What I Saw

Today as I came into the atrium of my office building, the crazy lady who always asks for a dollar and wears flip flops in the snow was standing outside the plate glass doors on the other side with a large tooth comb, fixing her hair just so. She focused on her reflection intently and took time to reach every strand, smoothing the salt and pepper mass into a sort of wind tousled submission. She went over the stubborn places several times, until all the hairs were smoothed to her satisfaction and finished her coif just as I arrived inside. I saw her quickly pocket her comb to shuffle over to the man taking a smoke break to ask for a dollar.

Laters.

Midnight Convo

For the past few days I’ve had either a small head cold or an allergy flare up. The nose is running and the eyes are watering and the sneezes abound. I’ve been taking Sudafed to combat the symptoms and it works pretty good, but as I am a medicine wimp, I only take one at a time and not the recommended two, and still , I get a pretty jittery feeling. Last night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned and looked at Facebook and did all kinds on mental sheep counting but nothing worked. Finally K said, “Can’t you sleep?” Which really means “Be still, I’m trying to sleep over here.” I said no and then I thought that I would share the fun, racing, jittery thoughts I was having with him.

J-“Babe”

K-“Hmmm…what?”

J-“Do you remember when we were in Dublin at Christ Church Cathedral and we saw the mummified cat and mouse?”

K-“Yes”

J-“Wasn’t that cool?”

K-“zzzz….snort, Yes”

J-“Babe, do you remember the curtains we had at our first apartment?”

K-“zzzzzz”

J-“Babe!”

K-“hmmm….yes… no, not really”

J-“says many other inconsequential things”

K-“snoozes and snores and replies occasionally”

THE GRAND FINALE

J- “Babe, do you like me?”

K-“Babe, I love you.”

J-“Tell me why you love me.”

K-“I love you when you are quiet and let me sleep.”

Laters.

On A Roll

There it sat; the lonely roll of toilet paper, far away from its spindle holder high on the wall. Why you ask? Why was the toilet paper lonely? It was I, I made it so because I am the only one, I said, THE ONLY ONE, who can put it lovingly on its holder to properly function for one and all. (did I write about this before? stop me if I have, no, no really don’t, its best to get it all out in the open)

I carefully considered it and I’ll have to say that this might be the thing that drives me crazy. I mean I say it all the time, (that I’m going crazy, I mean) but finding toilet paper on the floor while the bare, brown, cardboard tube dangles above just sends me into an instant state of rage. Did I just say rage? I know, geeze, see how shallow I am, how I lack self-control? Working on it now. Laters.

The Truth Is Out There...

How do you do your garbage? We do ours stinky, gooey and running over the can before ANYONE (ahem, me) will take it out. We like our garbage in bags that rip just enough to spill curlicues of dried cucumber peelings, eggshells and coffee grounds over the kitchen floor upon extraction from the can. We like bags that leak a bit from the bottom so that the whole can is infused with the delightful aroma of chicken packaging goop that sits for a few days marinating. Ah, there is nothing, nothing I tell you that can match that assault on a person’s sense of smell. We like to scrape moldy leftovers into the can and let them blossom into their full bouquet; just the delicate bloom of scent that lingers a bit too long in the air.

Since we’ve lived in our house, a yard dweller of the animal persuasion has made nightly forages to our gloriously smelly trash to take part in an epicurean smorgasbord and this particular animal without fail, knocks over all the cans, that I know are quadruple its own body weight. I blame the two sassy squirrels who live in the apple tree; they just have a guilty look about them in general. K thinks that it’s a raccoon, and as he scoops up the goopy, smelly garbage every morning, I’m sure he would skin whoever it was alive if he could catch them. The two of us invented a system of bungees and an old piece of wood to weight the cans down and secure them and it has been working well for the tipping over part, but the animal is still partaking in the feast as evidenced by the torn bags inside and the leftover scraps on the back porch. Yes, this animal can get the lids off the can. Don’t look at me; I’m just reporting the facts.

On Sunday night, Reag went out to put something in the recycling bin and came face to face with what may be the actual perpetrator, a very large skunk. When I asked him what he did, he nonchalantly replied, “I shut the door really fast.” Laters.

Pancake Breakfast

The hubs informed me that he thought it was a good idea if once or twice a week, we got up early and all had breakfast together as a family. My immediate thought was, “ghaahh… what? early? breakfast? cooking?”  I love my kids more than anything, but my idea of a healthy breakfast is eating a piece of toast wrapped in a paper napkin while running out the door. And my idea of morning is to lie in bed until the last possible second, sipping coffee with eyelids half open. I can get ready faster than anyone you’ve ever seen and it suits me to laze about and ease gently into the day.

So I said, “yeah, yeah,” and then hoped he’d forget his great idea, but then he reminded me last night as we went to bed, so I said “wake me up and I’ll make pancakes.” It sounded like an awesome, motherly thing to do at 10 p.m. at night and I had pancake mix so it also sounded easy. But at 6:30 a.m. I wasn’t as excited and I wondered why I had so many darn kids in the first place and why they wanted pancakes at 6:30 IN THE MORNING!

In retrospect, I’m not sure that they did want them, as they were mostly sitting dazed at the table with massive bed-head, looking puzzled at why they were awake so early, but the hubs and I were chipper and we served o.j. and chocolate milk with verve and pizzazz! In true Martha Stewart fashion, I offered the children their choice of pancakes; blueberry or plain and after much bartering on their part, I relented and made some with chocolate chips. ‘Cause that’s just the kind of good mother I am. Laters.

Perfect Sense

A small peek inside my head.

This morning while waiting on the train:

“Should I have worn boots? I have awesome new boots! I don’t know, is it too hot for boots? It’s cold now but it might warm up later, but then my legs would be hot all day, and these jeans aren’t right for boots anyway. Way to go, you buying those awesome boots on sale in July when no one thinks of boots. Are my skinny jeans clean? ‘Cause I’d have to wear those with the boots. Shoot! Laundry, I should have started a load before I left. Left, eek! I left my book at home, what to do, what to do on the train now? Do I have towels in the dryer?  Great, I didn’t give Sher lunch money. Should I have worn boots? I don’t know, is it too hot for boots? Oh, look here’s the train” ** slurps coffee**  Laters.

Last Time?

Breast MRI yesterday, which was exactly one year since the last and final lumpectomy. In typical fashion, I couldn't help but second guess all my treatment decisions while I was stuffed into the tube with the knocking and clicking, wondering if I had done enough, been aggressive enough. Still have a headache from all the noise, but no I.V. bruise which is a miracle. If I get the "all clear," then I suspect the worry wort in my brain will start to settle down a bit and I'll be able to put it all behind me. That sounds good. A year is long enough to deal with that kind of stuff. What I need now is a year of good things, like shoe shopping every day and lattes delivered to my desk every morning and a vacation to Bora Bora. Just look at this picture, this is where I need to be. Laters.