Spanks?

While reading The Weekly Shriek (one of my guilty pleasures) something caught my eye. Who ever thought of calling a pair of panties Spanx? But what else would you call a pair of form fitting panties to cover your backside?

They look too sheer to be the heavy laced, boned and often sadist garments my mother used to shimmy, slide and wiggle her way into when she and Dad were going out to the NCO club on Friday nights to play Bingo, and the name was a lot less BDSM -- they were called girdles -- but they amounted to the same, a way to strangle, sculpt, squeeze and otherwise force flab and fat into a less objectionable and, hopefully, more appealing shape. Of course, back in those days, no one thought about sex or having to extricate themselves from the torture garment and let their wobbly bits droop free just to watch their would-be sex partner's eyes go from lust-glazed eagerness to terrified right before they made the sign of the cross with their index fingers and frantically searched for the nearest exit. However, the need for something to trick someone into believing you work out, diet and/or have kept your figure is obviously still strong -- and still worth making money on. I will never understand how showing how smooth and slim and trim the panties/girdle make a lovely, fit and sexy young figure look has anything to do with what it actually looks like on a calorically challenged body, but advertising is all about sex -- or so says Brian Kinney.

I wonder if make-up, Spanx panties, Wonderbras, contacts to make your eyes more appealing (or alien) and all the rest of the special effects, tricks and camouflage that passes for fashion for those interested in attracting a mate, date or sex partner is actually worth it when you have to take most of it off to achieve your goals.

Okay. I'll shut up now.

No surprises here

I started my morning early today before the sun was even a glimmer on the horizon. I watched the mountains outside my windows bleeding in the coming dawn and then covered in golden light as the light brightened. The sky is a clear Colorado blue with a few wispy mare's tails and cotton puffs drift lazily overhead. It is chilly in the sunroom and the streets are finally quiet since the cars whizzed by on their way to work. A few scattered neighbors saunter to their cars and back out of their drives into the street before slipping away. Crows and blue jays chase each other around the trees where the branches are pregnant with green buds. Squirrels quarrel and wrestle, tumbling over and over in the crooks of a couple venerable old trees twisted and curved by the winds. Across the street one of the long time resident trees has grown up and around the black spindles of a Victorian black iron wicket fence, encompassing the cross bars and hinged wickets in its climb towards light and sky. It's a typical day.

That is, it was a typical day until I read this. I am not surprised, which is a crime in and of itself. I should wonder why government agencies exist, outside of their drain on taxpayer dollars and a place for some people to work, but I can only shake my head and remind the naive soul who passed along the information that we no longer have a government of, by and for the people, but a government steeped in collusion, graft and greed that has become of, by and for whoever has the most money to keep the officials in the style to which they have become accustomed.

What I wonder is what this will do to those people who live by milking the system with the kind of law suits that brought us warning labels on McDonald's coffee reminding us that hot means hot, child proof caps that people with arthritis cannot open but children can, and a field of endeavor looking for ways to blame obesity, heart disease and every modern day ill on someone else's products.

Yes, it's just another day in the neighborhood and I thank my lucky stars that I can stay here in my quiet room and make enough money to keep the roof over my head and the car in the parking lot instead of facing corporate America every day of the working week.

That is all. Disperse.

Morning?

Purple and violet and the heart of a fiery furnace low down on the horizon, the clouds and sky a pink haze. Across the road my mountains hunch beneath a slate blue sky, charcoal drifting across like the suggestion of clouds. The birds are singing and a woodpecker rat-t-t-t-t-t-t-tats somewhere nearby, stuttering against its perch looking for breakfast and some sleeping grub or bug huddled inside his bark bed. A few cars whisper by and another crow arcs across the rooftops. Morning crept up on me while I was reading and researching, sent into the cyberworld by a notice that Tor Books is looking for paranormal romance manuscripts. They are also looking for sf/f but the paranormal romance angle piqued my interest. Names and books were mentioned, hence the desire to research and read and check things out, increasing my list of holds at the library, which should keep me busy walking back and forth and getting some much needed exercise after three days of doing absolutely nothing but reading, eating, sleeping and catching up on my movie watching. (I was supposed to be painting this weekend but decided I needed a vacation, albeit a short one -- I'll take what I can get)

Outside of responding to Beanie's emails and phone calls, I have kept away from the computer and all things responsible for three days. I needed, as one friend calls it, a mental health break before my mental health breaks. If I have neglected you, I'm not sorry. I would understand if you needed to and did the same. That's just how I am.

Anyway, here I am up at dawn for the first time in three days and utterly in love with everything I see. Color, light, sound, life just as I left it before I shut the windows of my mind to anything outside these walls. Nice to know there are some things I can count on. Doesn't mean I will not continue with my current plans to hide away for one more day, but I am surfacing for air before I dive back between the covers and run back into the world of Lucifer, Leto, Rickey and G-man without a backward glance. Or maybe I'll take them on a walk to the park or some quiet restaurant where they don't mind if I sit and read and nosh very slowly for a couple hours.

NOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooo

This is one of those days when working in this sunlight room where the soft warm spring breezes through the windows bring the music of chimes, wind and bird song and make it difficult for me to sit here. Silver white branches at the tips of the trees beckon me outside and away from this computer. Cars, buses, trucks and people rush by in the streets below and the cotton cloud patchwork blue sky make me ache to run down and hitch a ride on a motorcycle or bike.

Here there is a phone people call to entice me with the latest telemarketing can't-miss buy or another company wanting my opinion about radio shows and television sitcoms I don't want to watch. Outside I can lose myself in the scents and sounds and feel of the sun warm on my skin and the fresh breeze whisking away the cobwebs and stresses that lie in wait here ready to remind me of responsibility, work, bills, money and the endless demands on my time and attention that I wish I could ignore.

The Evil One told me many times he wants to be a hobo. Ever time I see someone walk by outside with a backpack on their back, I know what the Evil One means. Right now, I want to be a hobo, too.

Just when I get comfortable...

...all hell breaks loose -- or a reasonable facsimile of hell.

Yesterday was difficult enough without my father having to go to the hospital, after dismissing two EMS vans, because he had a heart attack. It could have been worse. The last time this happened he was in the hospital for more than a week and had one of the valves replaced in his heart. The valve had exploded and he was drowning in his own blood. They don't seem to know what is wrong, except that he didn't have a myocardial infarction, which is medical speak for damage to the muscle of the heart. The problem is that he has a stent in one of the arteries and a prosthetic mechanical valve in his heart and blood tests won't show if there is damage to the valve or he has had a blockage of the stent. The fact that his color was bad, he had trouble staying conscious, and his heart was beating wildly irregularly should have clued them in that the valve or the stent were involved and the only way to tell what was going on was to do an echocardiogram, but what do I know? I'm not a cardiologist nor do I work for the VA hospital in Chillicothe. I guess more than two decades of typing up medical dictation and continually researching what I type up so I can be completely accurate hasn't helped me to understand anything, nor do the literally tens of thousands of abnormal and normal blood test results that have passed beneath my fast fingers and onto my screen.

To top all that off, the day shift nurses won't give me any information because I'm not my father's next-of-kin. Being a couple thousand miles away doesn't help when I threaten them either because they can't see my face or feel the anger and frustration rolling in waves off me. I had to call my father, who didn't know the name of the VA doctor and couldn't pronounce it if he did because the guy is Indian, to tell him to sign the forms so they can talk to me. I had much better luck with the male nurse on duty last night.

Here I am sending down roots and decorating my apartment, buying furniture, making plans for the future here and my family is falling apart back home, making me wonder if it wouldn't be a good idea for me to move back to Ohio if only to make sure things are done right and the rest of the family doesn't forget to give the right medical information to the people who need to know. The rest of the are pretty much hopeless and they forget the important stuff that I deal with every day.

Then again...maybe it's time they figured all this out for themselves. Meanwhile, back at Casa Victoriana, I'm having trouble focusing on work and resisting the urge to get on a plane and fly back to there kick butts and take names.

Every time I get comfortable something like this happens. Well, it could have been worse.

And I was looking forward to painting the woodwork and trim and finding just the right stencil to use as a border in the living room this weekend.

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Read at your own risk.

Lazy Saturdays

Sometimes I need a break. Time to relax, rewind, unwind, and recuperate from a busy and demanding week. Yesterday was that day. In fact, I didn't even change out of my Victoria's Secret gown. Instead, I lounged around on my new sofa, watched one hour of television, and read a great deal -- between naps, of course.

I jockeyed back and forth between Historical Deception and Asking For Trouble -- basically between a heavy meal of meat and junk food. I'm still plowing through Egypt and finding much I didn't know and some things I did know. Always an interesting proposition. The junk food, however, was quite tasty and went very well with the fat free orange sherbet that failed to last as long as the laughs and tears.

Asking For Trouble is the basis for last year's The Wedding Date with Debra Messing and Dermot Mulroney. The movie bombed but it wouldn't have if the director had stuck faithfully to the book. He threw out anything that wasn't Hollywood enough: a heroine obsessed with her "wobbly bits" and fearing that everyone, including her hired date, saw her as desperate; an escort who wasn't a hooker; the reason for needing an escort in the first place; her friends' collusion and help/harm; and everything good about the book. The bride became a self-absorbed, vapid blonde who sees herself as the center of the universe instead of a confused, naive girl doing what everyone expected of her. Gone was the mystery, the suspense, the absolutely hilarity of Elizabeth Young's dialogue and convoluted situations. All this in favor of a less than satisfying, much less than mediocre piece of tripe that had little worth watching outside of Mulroney's cynical smile and six-pack abs and Messing's dithering and ill-timed spasms. It worked for Will & Grace certainly does not translate well to the big screen. It makes Messing seem a one-note wonder. The book, as always, was far better.

My one hour of TV was taken up by George Carlin's You Are All Diseased. As always, he made wonderful and salient points with his careful rapier-point wit and intelligence. Nothing and no one was spared, not even soccer moms and involved fathers who believe their children are all geniuses warranting special treatment and unfettered attention.

Reminds me of Arthur Miller's plays, specifically, The Man With All The Luck, All My Sons, and Death of a Salesman. The fathers in all three plays had the same problem: giving too much to one or two sons and ignoring the others, thereby ruining the sons who got all the attention and making certain the ignored sons lived productive and rich lives. Puts a whole new spin on the way things are done today when parents have been shamed and forced into living their lives for their children and forgetting they also have lives to live, lives they put on hold for children who have become the conspicuous and stellarly spectacular consumers of today who let nothing and no one stand in their way to gather material possessions.

I don't mean that parents should ignore their children, but rather provide guidance and support and let their children become independent, productive individuals ready to fly the nest and build nests of their own. It is definitely time to take another look at Miller's plays, not only because of the human truths they portray in such vivid and uncomplicated language, but also because there are some lessons that have been forgotten and ignored.

Now it's time for me to tuck in and do the chores I left undone yesterday so I can face the work week with a clean plate and a healthy appetite.

The birds are singing...

...outside and there is an ice dagger growing down from the eaves outside the window in front of my desk. I wonder how long it will take before it finally snaps off and how long it will grow. The mountains are behind a sheer white veil and the sky is blue behind the grey-white haze. Sunlight peers weakly through the clouds gaining strength as the day grows older. Day is perfectly balanced with night for this moment and the hours of daylight grow stronger sending curls of anticipation shooting through me, coaxing me outside into the cold with promises of warmth and sun and growing things. That's what the birds are singing about.

The birds were silent yesterday morning as the snow storm moved closer, but the squirrels still raced up and down the trees, probably keeping warm. I worked night before last so I could finish work early yesterday. My new tables and a microwave were delivered. The delivery driver was late, but that gave me plenty of time to finish touching up the walls where the color looked a little thin. Up and down the ladder until my legs ached, repositioning the ladder, painting, touching up and generally getting a lot more exercise, I hustled to make room for the new furniture. I was too fussy and didn't get done, but the driver was nice enough to take away some boxes for me since he was so apologetic about not being here on time. Ben, the driver, was sweet and I told him it wasn't a problem waiting and not his fault. He got caught in traffic. He smiled and thanked me and drove off whistling. Makes me wonder how other people reacted when he was late.

The landlady came up to look at the paint job and said it looked like it belonged in the bedroom, but my bedroom will be Wedgewood blue with gold accents and sheers. I'm not sure if I like the green yet, but when I got the furniture moved around and the pictures back on the wall it began to grow on me. I suspect once I get the trim and woodwork done, the stenciling along the ceilings in place and some area rugs in there it will look fabulous. It's looking good now. I need to get bulbs for the lamps but the candy apple red of the bases is just the right touch. I can't wait to put up the red wine sheers and maybe give in an buy a couple sofa parasites (that's pillows to the rest of you) in bright primary colors.

Well, back to work to earn enough to pay for this smorgasbord of decorating. Enjoy the day.

Minding my own business...

...doing my work and the Evil One decides to send me a provocative message and a link for watching a man playing with his balls. How can I be a productive worker when he's sending me stuff like that? Between the jokes and quips and puns and the general enjoyment of chatting with him, I have a feeling it's a good thing I worked last night.

But now here comes hypatia360 and a guy with real balls. Stick it out to the end and you will be rewarded with even more balls. I'm never going to get any work done today and I have a microwave and tables being delivered this afternoon.

That is all. Disperse.

Oh, the pain...

The spring-like weather is gone and it has been snowing steadily since yesterday. The snow is so heavy with moisture it can't even drift on the winds whining past the windows. It falls to the ground like a beer swilling, barrel-bellied Super Bowl Sunday, pizza and snack machine drops into his favorite recliner in front of the TV. Everything is mounded and drifted with white and the air is heavy with sheets of falling crystals. My mountains are invisible behind the white out drapes of a winter storm on this day before spring and the cold battles with the meager heat from my space heater. The landlady turned off the furnace when the weather got warm.

And now there's work to do and my fingers and hands and every muscle attached to those muscles and attached to every other muscle in my body are throbbing and aching from painting this weekend. I have to put the living room back together before the new coffee and end tables arrive tomorrow afternoon and the laundry is still humped on the bed because I didn't have enough energy to fold and hang and put it all away. Needless to say, there is also work to be done and I will be focusing on that since this weekend I have to focus on putting together and putting out another issues of the Ø-Beat newsletter for the local ham organization. My plate is full and my cup runneth over. There are worse things in the world. Like...

I'll think of something when the rest of my brain wakes up. For now, I'm off to bring the space heater closer, put some breakfast in the oven, and take a long hot shower before tackling the day and evening's work. I may even get to bed by 1 AM tomorrow morning -- and I still have Ostara to plan for and celebrate. I was hoping for daffodils and tulips and crocuses and amaryllises and...well...spring.

So that's how you do it...

I knew before I crawled into bed last night that a day of painting had affected every single solitary muscle in my body -- and not in a good way. But that was just my first impression. My second impression was that I was still alive because everything hurt like a chronically aching tooth all over my body, except for my jaws. I didn't talk much yesterday because there was no one to talk to and because I was resting my vocal cords from the strain I put on them a few days ago when I sang for over six hours (my version of spring fever) without warming up first.

But how do you warm up for painting?

Wax on-wax off? The Miyagi painting method with a brush?

Wouldn't work. I was used a roller and an edging pad. Different set of muscles altogether. I did find I prefer the two-handed method of using the roller, which is a good thing because my triceps (that part under my arm that hangs and sways heavily in the least breeze or with movement) are equally sore. Somehow I managed to even work the muscles above my glutes. My back doesn't hurt, but the muscles on either side of my spine and along my sides definitely took notice of the activity. My feet, legs, knees, shins, calves, thighs and hamstrings definitely got into the act, as did all the muscles from my fingertips to my shoulders and back. Strangely enough my neck isn't sore either, just pleasantly relaxed. Must be all those years of holding my head up. I have not been this tired and sore or felt this energetic, despite the sharp reminder of yesterday's activities, since I lifted weights six hours a day six days a week in my twenties.

Suddenly, a light bulb goes off in my head as I argue with my body about staying in bed and rest my battered body instead of getting up and adding insult to injury. I worked out with weights and machines, swam, walked, sweated, grunted and groaned for thousands of hours and didn't get this much of a workout. I don't think it was because I was in better shape back then but because painting is more of workout. Instead of doing a three-day split working upper and lower body alternately, going from machine to machine, free weight to free weight, painting is much more efficient. Even taking breaks and not working quickly, I have found the secret. Painting is how to lose weight, improve muscle tone and increase lung capacity (by gulping fresh air with your head out the nearest window to clear the lungs of paint fumes).

There are other benefits to the painting workout. More people doing the painting body tone program would need rooms and houses to paint. The increase in painting would mean a boost to the painting manufacture industry. More color. More tools. More business. You could set up a gym in the nearest derelict house or building and paint, thus giving the neighborhood and the property a boost in look and appeal, making it more attractive to potential buyers looking for an affordable property, which would also drive out the criminal element, scurrying from the color and light like roaches in the kitchen when the light is turned on, thus bringing down the crime rate, raising property values and giving new life to old neighborhoods. I imagine once all the houses and apartment buildings are painted, you could start all over where you began because you'd be tired of the old color. Everyone wins. Healthier, fitter bodies and profound social and urban impact. What more could you want from an exercise program?

Okay, who wants to write the book and pose for the photographs? It's a billion-dollar industry just waiting for some far-sighted entrepreneur. I'd offer, but I have to go finish painting the living room, move around the furniture and collapse for as long as my bladder holds out.

Who knew...

...the world would turn into a self serve automat where there's no one at the controls? Wal-Mart at 8 AM is full of shoppers but the clerks and cashiers are absent. All the self serve check out stands are operating with helpful instructions in English and Spanish and a touch screen for those really hard choices -- like how you're going to pay for your purchases. Self serve gas, check out stands at grocery and retail stores, and salad bars (which really aren't too bad since you get what you want). Does no one care about personal contact any more?

Okay, I shop online because that way I don't have to fight the crowds or wait interminably in line, and I don't have to carry it home, just up the stairs from the front porch. And I can shop while I work, but when I get out into the world I like to know I'm not Neville shopping the dust-covered, debris blown aisles for canned food that isn't bulging before the sun goes down and Matthias and the Family come out of hiding. It isn't that I mind being alone, just that once in a while when I venture out into the world I want to see the faces and hear the voices of other people, especially the customer service type that answer questions, blend paint, and handle the cash register at the check out stand. After all, 8 AM isn't that ungodly an hour, especially in stores that stay open 24/7/364. Is that too much to ask?

It was helpful though that the local liquor store was open at 9 AM so I could buy my burgundy (that ended up being Bordeaux) so I can make boeuf bourguinon with an assortment of mushrooms (portobello, Shiitake, crimini), pearl onions, and a deep earthy gravy spiked with porcini mushroom powder and hazelnut flour. First time in the store and the clerk greeted me at the door and offered helpful suggestions, in addition to guiding me around since I'd never been there before, as well as being quite knowledgeable and friendly. Now that is customer service. Too bad the rest of the retail world hasn't figured that out yet.

I'll shut up now.

Off to see the wizard...

...of paint.

For the first time in my life I am not going to live in a house or apartment with someone else's idea of what constitutes a good color scheme. You could say that white is a good color, but I am tired of institutional colors. Since this is my home I have decided to make it my home. Luckily, the landlady is amenable to my plans. She said my attitude is more like a European's. I can live with that.

So, I am showered, combed and nearly dressed (need to put on a top over my lacy bra). I'll get something to eat (already cooking in the oven) and I'm out of here. I'll spend my weekend perched precariously on a wobbly ladder cutting in at the ceiling and around the door frames before I haul out the paint rollers and turn my living room from a featureless landscape of white decorated with carefully positioned cardboard box tables into a colorful background of light sage green, baseboards and wood trim accented in a white touched with just enough sage green to look like the glossy wood reflects the walls, and where jewel bright primary colors accent windows, floor and the new end tables that arrive on Tuesday. I had some help picking out the tables from the Evil One who is still probably shaking his head as to why I asked his opinion. Simple, I want him to feel comfortable here and like he's a part of the process that changes me from an itinerant wanderer passing through town into a deeply rooted denizen.

Too bad he doesn't have the time to come do the teetering ladder climbing. He has a much better head for heights than I do. But I will do as I always do, grit my teeth, take a deep breath and climb.

I certainly hope the man behind the curtain is truly a wizard of paint and not a lost charlatan with a few technological tricks up his sleeves.

That is all. Disperse and do something nice for yourself.

Just nothin'

I can't sleep. Well, I was asleep and woke up and can't get back into sleep mode. So here I am at the computer in the middle of the night reading LJ and wondering if I'll be able to sleep a couple more hours before I have to get up and work. Probably not. I'm in reading and writing mode and sleep mode is offline for the nonce.

The moon is a glaring white disk in the black night sky criss-crossed with twisted black branches just like in The Nightmare Before Christmas. Looks like a backdrop instead of the real thing. Some night owl U-Hauled past the house a few minutes ago, appearing briefly in the orange sodium vapor light at the corner and dissolving into the darkness after he turned. Only Venus winks in the distance, a single bright pinpoint of light in the black.

I can't understand why I'm unable to get back to sleep. Things are going so well for me right now. The week has been full of surprises and opportunities and the rekindling of excitement and amorous possibilities. Things haven't been this good in ages. Maybe that's the problem: everything is going good and I can't believe it. Someone could die, someone I like. Someone could land a plane in the sunroom and keep me from working so I'd have to finally do the laundry. Someone could tell me it's all a dream like Bobby Ewing the season he came back from the dead via the steamy shower. Or maybe I'm just anxious because I'm putting down deep roots and painting the living room this weekend (and, yes, finally doing the laundry). Or maybe it's all just nothin' more than a reason to get up out of a warm bed where I rested happily in Morpheus's arms and the usual sounds and smells of this hour of the morning I'm missing intruded on the peace and harmony of a normal Friday. Or could I just be tired and unable to find escape from deciding not to live and work as a journalist in Antarctica for seven months and the toe-tapping, foot jiggling, antsy and can't sit still eternity of waiting to be enfolded once again in my lover's arms.

Maybe I should just crawl back between the now cold sheets, take matters into hand, and drift back to more exotic shores where I can cadge a couple more hours of erotic bliss before the flames of dawn burn away the darkness.

Hands up! Spread 'em!

Saturday morning I didn't feel like doing the laundry I needed to get done in order to not have to drag out the really fancy undies to keep from going kamikaze until I could drum up enough enthusiasm to make the trek downstairs, outside in the cutting winds, across the ice-rimed paving stones arranged so artfully around the side of the house, through the gate and around to the laundry room door with an unwieldy basket of clothes. So I stayed in bed with a few books. I didn't even venture into the eye searingly bright sunroom to check my email or gaze in rapt awe at the mountains outside the window over my desk hidden behind the gray wall of mist and clouds until past ten. When I finally shielded my light sensitive eyes and walked into the light I expected to see the quiet Saturday street preserved in winter white. What I found was a teeming mass of people bundled up against the harsh winds and flying shards of sleet weaving between cars cruising for a parking space in the packed parking lot my neighborhood had become. I was still immersed in Arthur Miller's play about The Man Who Had Too Much Luck and hadn't landed back here in my quiet, predictable world. It took me a few minutes to realize everyone was battling the cold to see the St. Patrick's Day Parade and 5K run (I just found out about the 5K). I briefly considered putting on a sweater and jacket and braving the cold for hot dogs and excitement before climbing back into bed with Miller.

The rest of the day crept slowly along in a haze of plays and movies I hadn't had the time to see and considered sending back to NetFlix unviewed, basking in the warmth of the space heater next to the new chaise where I lounged with my books, paper journal, pens, and ever present bottle of water for the rest of the day. I finally roused enough to check my email only to find the street outside deserted except for four police cruisers and a K-9 unit circling the block again and again. The cruisers looked like giant's toys scattered haphazardly on the street where the giant's child dropped them at his mother's call. There were no cops in the cruisers so I edged closer to the window and looked up and down the street looking for them like some nosy old woman scenting gossip on an errant wind. I'd have peeked through the shutters or drapes if I had any, but my windows are bold brazen eyes staring down onto the neighborhood without even a veil strategically draped, which accounts for me wearing more clothes when I work -- that and because it's also a mite chilly in the sunroom even with double-paned windows in vinyl frames.

It is always so peaceful and quiet here on the west side of town, so peaceful people think twice before locking their doors at night, certain there is no evil in the world we share here, so it is doubly unnerving to see a cadre of cruisers parked on our quiet streets with no cops inside. In other times, other places I wouldn't have looked twice, knowing they were after some drug dealer or fleeing felon (especially once having had my home invaded by cops in pursuit of someone as they burst in through my front door, racing past me as they jerked open the back door and jumped off the back porch), but here such a show of force in the absence of a donut sale at Dunkin' Donuts raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

I scanned the houses and streets for some sign of the cops while the K-9 unit circled the block every two minutes. Nothing. No cops. No shots fired. No crackle of unintelligible cop speak through the open windows as I shook with cold and waited...

...and waited...

...and waited...

...and stared as four cops burst through the tangle of winter bare weeds and piled branches between the brand new house and the modest Victorian across the street. The K-9 unit paused briefly as they trampled through the crystal powder swirling across the brown and yellow grass then drove on. The cops got into their cruisers and drove away, leaving behind an uneasy sense our peace had been irreparably shattered. The mountains hid behind the thickening gray wall of mist and clouds and shards of ice ticked against the windows. Evening closed in and the yellow light of the street lamps wavered through the thickening night beneath skeletal branches scratching wildly in the rising howl of the wind.

I locked my door and crawled back beneath the warm lap blanket on the chaise, flicking through the channels before finally turning off the TV and diving back into Miller's Brooklyn world where an old salesman faltered and fell into brighter memories of the past where the cruel harshness of the present intruded indiscriminately.

Can't get back on track

I woke up really late this morning. Not a good start for a busy day. I did, however, work a double shift yesterday with three hours' sleep, which is probably why I overslept, but I still have a lot to do and just can't seem to find my pace. Good thing for the Evil One because he reminded me the furniture guy was coming today to fix the chaise: two split legs and a split and bent cross piece. I hadn't showered or eaten and I certainly wasn't dressed. In short, I looked like I just got out of bed after a long rough night. Good thing though.

The furniture guy (very cute in that rugged, athletic, sexy, manly smelling way) put my ticket in the paid file because his company sent the guy out to steam clean the furniture on Wednesday and would have missed the appointment had I not called in a panic to find out when he would be here. Worked out for both of us. I got a shower and he came by to expertly repair my brand new chaise.

I will never understand why furniture makers no longer take pride in their work and make it to last. At these prices, they should have used something much sturdier as a stabilizer than 1/4" plywood. That's a job for solid wood -- like the 2x4 the furniture guy put in place. Now when I sit down on the chaise it doesn't sound or feel like it's about to collapse and I'm not afraid to put up my feet, which is why I bought the chaise in the first place.

So, thanks to working a double shift with very little sleep, an intelligent body that takes over and makes sure I get enough sleep, the Evil One for reminding me I had someone coming over today, and my sense of self preservation and panic to make sure I wasn't caught looking like a wild-haired hag who had been rode hard and put up wet or there would be stories floating around town about the wicked old witch with snakes for hair that lives over in Old Colorado City.

Here's to the happy accidents that surprise us and keep us on our toes.

Hell hath no fury

It is obvious that I need to be careful around the Evil One or he will corrupt me even more than he has already. A simple conversation or him telling me about some movie or book that had him riveted with laughter or whatever and I'm off and running to see what the shouting is all about. This time he dangled another bit of winning bait before me.

No doubt about it, Kurt Russell is still the hottest commodity around and the most versatile and believable actor. The Evil One's latest dangling bait concerns Breakdown about a yuppie couple moving from Boston to San Diego in their brand new fire engine red Jeep Cherokee. Amy and Jeff are living on their credit cards because they have both quit their jobs and are moving to San Diego to a new life and new jobs. One moment Jeff wasn't paying attention and he nearly crashes into a mud splattered truck fitted for driving around in the desert and crosses over into a reality where nothing is as it seems. And thus the adventure begins and doesn't let go until the very last moment when Amy has her revenge.

The Evil One was right. This movie keeps your interest every second of its run and doesn't let go. Heaven help you if you're catching it on a movie channel and not on DVD or on commercial TV where you can get up and go to the bathroom once in a while because you're not going to want to get up and miss a single nanosecond. Blink and you will definitely miss something crucial.

I guess I'll just have to put up with his insidious dangling bits of bait because he is usually right and knows me so well that he gets me every time in his diabolical traps of sharing ideas and dreams and succulent tidbits.

Besides, the Evil One is cute, too.

That is all. Go find Breakdown and settle in for a wild and hair raising ride.

Blue days

I am so used to seeing dogs on leashes with their owners following behind or to the side with plastic bags around their hands to scoop up the droppings. Not today. A beautiful two-year-old German Shepherd found a little square of ragged yellow-brown grass at the corner across the street, turned, assumed the tail-up position and let nature run its course. He took a quick sniff and bounded across the street. I watched for his owner to scoop the proof but all that followed was a black mutt with a white blaze on his nose, bounding across the street like an excited puppy seeing his family in the doorway. The evidence the dogs existed is still across the street in the little pie slice of green and brown surrounding by cement curbing. I can just hear the buzzing of interested flies in between the trilled warbles of bird song drifting through my window on the rising breeze. The sky is an impossible heart wrenching Colorado blue where the bare trees scratch the air with skeletal fingered twigs.

The weather has been beautiful the past few days and every time I look out the window I expect to see green buds lining the twiggy ends of tree branches just like the bright green spears of crocus and tulips thrusting up through the black soil in the yard downstairs. The grass is brown, but the promise of spring and the end of winter's sleep is in those bright green spears ripping through the cold and silent ground.

There is the faint scent of dust on the wind mingling with the clean fresh scent of rushing breezes busily sweeping streets and windows and air and my mind clear of winter's must and dust. I am anxious for more of these beautiful bright blue days but I know winter is struggling with spring and winter will win a few more bouts before spring's pastel flags and green spears are victorious. The mountain outside my window will be softened and shadowed by buds and leaves before long, but like the impossible blue Colorado sky it will remain a constant reminder of the strength and beauty right outside my door beckoning me ever closer.

More satanism

woke this morning to a molten copper horizon that lit bands of clouds with fiery orange light as the sun rose. The first thing that popped into my mind was the old sailor's poem: Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor take flight. Of course the sky wasn't quite red but it was obviously a warning that this day would be full of something akin to danger -- the idea that Harry Potter leads children to satanism.

I don't know where the Vatican gets off saying that Harry Potter leads to worshiping the devil, but I would have chosen a much more suitable focus for my claims, like The Ninth Gate or anything that glamorizes working or being an advocate for the devil, but since The Ninth Gate didn't make nearly as much money as J. K. Rowling's books about wizards, witches, and the honor, strength, responsibility, and growing friendship of three children battling evil in all its forms. Declaring Harry Potter is the road to satanism and a sure need for exorcism is like saying taking an aspirin for a headache is the next step to mainlining heroin or snorting cocaine. Maybe doing more than 3000 exorcisms in 20 years has something to do with it? Or then again, maybe he hasn't heard about the first satanic bedtime story called The Little Satanist. Only on eBay.

I wonder what the Vatican has to say about the wars in heaven.

That is all. Disperse. There are lots of red skies ahead of us morning and night.

Another day in paradise

The week began fitfully. I nearly forgot Beanie's birthday on Monday. Not something I usually do, at least not since just before I turned 10 when she was born that Saturday during The Jackie Gleason show. I sent her card just under the wire and I called to make sure she knew I hadn't forgotten her. She told me she got a call from Jimmy and Carol that morning but not from me and wasn't going to call or email to see if I really did forget. She was being a brat again, which is normal for her. I'm sure this year will be fodder for future reminders of the time I nearly forgot her birthday.

The rest of the week was full of work, work, and more work, as well as a meeting with the board of directors of the local ham radio group. I went loaded for bear because I had every intention of fighting for my position as newsletter editor. I rehearsed what I would say and remind them of their checkered history with past newsletter editors who hadn't done their job at all and that, despite deciding in September to appoint me to the position of editor-in-chief and not telling me about it until December, they had not given me the information and tools necessary for a smooth transition by January 1st, and that I refuse to do a half-assed job just to put out something. I don't work that way. Turns out I didn't have to do anything. They nearly begged me to take the job. I guess they figured out quickly that it was not the walk in the park they thought it would be, especially since they have not had one person volunteer to step into the position over the two years the previous editor begged to be relieved of the job. I'm satisfied and I can save the big guns for later.

I have a growing stack of books to be read and reviewed and authors send me more requests about twice a week every single week. I did, however, get a plum assignment from Author Link to read and review Arthur Miller's collection of plays put out by the Library of Congress. The book is beautifully bound with a ribbon bookmark on crisp thick paper and one I will definitely keep and not donate to the local library system, as I do with most of the books I read and review.

And speaking of reviews, my latest review is available for those of you who read such things.

Valentine's Day left me with only a heart-shaped box of candy from Nel next door and tired fingers from pounding the keyboard all day. Wednesday and Thursday were nothing special because I was waiting for Friday so that friends, family, strangers, and establishments could make it up to me for my birthday. I wasn't disappointed.

A phone call at 12:01 AM woke me from a satisfying dream of designing the winner signature gown that put all the Project Runway remaining four contestants in the dust in season two. The winning gown will be worn by Iman. It was a simple gown that was well constructed, but back in Ohio when I designed costumes for various organizations, like the Columbus Metropolitan Opera, Columbus Light Opera Society, several theater groups, and plays at The Leo Yassenoff Jewish Center, I did far riskier and more interesting work. In fact, most of my private clients wore gowns and outfits that put them square on the society pages in The Columbus Dispatch, the local politically correct rag. Anyway, back to the phone call.

It was a new dating prospect who wanted to be the first to wish me happy birthday -- and he was. We had plans to meet for dinner at my favorite restaurant but he called later in the day with car trouble and would be stuck in Pueblo overnight, so we changed our plans to meet for dinner tonight instead. I have to say he is one persistent insurance salesman determined to take up all my free moments and dating time, although he didn't manage to wish me happy birthday 51 times as he promised.

However, I did manage to gather a little loot yesterday in celebration of the anniversary of my birth. A lovely and exotic kalanchoe with lightly greenish tinged white flowers was delivered yesterday afternoon while I was relaxing with dye on my Pepe Le Pew roots. It came from Mark in Cleveland and is the first plant to take up residence here, but not the last, I can assure you. I have plans for this haunted set of rooms in this old Victorian. Beanie called and sang "Happy Birthday" to me and my favorite person in the whole world greeted with me an effusive birthday greeting that kept me smiling all day. He's stopping by today with my gift, so I get two days of celebration this year. My landlady called me and sang "Happy Birthday" as well and told me she was sending up a batch of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies as a gift -- and she included two helpings of a baked tortilla casserole that was out of this world. I might not have had dinner out last night, but dinner in was really great. Lynn called with birthday wishes and her wife, Chuck, (funny story) wished me well, too. I received a lovely e-card from my oldest friend back in Ohio and my parents added their greetings when I called to check on my father's preliminary prostate biopsy results report (there was none and we have to wait a week). Nel next door gave me a gorgeous card and told me my gift was back ordered and in the mail. All in all, a very good celebration.

I also received an 8 x 11 picture of my mother standing next to one of the smaller Lucky Dog carts (I pushed a much bigger cart) in New Orleans. I have to have it framed, but I may have it matted and framed for my bare walls.

Now that Mark is temporarily unemployed, he mentioned coming back to visit for a few days and said he might even drive out and bring his tools to help me build an entertainment center for the living room, book shelves, and a desk for the sun room where I work every day so I can put my ham radio rig and my computers on one sturdy surface and have a more convenient place to work. Mark said he'd also help me put up window treatments and paint, so he must be considering sticking around for more than a weekend. Could be interesting.

The best present I received this year was watching the tree-hating orc wench's hunky husband and sons packing up their house and putting everything into a big truck to move out yesterday. The new tenants for Lon Chaney's old house are Mike and Michelle, a newlywed couple. How's that for a birthday gift?

Well, I have to do my Saturday chores (cleaning, laundry, dishes, changing linens) and pick out what I'm going to wear this evening at dinner, so it's time for me to shut up.

That is all. Disperse.