My Circular Taste

I have to begin this post with a remembrance from my earlier years listening to my dad's preference in music on the radio. Most of the stations that played big bands, also played Easy Listening or Pop as well. This is where I heard Steve and Edie Gormet, Frank Sinatra and Jack Jones among others. As I got older I found I liked listening to this music more than the 70's stuff most of my generation listened to, therefore, I kept it hidden. I played it in the car when no one was watching-er-listening. But I knew the songs so well from having heard them so many times that I would sing along with the singer. Some of the songs were what people term as "standards". Songs like Blue Moon sung by Mel Torme or I've Got You Under My Skin by Frank Sinatra. I say "by" meaning, the vocalizations most identified with the song. They didn't write them, they just made them hugely famous by singing them. So we come to some other songs which entered my brain for one reason or another and stuck there. They weren't wildly popular, probably. Songs like "Who Can I Turn To," with Sammy Davis, Jr. singing it or "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" with Tony Bennett. Something about those songs stayed with me. So, anyways, one of those stayed-with-me-songs was one called "She Loves Me" and I think I originally heard some woman sing it--can't quite recall who--but the lyrics were witty and catchy. They faded into the background and I would it hear it once in a blue moon, but nothing too much on the radar. Then I heard the Jack Jones version and I loved it right away. His voice and the lyrics were great! But of course, no one played it very much, so when it came on the radio I wouldn't remember how much I liked it until I couldn't get it out of my head for three or four days.

Now we fast forward to a few months ago. I was purchasing a CD of Jack Jones songs because I still do like his voice, his phrasing and his eyes are really great, too! And on the CD I purchased was a song called, "She Loves Me." I have pretty good recall on those older songs, but I thought this one was some smarmy something or other and ignored it until I was tooling along in the car listening when it came on and I felt like I found an old friend. I played it numerous times in a row after that to refresh my memory of the lyrics I found so enchanting. Unfortunately, whilst refreshing my memory, it stayed running through my head repeatedly, so I needed to do something with it to make it go away. I decided that I would look up the lyricist for the song--not really something you can do on internet too well if someone recently released a song of the same or very similar name and all it wants to do is give you hits on the newer versions. I typed and retyped and revised and circumvented as best I could and finally found what I was looking for on Wikipedia--sort of. I found the guys' name, but the entry mentioned that the song actually came from a musical done in 1963 from a book entitled, Parfumerie written in Hungary.

I need to digress a moment here and tell you something else. I like old movies, too. And I watched one entitled, "In The Good Old Summertime" with Van Johnson and Judy Garland and was instantly entranced. I found out it was a remake of the movie, "Shop Around the Corner." I have since learned that "You've Got Mail" with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks is a remake of that film essentially. I watched "Shop Around the Corner," one Saturday when it was on some obscure movie channel. I decided that I would like to have the whole trilogy as it were: I now own the Judy Garland/Van Johnson and the Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan one. I just need to purchase the other one.

So we come back to my looking at the Wikipedia write up of "She Loves Me" and what I find out is that the Hungarian play turned into the musical is the same story line as the above movies. All the same. And the music is from the musical.

I think this proves that I really don't have taste all over the map, I have really only one thing I love and that is this story, told over and over and over again. How depressing. I thought I was discerning. Here I find out, I'm not so much.

The words to the song, by the way are this (the song has kind of a bossa nova beat the Jones sings it):

Well! Well! Well! Well! Well!
Well! Well! Well! Well! Well!
Will wonders never cease?
I didn't like her!
I didn't like her!
I couldn't stand her
I couldn't stand her!
I wouldn't have her!
I never knew her,
But now I do!
And I could...
And I would...
And I know...

She loves me
And to my amazement
I love it knowing that she loves me
She loves me,
True, she doesn't show it
How could she,
When she doesn't know it.
Yesterday she loathed me, bah!
Now today she likes me, ah!
And tomorrow, tomorrow...
AAAAAAAAAAAh!

My teeth ache from the urge to kiss her
I'm speechless for I mustn't tell her
It's wrong now, but it won't be long now
Before my love discovers
That she and I are lovers
Imagine how surprised she's bound to be,
She loves meeeeeeeeeee!

I love her, isn't that a wonder?
I wonder why I didn't want her.
I want her, that's the thing that matters,
And matters are improving daily.

Yesterday I loathed her, bah!
Now today I love her, ah!
And tomorrow, tomorrow...
AAAAAAAAAAAh!

I'm tingling such delicious tingle,
I'm trembling, what the hell does that mean?
I'm freezing that's because it's cold out.
But still I'm incandescent
And like some adolescent
I'd like to stroll on ev'ry wall I see
She loves me!
She loves meeeeeeeee!

Just as a sidelight, another song in that musical (which had a revival in 1993, I think) is the song, "Will He Like Me," which Barbra Steisand made so wonderfully. See? I just like the same thing, I just didn't know it!

Music For Me

I am writing about music I like today because my children and husband don't like the same stuff I do and I feel left out. What I really feel though, is superior. Because what I like are things with melodies, and strings and flow and balance. What I do not like are things that are either screaming or incoherent babble. And screeching guitars, gotta say, I really detest screeching guitars. Actually screeching anything are pretty much something I don't like. The word makes my hearing aids tingle. The actual sound is much, too much for me.

But to continue. I went to visit my mother and stepdad today. We went out to breakfast, a very unusual event. I am still working and they aren't. But I have some days to burn before I lose them, so I took off and went to see them for a couple of hours. In the process of getting to their house I have noticed that the music that accompanies me is music that I can't hear on the radio anymore. Of course, if I had that satellite radio thingee, I might still be able to find a station, but I don't want to listen to all that talking and commercials and things. I want to hear what I like. And what I like isn't played anymore on the stations in my area. I like Sammy Davis, Jr. and Steve and Edie Gormet, Jack Jones and Frank Sinatra. I have a pretty good catalog of Gershwin, Porter and Berlin in my head. Lots of lyrics, too. Sung by those guys and some gals who used to perform on my father's radio stations. I have CDs, too. Lots of Frank. Just a few of the others. I put on whatever my particular favorite is for the day, and drive the next 45 minutes or so either listening or singing along--depending on my mood. Sometimes I skip around on an album, sometimes I play 'em straight through.

Some of the songs I realize are real relics of the past. Some of them make me cringe in their "political uncorrectness" these days. But hey, when they came out, they were very popular. And singable. And I got to thinking--what will my generation dance to at their children's weddings? If they take dancing lessons, they aren't learning to dance to "My Sweet Embraceable You" are they? Or are they? The music of the 70's was a rebellion of their parents music. I understand. But their parents music--okay--my parent's music is good for what it's called, "Easy Listening." There isn't any subliminal message underneath. It smooth and easy and not too demanding. Will I dance to Inna Gotta Davita or however it's spelled at my daughter's wedding? Geez! I hope not. And if that means I have to take dancing lessons with the hubby while listening to Frank or Sammy, then bring it on! He won't be thrilled, I'm sure, but I will be.

I remember reading a book one time and it said that this music I am referring to is, "the music of the ages." Like it lasts forever. It feels that way to me. Like it lasts forever. It brings me back to childhood and makes me wish that some of that "rosy glow" still existed. And so I listen to that music most of the time. I like the Beatles, the Stones, the Beach Boys and lots of other bands from the 70's. but I love those crooners of the past more than any other kind of music.

I intend to blog more about this kind of music and the songs. But I'm gonna go do the dishes now and get ready for my husband to come home from work. The dinner will be on the table (or at least the table will be set) and I'm glad that I can re-create that little bit of time in our house this evening.

Schools

The insistent ringing
The bleating bell
The constant chatter of the office.

The unfinished story, anecdote, sentence
Hangs for hours in the air
To be snagged in the off moment and half-finished
While the parents parade on and on.

With the snacks and lunches and the backpacks
Forgotten in the car, on the bench, in the front room
With stories of their delightful children and their
Endearing ways too numerous to mention.
Or their sad lamentations of forgetfulness
Of the parents of course, never the children.
Ruefully smiling, acknowledging that of course, it was
The children, but they're not to blame.

And the phone again rings and rings
Of children sick, or just simply staying home
Or the questions of safety duty, lunch duty, lunch selections,
Time of after school activities, during lunch activities and
The amount of time needed to get them to CCD.

The teachers are asking for their renewed schedule
their forgotten duties, their students home phone numbers.
And are we ordering out today? How much is that? What time will it arrive?
And are the pickles on the side?

The children stream into the nurses' office with
Lost and loose teeth, bloody noses, bruised skin and egos.
Parading past with assistants who need copies and schedules, too.

Did I miss this? Yes, surprisingly I did. As I trudge
Up the steps once again, as I did 7 plus years ago
Carrying papers, news, help and a smile or two.
But I will be denied it once again apparently.
Moving on to older students who don't need you to care
Just to make sure you don't get in their way.
Who will mow you down with a brief nod in your direction
Which is supposed to suffice for an apology.
They won't need the parents satellites as much, but they will
Need texting priviledges. They won't need a hug, but they
Would like it if you knew the answer to number 4 on the Math Quiz.

How different will it be, I wonder.
How much will be the same? Starting again and yet not.
I wonder. I wonder.

Happy Brother's Day

I want to write about my brothers. Not just because I love them, as I hope they are aware. I want you to know something about them because they are wonderful men and the world would be less if they were not here.

My older brother shares an awful lot of things with me in terms of hearing deficiencies, tastes in books, slow but determined understanding of a problem and dry humor. He is kind. His writing style is packed. Packed with eloquent descriptions and touching humaneness. He wanders about here and there in his writings, but I can follow his tracks and not get lost in the prose. His love and kindnesses flow through his life, his writing and his laughter. I am always enriched with his conversations which are never enough and his e-mails which are infrequent due to his busy schedules.

My younger brother shares a lot of things with me too. We are the two younger siblings, the "sweetie twins" dubbed by the older pair. Partners in play and laughter, we can find joy in music, books, buildings, flowers and each other. He hasn't had much time lately to get to the sweet spot of joy, but he knows its there in his undulating laugh and that sparkle in his "dad" laden eyes. His creativity and vision is so impressive to me. He may not write for a living(although he could--he is excellent with words), but the eloquence he uses with lines and angles speaks entire libraries. He is also full of love and kindness and compassion. We don't talk much either, he is so very busy treading these days. But when we do, we are sitting out back of the old house once again, watching clouds and making observations and I'm home again.

I spoke with them both yesterday--a very rare occurrence and I was reminded that though we share roots and a past, we also have a friendship in the present and future. There are so many strands of our lives which intertwine with each other, that make each other more than what we would be alone. I could not be who I am with others without my brothers. And I think that is a very good thing.

So Happy Brother's Day, guys. Love ya.

Happy Birthday

It's not my birthday. I'm sure it's somebody's birthday somewhere, but not mine. I was thinking of birthdays today though as the youngest will be celebrating 23 years of existence next week. I was thinking of birthdays past, both mine and the children's.

Remember how it was for your birthday? The excitement of, the anticipation of, the list-making, plan making, totally involvement of the birthday. Some birthdays were bigger than others. Not necessarily the age, but the experience. The "wish list" for your birthday was excelled only by the ginormous list you made for Christmas. There were always the exotic requests (gold earrings? cowboy boots?)alongside the "sure to receives" like underwear or socks. Somewhere in between was the reality.

In our house as a child, you got to have your choice for dinner and dessert. I remember the dessert part most. Chocolate cake with vanilla icing? Vanilla cake with chocolate icing? Mint chocolate chip ice cream? You name it, it was yours.

I tried to hold onto that tradition with our children as long as I could, but the allure of "eating out" overtook us. Alas, we go out to eat either due to my culinary skills (or lack of) or the excitement of the varied menu, never available no matter how many times you asked.

Birthdays were made for dreaming. They made you think bigger, older, more grandiose dreams than the everyday ones. Maybe this year you would go horseback riding? Or the party could be somewhere other than your house (now I know that today, the party is almost ALWAYS someplace other than your house, but in the Old Days, they were never anywhere else.) Maybe you would get money to buy the newest record, or a new outfit or that boy you liked would give you a ring! The possibilities were endless.

I still look forward to birthdays, because I still wish on them like the candles on the cake. But I wish for different things now: happiness for my children, long life for my siblings and mother, health for my husband. It's still fun to dream.

So Happy Birthday to you!

Being of two minds

The ambivalence of the season following the season is confusing
Would the Wise Men have stopped to converse with us about our confusion?
The "Thank God its over" conundrum with the "It's over already?"
The pinging of the evergreen needles is counterpointed with the ticking of the clock
The false candles in the window reminding us of the need for light at 4:30
The sweets festooning the dining room table are far outweighed at the scales in the bathroom
Red and green poinsettias stand amidst the other greenery
Ostentatiously preening in the window as the philodendron snickers silently,
"It won't be long," it whispers, "you'll be just green like the rest of us."
The fireplace, never used except during this time of year, goes dormant, sullenly
hoarding it's heaped up piles of ashes for another winter.
The wreaths on the door, the festive flag flapping on the winter breeze, even the electric wooden tree, painted to resemble the evergreen in the corner will all soon fold themselves up for a long winter's nap.
The bareness of the walls, floors and doors a testament to the fleeting of seasons and the march of the hours.
Are you sad or glad it's done? It's hard to say, being of two minds.

Frosted Pindowanes

The words to holiday songs are one of the reasons I sing them, even though I have been informed by numerous friends (and family, too) that I'm off key. I really do love to sing songs at this time of the year. When I hear the words to "I'll Be Home for Christmas", it reminds me of my father who said the servicemen hated this song when they were overseas in WWII because they knew they wouldn't be. The words to "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" seem like they are fine and upbeat until you hear the haunting melody which tells you that perhaps the singer isn't so thrilled with the holiday this year. The Chipmunks sang a variety of songs from a few albums, but "Hang Up Your Stocking" is the one that makes me think of my older brother, bobbing his head along to the chorus. My daughter makes a mix CD every year of Christmas songs for me and this year in the collection was "Do You Hear What I Hear?" sung by a male group interspersed with Baba O'Reilly. It was fantastic! I've played that over and over until my husband shuffles quietly out of the room, mumbling something.

Before my daughter made mix CDs though, I made a couple myself. The one that seems to be the family staple (or the one they either love or detest the most, I suppose) has a compilation of some standard favorites sung by Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Johnny Mathis and the Muppets (from a Muppet Christmas Carol). It is the one I hide after the holidays so that I can bring it out around November each year and play it repeatedly before the new CD is received. I can sing along to every single one of those songs. A few years ago, I added a song to the repertoire, "Christmas Stays The Same." It was a version sung by Linda Eder-I think that's how you spell her name. And when I finally learned the lyrics, I decided that this was my new favorite Christmas song.

Here are the words:

Santa Claus and mistletoe,
Carols by the fire
Send a card and spread a little Christmas cheer.
Silent night, a fall of snow
Listen to the choir,
Everyone is happy that it's here.
For we all remember, some past December
Of tinsel and holly and people we love.
Put the angel on the tree then enjoy the view.
Wait until the children are asleep and then
Put together all the toys,
Hide a gift or two
Wishing you were just a kid again.
For we all remember, some past December
Of train sets that whistled and dolls we could name.
Oh the years may change
But Christmas stays the same.
Turkey and gravy,
Hams full of honey
Cousins you see once a year,
Fathers who scold you,
Then slip you some money
And roofs full of tiny reindeer.
Yes we all remember some past December;
Of grandmas and kitchens with kettles aflame.
Oh the years may change
But Christmas stays the same

Of course the music is lilting and wonderful and I get all misted up at the last, "Yes, we all remember some past December," because each and every time I remember all those Christmases ago, from long past and recent past and they blend together in one giant Christmas carol. It's sung in harmony and slightly off key, but it couldn't be any more beautiful than the angels that first Christmas in my mind.

Its That Time of Year

I awoke this morning, the first day of the New Year, in pretty much the same funk I've woken up to for the last umpty-ump years. This year was just slightly, well, funkier. The house is still festive--can't take down the Nativity scene until at least the Wise Men make their entrance. And the stockings are still hung by the chimney with care. But Santa has come and gone and so have the children.

And there it is, ladies and gentlemen. The house is so quiet. The cat is sleeping--well there's really nothing noteworthy there, the cat is always sleeping. The gifts have all been put away. The good china is back in the hutch until the next family event. There are scads of cookies still to be eaten, candy in the candy dish and gift breads still on the counter in the kitchen. There are empty boxes still on the hearth from the youngest. He took the contents and left too quickly to my mind, to go back to warmer climes, chummier company, and a schedule in retail that forbids family time. Oh, that was so unfair of me, I think. By now, if he and his sister were still under the roof, most of the goodies would be gone, consumed by the constantly grazing hordes that come with those two. I look around at the snowmen decorations, the angels, the little stuffed teddy bears I put in some people's stockings and think to myself that even though I knew it would be over sooner this year, I didn't really know it. But now I do. I'm re-reading about 4 books at once, playing more inane computer games and putzing around the house trying to stay away from the West Wing collection that someone loaned me so I won't stay wrapped up in the blanket all day, feeling fuzzy and not of this world. I probably need to get back to work so I can stop thinking. But what can I do to stop feeling? That my friend is what makes it the hardest time of the year.

Well it finally stopped

After 30 hours of continuous snow, it has finally stopped. There is at least 20 inches on the ground. 20 inches of white stuff. We no longer have cheap labor as both children have moved out. Its up to the hubby and I to blaze a trail to the shed and get the shovels. And start digging. Because of the sheer volume of the stuff, you have to shovel layers. So you are essentially shoveling three times in one spot before reaching the ground level. We are not young anymore. And we definitely are no longer in shape (shape being a relative term--I for example am sort of round--that's a shape, isn't it--but I digress).

We do have a small version of a snow blower. We hadn't used it for a couple of years, so getting it to start was a gamble. After much blowing and blustering both by man and machine, it sputtered to a start. It worked on the driveway which was a blessing. The drive is not paved, it's lined with red stones and it is very long, seemingly more so with all that snow! It was used as well to clear the walkways, which I had already cleared with the handy dandy shovel, the one which holds onto the snow every 4th shovelful, so you have to bang it to release the hold, then re-shovel it back up again. It would have been entertaining, except I was too tired by then to be amused. I went around whacking the bushes to remove the snow which threatened to snap off the branches. Amusing sidelight--the next door neighbor is fanatical about leaves on her lawn; even blows them in the dark--by whacking the shrubbery, I loosed some leaves onto her pristine white yard. I anticipate the leaf blower will be whipped out posthaste to eliminate the offending debris.

Our neighbor on the other side has one of those industrial strength snow-blowers. The kind that can pick up and throw snowmen before they have a chance to retaliate. He is a considerate and kind man, helping out the neighbors all around. He has offered to help us clear our drive, but the results of the last effort--flinging red stones causing all to take cover under the bushes out front, he does not offer to help us out with the driveway. Instead, he has that cheap labor I mentioned before, children, come over and work on the ice encrusted sidewalk in front of our house, where the snowplow has filled in the nice pathway made by my trusty shovel. I offer them hot chocolate and cookies, since I have no money, I couldn't get to the bank. They smile politely and keep shoveling. I bet they complain to their dad when they get done.

When the sun finally goes down at the end of the day, my husband and I and the heating pad are happily ensconced on the couch, watching football. The Christmas lights the neighbors have put about look wonderful on the snow. I really do like snow to look at. Just not to shovel. Happy Holidays.

The End of the Day

It's technically the end of the day for me. 9:30 at night signifies that its time for "sleepertowns" as Jim would say. I begin the routine of answering last minute e-mails, putting away things standing longingly on the side of the sink which have dried and I've ignored, I perhaps play one more game of computer solitaire hoping to beat it this time. My eyes get droopy and my hearing aids come out (hope nobody calls I want to talk to).

But tonight there is a sense of anticipation before going to bed. Tomorrow is predicted a HUGE snowstorm. I have milk, eggs and bread in the house and I have no where to go tomorrow. I'm looking forward to a day of baking and decorating and doing all the holiday things I can't do during the week after work, 'cause I'm too tired.

So I'm not real tired right now, I'm looking forward to the snow and the wind. Of course, when I have to go out and help shovel the 3 mile driveway, I will not be quite so excited. But right now, before it actually begins to snow I feel a small excitement building. It's probably a hold over from my childhood days. I wonder if the meteorologists are exaggerating as they tend to do. I wonder if I'll be able to teach my class on Sunday. I wonder how it will look and sound and feel. When it snows its so restful and quiet. For a person who wears hearing aids to say it's quiet, well, then it must be quiet. But there is a hushed kind of breathing the snow has, that I just love.

A snow day before Christmas. I'm really looking forward to waking up tomorrow.

Girl on a sidewalk

Out of the corner of my eye
I saw a shape on the sidewalk
Because it was not something that belonged there
I stopped
As did another.

The shape was a young lady,
Laid out by a bicycle fall
Her backpack flung off to the side
The bike lounging lazily on its side near her

She was wearing red pants
Blood red, but not hers-blood that is
And they were short, too short for the cooler weather
She didn't appear to be shaken or scared

The other lady who stopped and I hoovered around her
Without touching--I work in a school, I know what I can and cannot do
As she picked herself up and accepted our
Mother-like admonishments: are you alright? are you hurt? can you walk?

She was almost serene in her re-assembly of stuff
The only give away, the bright red flush to her cheeks
And I wondered, since I didn't see it, did she really fall?
Or was this some experiment to see if someone would notice?
The other woman offered to drive her home, but she politely refused
Even though, she told us, she lived quite a ways away.

She got back on the bike and began to pedal stoically on
Without a backward glance to the would-be rescurers
Her pony tail bouncing at each crack in the sidewalk.
We looked at each other, the woman and I and I could see her question, too.
Did she fall? Was she running away and stopped to rest? Was she trying
to see if anyone cared that a young lady off her bike in red pants would lay on
the cold sidewalk on a winter afternoon?
I wondered as I drove on and I still do, sketching scenarios of the whys and
wherefores.

the dentist in your mind

Okay, I don't like going to the dentist. He isn't a bad man. He goes out of his way to be gentle and speak gently to me. He knows I have sensitive teeth, so he makes sure I have enough numbing agent in my mouth before he even attempts to drill anything. He is really a great guy. His son has joined him in the practice and from what I can tell he is also gentle and kind, although kind of young.

Ah, but the anticipation is always worse than the actual event. I imagine all sorts of horrors: he'll have a substitute there and they won't have read what a fanatical, whimpering bowl of jello I am and will say, "Novocaine? No one uses that stuff anymore!" and commence drilling; he will look inside my mouth and tell me that the entire right side of my face will collapse unless I remove all of the teeth there--okay that actually wouldn't be so bad, they at least knock you out for that; the scenarios are endless. They all end up with me whimpering in the chair and begging to be left alone. I prolong any visit as long as possible. Even if a tooth is bothering me. I just know he'll find something that has to be taken care of that day and it will NOT be a good thing.

I used to go to a dentist who would give me laughing gas before even coming at me with the Novocaine. THAT'S how nervous I was. They don't do that anymore. I did however see one ad in a local paper. The guy was advertising that he guarantees no pain while he works on you. I was wondering how he could say that? What does he do? Hit you over the head with a bat before he begins? But no, that would be painful. Maybe he gives you whatever the oral surgeon gives you to knock you out, so you don't care what he does with your mouth. I kind of like that idea. I think I'll bring it up to my current dentist the next time I see him...in another couple of years...you know, when I can no longer put it off.

a question of light

I'm sitting on the bed around 9:30 at night and the quirky lights have just gone out up stairs. But the light over the pillow is still on. It illuminates the left side of my face and causes a reflection on the screen of the laptop I'm writing on. It is the reflection that got my attention this evening.

I have always thought that I was not vain. Until I colored my hair to cover the gray. And started applying make-up a little more than haphazardly. When my reflection is seen this evening, the lines around my mouth and onto my cheek are in more vivid detail than perhaps I'd like. I can see the fine fuzz of hair on my face--it gives my left side a sort of silvery cast. I got thinking about our ancient ancestors and when the facial hair began to disappear, did they miss it? I'm wearing my old roundish glasses and I realize I'm looking at my mother's face as much as my own. I have always thought my ears too big and in this half-light the lobes of them loom large under the fringe of my short hair. I read somewhere that your ears continue to grow all your life. Yikes! By the time I'm 80, I'll have elephant ears, flapping along with my jowls and loose upper arms. I could be a one man band in my declining years.

I realize the lines radiating from my mouth are "laugh lines" and they resemble my Dad. Not too much of my outward self resembles him. It isn't a bad legacy I guess. I cannot see the whole of my face, I don't like looking at it that much anyway and avoid it except for the make-up, hair routine in the morning. I don't hate my face, I just don't pay much attention to it after primping it for the day. But the half shadow makes me look a lot more serious--except for the laugh lines. I look tired I think. My eyelids are sort of droopy, maybe I'm trying to look interesting for this piece? No, I'm just tired.

That small group of hair at my temple which never seems to do what I want them to do are flipping out horizontally again. When I wake up in the morning, they are almost determined to be doing anything but what the other hairs are doing. They are my defiant streak I guess.

I keep going back to the lines on my cheek. They are deeper, more etched. Some would say it gives my face character. I just think they are part of a canvas that each day I paint over without obliterating them. Not that I'm trying to, really. But I don't go out of my way to point them out either. And so to bed. Time for another night of observations to go the way of the quirky lights. Over and dark.

And the good news is...

I got an e-mail from a really wonderful friend--kind, funny, so compassionate it makes your teeth ache--that she has been asked to write a book. Now, I know she likes to write, but doesn't really do much of it at all. And I'm sure she can string her thoughts, words and deeds together in a coherent and probably moving tome. But let me remind you of this--someone ASKED her to write this book.

Here I am slogging away for months at a time, refining, refining, touching up, throwing out lines after lines, pages after pages in the hope that someday I can submit either one of two stories to be published and ... someone has asked her to write.

To be fair, I haven't got the "low-down" yet on what the topic is and whom it was that asked her. She so excited I could hear her voice go up a couple of octaves just from reading the e-mail. I'm going to call her tomorrow and find out the details.

But just for now...someone asked her to write a book. I'll be a better Christian about this later I think.

the driving experience

I have noticed a new experience while driving. It may be that it was in existence for a while, but I have seen it more and more lately and its sort of disturbing. It goes like this: you are in a line of traffic that just made it through a light, so everyone is feeling pretty good about themselves. There's probably about 10 to 15 cars who are tooling down the road, when a gap develops between say the third and six cars. It's a wide enough gap that if someone was going to enter the traffic, they could do it, but they would have to gun it to make sure the next guy didn't try to speed up to close the gap. What happens though is this--a car approaching a stop sign from a side street, see the gap and decides, oh, hell why stop? and cruises right into the gap of traffic without missing a beat (or creating an accident). Technically speaking the driver hasn't hurt anyone. They have essentially merged into ongoing traffic. But the stop sign is there for a reason, isn't it? They totally ignore the stop and keep cruising. The one time I saw someone do this, I was sure they didn't even ponder the traffic coming their way in the lane closest to them, they just saw that gap and went for it! I don't know why this disturbs me so much, but it does. I feel like it's going to end badly for someone and I'm hoping that someone isn't me. Part of me wishes I could have flashing lights attached to the car so that when someone does do this, I could scare them enough that they wouldn't do it again. But really, is it possible to scare people that badly? I mean how many drive while talking on the phone or texting. No one is that scared anymore. Fear factor alone keeps me from doing stupid stuff. But that doesn't seem to be a deterrent any more...whine, whine, whine. I'm getting old and I hear myself. Ewww.

how did we ever get along?

It became apparent two days ago that the microwave was broken. It doesn't heat. The light goes on, the turntable goes 'round, but the heat ain't there (does this sound like anyone you know?). Anyway, there are several points to make about this particular piece of machinery.

We installed this one ourselves. Well, sort of. When our daughter was still in residence after college she had a bunch of friends come over frequently and the gender of the friends were male. They would yuck it up on the porch watching TV, trading work stories and getting increasingly louder as the evening wore on. My husband, never one to ignore a gift horse (or a room full of young males who could probably lift more than he alone) enlisted their help in getting the microwave in place. I should point out that this is a "range top model" which means it is anchored above the top of the stove and has a vent fan attached. It was a heavy son-of-a-gun and I knew I wasn't going to lift it. So he and the "boys" got the thing in place and he secured it. It was hilarious and interesting to watch their interactions as they worked together. If we have to get rid of the thing now that it isn't working, I will be sorry to part with the memories.

The second thing occurred to me quite by surprise. I haven't cooked vegetables on the top of a stove for a very long time. How long you may ask? I really can't remember. In our first home we had a microwave. This is where I learned how to cook, mixing this and that, timing this and that. And the humming, ding of the microwave was the barometer of finished vegetables. I got out a pack of frozen corn last night and had to read the directions for how to cook on the top of the stove! Of course, I had to find my glasses first, then write down the salient points because the sieve-like appendage of a brain I have doesn't retain anything for two minutes. I had to find a pen that would write. I had to find a piece of paper that didn't have anything already written on it. I had to put the corn back in the freezer while I searched for all these things. What an ordeal! By the time I figured everything out, it was about 20 minutes later. No wonder the microwave is a time saving device. It probably doesn't cook anything any faster, but you don't have to go through all this crap to just cook stuff.

So a repair man or perhaps woman will come out Wednesday to either fix it or tell us to get a new one. My husband says that we can get a small counter top model for a relatively cheap price. But the monster above the stove-top cooks things so much faster than one of the little models. We have to decide what we want to do. I'm looking to get a new one, personally. Maybe one that will install itself. But I'm not that hopeful. I'll let you know what happens. Just listen for the ding.

The mail as a microcism: Discuss

When I get home from work, especially in the months of November and December I let out the cat and try to grab all the mail from the little red mailbox attached to the wall next to the front door. I say try to grab because during these months the mail box is stuffed with catalogs, flyers, junk mail and more catalogs. 'Tis the season you know. All this stuff. Who buys all this stuff? From weird little photo holders to Hans Solo in Carbonite as a desk. I really can't imagine who buys this stuff. The Sharper Image is always entertaining, but the Orvis catalog? Not so much. The really amusing thing, though is how my husband plunks them on the table to peruse after dinner. He excitedly points out the more bizarre and outlandish items, trying to goad me into either thinking he really is excited about the items or that this is something that we really can't do without. This never really works, but I give him points for sincerity.

There are people who buy this stuff, right? I mean they don't just make these catalogs to peruse. People with money to burn (who are they?) must sometimes purchase stuff out of there, right? I just don't know anybody that does.

Now I'm not talking about the "mainstream" catalogs, like L.L. Bean or even the Current Catalog which has stationery and stamps and even checkbooks for crying out loud. These are what I would call normal things. No, the over-the-top catalogs are the ones I'm talking about. They're entertaining, sure, but really besides Donald Trump, who has the money for this stuff?

Maybe someday when I win the lottery and don't know what to do with all my millions, I'll consent to buy my son that Hans Solo desk, but maybe I'll invest instead in a new larger mailbox and keep myself entertained for the rest of the holiday season.

Gifts

Every once in a while someone gets it right. I don't get another candle, or trinket for the china cabinet. Every now and then I get--tickets to a show. I wanted to see White Christmas last year in the worst way. But it just didn't work out. I love the movie, but the stage show added some Irving Berlin to jazz it up and well, I just love Irving Berlin anything. My husband bought us tickets to see it. For this year. Right after Thanksgiving. He knows I'll be sad this year. The youngest won't be home for either Thanksgiving or Christmas since he's working retail this year. And I get teary eyed just thinking about it. So I got this great gift. It will be just the thing.

But really the best gift was my husband. The man upstairs sleeping right now. He was sort of grouchy when he went to bed. He's tired. He went for a HUGE bike ride with his brother today and he's very tired. But even though he's tired and a little grumpy, he's still the best thing that ever happened to me. He shows me that I'm lovable. He shows me that there are worst things in life than a bad day. He stands with me in our sorrow and grief and mourning over the children moving on, even though that's what they're supposed to do. He likes my cooking--can't figure that out--I'm mediocre at best. He laughs at the same things I do (mostly) and understands those things that made me mad, even though they don't make him mad. He does not show physical affection in public, but once in a while, if I take his hand, he'll squeeze it just to prove he could do it if he wanted to--he just doesn't want to. I'm a better grown-up with him than without him. I'm a better person with him than without him. Yup, he's the best thing I ever got. Thank the good Lord.

When the whole wide world is fast asleep

I used to wonder what it would be like to wander around during the night. I mean I'm basically a chicken, so going for a walk in the dark is not something I do on purpose. When I have to go out to close the garage doors after dark, I find myself hurrying. I live in suburbia for heaven's sake. What's going to get me? But I still think about it every now and then, walking around in the dark. What would it be like to not be afraid or to be so used to it that it didn't bother me any more. What kinds of people are comfortable in the dark? Policemen have to be I guess. And nightwatchmen. Security guards. People who stock shelves in stores are used to it I suppose. If you had to take a walk around your neighborhood in the dark, late at night, would you get freaked out? Some neighborhoods would--Camden for instance. Or some of those small little towns in the middle of the Pines. With the dogs barking in the distance and the rustling of leaves and twigs breaking (the Jersey Devil is out there, I just know it!) I'm going to do it, one night, I think. I'll take my husband along for protection. And a big honking flashlight that will last for a bazillion hours. Maybe over Christmas break. You know look at the decorations, get frostbite, who knows maybe meet a Hadrosaurus in the bargain. You never know what you'll see or hear. But I'll have to work up to it. Maybe next year.

In The Wee Small Hours

I love the above song for so many reasons. But I'm quoting tonight on it because I got to thinking about those hours in the night. The ones where you wake up after being asleep for a short amount of time and you cannot turn off the synapses for whatever reason and you find yourself staring at the tv or computer screen for hours on end without feeling the least bit sleepy. Or the evenings when you know you should be getting sleepy, tired, whatever you want to call it and well, you just aren't. You pick up a book that in the past has put you to sleep within an hour and suddenly it seems pretty interesting. You try playing countless games of computer solitaire and since you're winning so handily so frequently, you suddenly don't feel like stopping. The funny thing is, you know you'll pay for this in the morning. Monday morning rolls around and you're functioning on 2 hours of sleep and you know by noon you're gonna be mush. But you just can't stop, you just can't relax, you just can't stop thinking.

In the middle of the night is when I find I miss people the most. I used to ache for my dad in the middle of the night. I miss my kids then and my brothers. I see my sister with some regularity, so I don't find I miss her much--is that bad? I even dredge up folks that I haven't seen for umpty ump years, wondering where they are, what they are doing and do they ever think of me? And if they do, is it good?

The problem with those wee small hours is you pack a lot of what-ifs, do-overs, and I-can't-believe-I-said/did/thought that. It's not usually good reflections in the middle of the night. It's usually, for me anyway, regrets and remorse. I'm whining aren't I? Well, it is after all, the middle of the night. And no one is up to hear me.