed on these shows.  And although that particular word has crossed my lips more times than I like to admit, there is a time and a place and on national television is not one of them. 

And so I have trouble reconciling the image of Danielle Staub or Teresa Giudice scampering through the orchards singing, "A Tisket, A Tasket, my Green and Yellow Basket", while collecting apples to make homemade pies.  'It just ain't happening', she said, tongue in cheek!

And while I should end there, I cannot help but admit that I do stay glued to the TV during RHNJ.  It is my guilty little pleasure.  Something perverse in me has to see what they are up to now . . .

at last . . .

starting Monday, the cave will be cleaner and shinier and more spotless than in any of the years since we moved in.  It is reported that the couple we bought the house from started cleaning on Saturday mornings and did not stop until everything had been polished to a high shine . . . except of course, the carpeting, which would be, just plain silly.  Somehow, I managed to take that enthusiasm to a new low.  Nary a rag has flown since that day in September back in 1994.

I am getting help!!!  No, let's tell the truth.  I probably will not help at all.  She will work, the cats will shed, and I will do whatever it is that keeps me far distant from anything resembling dust, cat hair, ring around the tub or a vacuum cleaner.

Tomorrow, I will head out with a list of all the cleaning supplies she requires.  I will probably have to borrow a truck  . . .  it seems I am supply challenged . . . the one empty cabinet in the entire house being labeled:  Cleansers.   

In truth, I have made two other forays into the world of domestic assistance.   My first husband hired one of those brand companies to help me out after Katie decided to make her grand debut via C-Section.  That lasted all of two weeks.  Somehow they seemed to confuse the Windex with the furniture polish and it was more trouble than it was worth.

The second was a referral from a friend and as it turns out, the girl just happened to be married to an acquaintance.  The best part was that for $20 she would pop in every two weeks and leave things spotless.  Unfortunately spotless had a new meaning and the missing things left a spot if you get my drift.


That was twenty some odd years and a mountain of dirt ago.  This woman seems to know her Endust from her Glass-Plus and works for several of my neighbors who are happy with her ability.

Like her predecessor, she will come every two weeks . . .  I would prefer to see her shining face more often, but the economy just  . . . well, you know . . .

and so . . .

while reading my morning 'odd blogs', I noticed two recurrent themes:  getting caught naked or semi naked by someone other than family and lists of thankfulness.

Since, blessedly, no one has seen this 62 year old body naked . . .  talk about being scarred for life . . . except the 9TS . . . who has enough scars of his own . . . that leaves me with thankfulness, of which I have plenty.

*Thankful, that I haven't had to post a story about being caught naked!

*Thankful, of course for the 9TS, who warms my soul on a daily basis.

*Thankful for my kidlet, who although she makes me crazy at times, owns my heart.

 OK, so you knew those, didn't you?

Then there are the day to day goodies:

dollar store dehydrated wash clothes that are just the perfect size and thinness . . .  washing your face with Snoopy ROCKS!

coconut oil infused with essence of patchouli!

kosher salt! 

tweezers that work!

a good book!

white cotton dish clothes!

a straw hat collection!

furry creatures!

wood floors!

quirky finds!

yoga!

and when I start to freak about dirty kitchen floors, unmade beds, ring around the bathtub, I am simply thankful to have a home that has these things!

more playing . . .

Credits:  Paper/Frame: Katie Pertiet, Butterflies: Dawn Inskip/Amanda Taylor, Stitches: Anna Aspnes, Fonts: CK_Ali's Handwriting/Georgia, Alpha:  Pattie Knox.

scrap lifting . . .

. . . in case you are unfamiliar with the term, is taking someone else's work and copying it as your own . . . being certain to give credit where credit is due.

This morning, I was going through my morning reads, and Karenika had THE most adorable layout of her two boys.  The thief sitting on my left shoulder whispered, steal it . . . steal it.  And so, I did.

Credits:  Paper: Vinnie Pierce, Frame: Julia Makontinsky, Stitches:  Anna Aspnes, Bird:  Ellie Nash, Clouds:  Dawn Inskip and Cinnamon Design, Journaling Block:  Dawn Inskip, Tree:  Ida Astrid, Felt Letters:  Pattie Knox, Font:  Magic Forest.

It was the perfect fun thing to do with a still limp kitten cuddled in the crook of my elbow.

EDIT:  Here is Karenika's original.  I was waiting for permission to post it here!

  I loved the look of hers and wanted to see if it would translate from paper to digi.  I still need to work on my shadowing.  Thanks, Karenika for sharing!

The pluckless Pippin . . .

The normally plucky Pip is home and feeling profoundly punky.  At a meager 4.69 pounds, she is a pathetic little puff of moroseness.   She is on both antibiotics and pain meds . . .  sigh.  The two of us spent the afternoon nesting on the bed snuggling and sleeping.  Get better soon you little rascal.  We miss our minnie monster.

Mother Nature, you are on my poop list.  Big time!