Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Elegia, Remembered
The following is an attempt at horror writing for the Wordsmiths monthly challenge. It contains depictions of violence, sex, violent sex, nudity, death, revenge, and more death. The faint of heart or the easily offended should stop reading right now and come back tomorrow.

For the rest of you, read on.

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Elegia, Remembered.

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(Photo courtesy of www.Opacity.us)


Elegia, once called Caoimhe, remembered it all. She remembered the knock on the door in the middle of the night. She remembered the shouted “witch” and her wrists being bound behind her and the Our Fathers her terrified mother whispered. She remembered the damp cold of the fall night as the moon shone on the frosty Scottish highlands.

Elegia remembered being shoved through the chapel door by the butcher and the leer of the priest as she fell, skirts rising to her knees. She remembered being hauled to her feet as the priest loomed near, his fingers tearing at her bodice and blouse. She remembered how the cold air made her nipples hard, and how her breasts shook as he slapped them, exhorting her to call out her sins in repentance.

She remembered his anger when she did not seek the Lord’s succor. The holy water he threw at her belly chilled as he made her kneel on the stone cobbles of the chapel floor. He raised her skirts over her haunches and pressed her forward; his stiffness pushed into her unwilling virginity as the butcher filled her mouth. The slap of priestly skin against her thighs and the bulk of butcher in her throat as they grunted and thrust shocked her silent, until the priest pulled free, re-entering her most rudely, ripping screams of pain and outrage out around the gag of the butcher’s thick flesh.

Elegia remembered the butcher throwing the rope over the rafter. They stripped her skirts away; she was naked in the chapel with her hands fixed behind her. They bound her to the rope, slapping her naked flanks and shouting “whore” and “witch.” The butcher yanked, the rope pulled her arms up behind her, each vicious tug tearing sinew from bone. Her feet left the floor, her body’s weight tore armbones from shoulders. Elegia howled and kicked; tears, snot, and sweat comingling as she struggled against the final awful wrench. When it was finished she hung high from the rafters; broken and sobbing as blood and the priest’s seed dripped down her legs.

She remembered dying, her last bitter exhalation accompanied by a vengeful prayer, a final secret marking of the murderous pair.

The ascension, the forgiveness, the charge, the permission, the return, she remembered.

Clearest of all, she remembered the haunting. The butcher, caught in self-abuse, falling backward in terror onto a long knife when she appeared, blazing, before him. The ghastly whiteness of the priest’s shocked face as she materialized through the confessional door, her hair blowing in the wind stirred by her blood-red wings. His begging for mercy, her acid laugh, his long years of torture at her unexpected apparitions. Watching him fade over the years, his own guilt killing him as sure as her haunting did.

The funerals she remembered, knowing she’d escorted their souls to Hell after dipping a wingtip in their still-warm blood.

Elegia remembered all of it as she flew through the crumbling chapel walls, and smiled.

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My heartfelt thanks to Q for valuable insights and opinions. Your input made this story far better than it would have otherwise been.
 
with major LURVE from tiff 10:15 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Monday, October 30, 2006
Titratia lives
My redundant uvula sucks ass.

Wait, no. that's not it.

My redundant uvula and soft palate suck major ass.

Stupid snoring. Stupid sleep test. Insanely stupid CPAP machine with the unbelievably stupid mask made of some godawful mystery material that, get ready for it: I'M ALLERGIC TO! Ass suckage! Major!!

OK, for the record, I know I'm allergic to the paper tape stuff that hospitals use to attach IV lines and to hold down surgical dressings. I know this because after I had a c-section I had a line for IV fluids and a line for drugs as well as a large swath of gauze on my belly, all held in place by the paper tape, and on the second day when I said that those tape places were itching and burning I was told that it was normal and on the third day when the burning was more like SEARING and any slight tug on any of those areas made me well up in tears I told them that this was NOT at all normal and so they agreed to take off the tapes, pulling away some of my blistered flesh with it at which point the nursing staff allowed as to how I might indeed be allergic to that stuff and not to use it in future, and so I didn't.

So, because of that little episode I was prepared to have a touch of discomfort from the tape that's used to hold down all the skin-based electrodes applied in the follow-up sleep study I underwent this weekend, and was again rewarded with raw places on my throat and chest.

Hoo-freaking-ray.

What I was not prepared for, and could not have anticipated, was that I am apparently allergic, and mightily so, to the material from which the CPAP machine mask is fashioned. Oh yes! I am!

(An aside - The mask, in addition to being hyperallergenic, is ugly. Just needed to say that. It looks like something a water-dwelling creature (with a nose!) might use if it were required to do business on land and needed to remain hydrated in a manner that would allow communication through speech....like a tiny nose-mask in which water from a bubblah-tank strapped to its back would be drawn in through the "nose" and into book lungs (or somesuch alternate oxygen-scavenging apparatus similar to what lungfish probably have). Aside over.)

In the middle of the long night, on, oh, perhaps my 10th random awakening, I noted to myself that the places where the mask was touching hurt. A lot. I chalked this up to how tightly it was seated on my face and, if I was to use this contraption of the rest of my life, I'd eventually get used to the tightness, much like I had to get used to wearing glasses.

On the 12th awakening, I noticed a burning sensation.

On the 15th, there was actual searing, and a distinct twinge of real pain.

At 5:30 a.m., when the nice monitor lady came in to "wake me up" (the assumption being that I had actually ever been asleep), I lifted that mask free of my nose as fast as I could, and winced, because I think a little bit of skin went with it.

As I was cleaning the gel and sticky cream (mind out of the gutter, y'all!) from the electrode spots off my face, the deep red patches on either side of my nose and a marked ridge underneath of it were more than readily apparent. These were no ordinary pressure points, no run-of-the-mill temporary irritations. They all hurt. A lot. And were hot. And raised.

When I expressed concern over their appearance, I was told to "put some lotion on them spots" when I got home, and so I did. Nice, regular, everday face lotion. Which hurt. A lot. (another aside - Face lotion doesn't usually hurt.)

Hmmm, something's wrong, I thought.

Boy, howdy, was I right. The "something wrong" turned out to be a localized wheal and flare reaction that turned icky and zitty and hella painful on Day 2. Friends, I have never had acne, per se, and now I feel ever so badly for those of y'all who did, because if it is anything like what I am experiencing that shit HURTS! Holy God!

And is, you won't be surprised to learn, so, so attractive. Why, who would NOT want thickened cardinal-red skin surrounding their nose? Who would NOT want every.single.damned.pore. to fill with pus? Who would NOT want to have bright red zitty freaking SKIN on their FACE ? Who would NOT want the thickened zitty skin to crust over and scab?

Anyone? Hmmmm?

I swear, surgery is looking good right now. Even WITH only a 50% sucess rate, it would be worth the risk to avoid that damned mask and rash. Plus, even though the surgery would involve pain during recuperation, I'm pretty sure it WON'T involve acne.

Sounds like a deal to me.

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Tomorrow - spooky story, for adults only. Don't let your kids surf to Auntie Tiff's on Hallowe'en, for they might learn a few things best not learned by anyone under 21.

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Oh, and before I forget - this weekend was perhaps the most perfect weekend, weather-wise. that I have experienced in my entire life. I love fall afternoons when the temps are in the upper 60's and the sky is that insane blue and the puffy clouds are scattered over the horizon. The moon was out during the day, a waxing crescent hanging in the sky. The trees are finally getting their fall colors, albeit a tad muted, and the smell of freshly-cut grass mingled with the scent of woodsmoke. Ah, fall!

Thing 1 and Thing 2 accompanied me on a little trip to our local town park to do some exploring, and were surprised that there is a fitness trail within it. I thought those things went out with the 80's, but no. What a little gem to find this place, right on the way home from work and school, with picnic pavilions and a large grassy field, and actual TOILETS and a big playground and a paved trail. Somebody in that town had their thinking cap on when they put aside that land for park use, because in not very many more years the rampant development that's taking over Wake County is going to find our tiny town, and without some finely honed preservation skillz the land there won't be anything but house farms for miles and miles around.

Just not on those particular 35 acres. Thank goodness.
 
with major LURVE from tiff 9:53 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Friday, October 27, 2006
As if I care
Word of the day:

pococurante (po-ko-koo-RAN-tee, -kyoo-)

adjective - Indifferent, apathetic, nonchalant.

noun - A careless or indifferent person.

[From Italian poco (little) + curante, present participle of curare, (to care), from Latin curare (cure, care).]

Use: Tiff was entrenched in a self-made rut so deep she gave herself the indian name "Princess Pococurante," which, though very lame indeed, made her smile.

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Have you written your spooky story for the Wordsmiths yet?

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And now, to the meat of the matter, which today resembles not so much a beef roast or loin of mutton, but more appears to be ground chuck of high fat content that when cooked shrinks to a mere shade of its former meaty glory.

'Cause today, we talk about, well, um, my life, which is not so meaty, and not so juicy and really really not so spicy!

Just like my meatloaf, actually, and if we were to create a real meataphor (hee!) I'd have to say that my life right now is like a slightly over done meatlof without the tomato sauce topping.

I mean, I was actually thinking about tell y'all about how I'm still trying to UNPACK, when we've been in our house for 5 months.

I was also maybe going to talk about our dogs again.

There was even a brief notion to introduce you to my morning routine, of which the lunch-making decisions would have been the most entertaining part (or, maybe, for you perves out there, the description of which shampoo I used and what soap I chose, because, yes, there is MORE THAN ONE kind of shampoo and soap in my shower. Do I want to smell like apples or patchouli? Do I want lustrous silky hair or wild cave-girl curls? Gotta mix it up for variety, oh yes we do!).

Or, maybe I could write about doing laundry, and how the neatly folded piles I lovingly create, sorted by clothing type in drawer-friendly sizes, don't seem to be able to move from dryer-top to dresser? It's as through the stacks of shirts are welded down by a horrendous force of nature until one Thing or the other breaks the treamendous force field to rifle through the pile, disrupting it and, presumably, the awesome power of the pile that prohibits it from being moved in toto to an EMPTY dresser drawer. Amazing! Behold the power of the pile!

Which brings me to another topic....how is it that, if by some miracle of nature, the pile somehow does get moved from the dryer top to the actual bedroom (largely as a result of the dark matter known as "nagging"), it does not get put into the dresser drawer? What awesome force is it that keeps that from happening? What part of the universal sphere is ringing more happily with the clothes on a desk, or floor, or chair? How is it that this happens with such consistency that I've now accepted that this is the way of nature and should not be muddled with?

And why, oh why, do I care?

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Later, I shall add a cupla tee-shirt ideas that amuse me, but for now, with Blogger going pear-shaped and my lunch dates waiting, I must leave you....

Have a lovely weekend, y'all.

 
with major LURVE from tiff 9:18 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Weird Al scared my children
A life lesson:

Just because YOU think something is hilariously funny, does not mean your children do.

Case in point - Weird Al's "Weasel Stomping Day."

Rennratt first played it for me, and it left me gapsing for air only a minute or so into it. Freaking hilarious, the stuff of ridiculousity supreme. I could not wait to play it for my children.

10 seconds into it, one started to cry, and one got very angry with me. They HATED it. They resent me even mentioning it now.

Mmmmm-kay. Must re-prioritize the funny. Move back to Monty Python and go on from there.

Being a parent is hard work sometimes.

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Who's better - Shakespeare or Henry Miller?

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Today I wear the second tee-shirt of happiness, and all is well. Still happy.

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The scary stuff continues at the MonkeyBarn. Today finds Seraph in a great deal of trouble and Joel revived in Candyland. Wonder what will happen next?

Tune in tomorrow for the conclusions of both stories.

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Question you may be asking yourself - what's with all the random here lately?

I blame it on fall. I also blame it on being done with a couple of projects at work that were planning to kill me. The good news is that I killed them first, and now my mind is free to roam where it usually does when left to its own devices. Q, or Renn, or even Wordnerd can tell you that conversations with me are often things of tangent and nonsequitor; this is simply the way my brain works and if you can't keep up, then don't stand in line to get on the ride.

There are often times, during a conversation, that I pause and try to reconstruct the path that led from point A to point Z, and cannot do it. Anybody else do that? The ol' "how did I get here?" thing?

While IMing with the faboo Wordnerd a few days ago, we covered quite the range of topics, from kids to work to sex to other bloggers to, oh, I don't know, I think a coupla two tree dozen other things, all in the space of about an hour. Amazing! The ping-pongy interchange is so much more satisfying to me than beating a topic to death and not knowing where to go from there.

Anyhow, the random, it appears, is here for a while, or at least until next Tuesday, because on Hallowe'en I've got a little story to tell you (as part of the wordsmiths monthly challenge) that might make you wonder why you even bother to come around here. It's pretty intense, as all good ghost stories should be.

Don't say I didn't warn you, 'kay?
 
with major LURVE from tiff 9:30 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Breaking news, and other stuff
Just when you think you've heard it all, along comes something like eyelash transplants to make you take a step back and ponder your own sense of omniscience.

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Thanks to all y'all who stopped over at Renn's to offer words of condolence after the unexpected death of her Mom. You guys rock.

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The Monkeybarn stories are up to part 3, and are totally shaping up into something fine indeed. Check 'em out!

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We had a little scare at Casa Teef last night. Not to worry, peeps, not to worry,for all is well.

It's just that at 2:30 a.m., when you smell something on fire, it's a little unnerving. Oh yes, the scent of something burning, some dusty thing in the throes of incineration, wafted through the second floor of our home as we slept sweetly in our beds, waking us parental units right the heck on up and bouncing us straight into "frightened detective" mode. The husband in his baggy drawers and me in my baggy nightie searched the premises, fueled by a mighty surge of adrenaline - where was the smell coming from? Which child was playing with matches? Was the roof on fire? Had squirrels chewed through some electrical wiring, setting the house ablaze (and, perhaps roasting themselves to a furry crisp in the process)?

As luck would have it, after our brief frenzied search no flames were found, no smoke alarms sounded, no fried rodentia were identified, and the mutual decision was that the inaugural engagement of the heating system for the second floor had cleaned out the system, so to speak, by immolating all and sundry stray objects that were in the way of providing the human inhabitants with warm goodness.

Within a few minutes the smell had dissipated (or, we had grown tolerant to it), and we all awoke this morning none the worse for the experience.

It was pretty exciting while it lasted. Thanks heavens it didn't last that long.

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Word for Wednesday:

oscitant (OS-i-tant) adjective

1. Yawning, gaping from drowsiness.
2. Inattentive, dull, negligent.

[From Latin oscitant, present participle of oscitare (to yawn), from os (mouth) + citare (to move).]

Use: I should have been oscitant this morning after last night's shenanigans, but instead awoke alert and vivacious.

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Today is my blogversary. One year ago today I started in on this foolishness.

Read all about it here. Hoo-boy, I started out all serious, didn't I?

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This post is all OVAH the place, bespeaking my current mood (and yes, I can use "bespeaking" if I want to - it's my blog).

Here's the closer, a little thing to make you go "hmmm," and a small shout-out to Lady Jane Scarlett, who wanted some serious quotey action yesterday and did not get it. This is not the quote I was going to use yesterday (for its time has passed), but it's one just as good.

"Even in the worm that crawls in the earth there glows a divine spark. When you slaughter a creature, you slaughter God. "

-Isaac Bashevis Singer, Writer, Nobel laureate (1904-1991)

Think on that one for a little while, and just how miraculous any life is. It's a wonderment to me on a regular basis. Is it to you?

 
with major LURVE from tiff 8:43 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
One of our own
Is dealing with a sudden loss. Please visit Rennratt, who is dealing with the death of her mom today and could use your upport.
 
with major LURVE from tiff 11:13 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Maturity is overrated
Today I was in the mood to write something insightful and thought-provoking, something that would provide food for thought and fodder for conversation.

I was going to quote Thoreau as a starter, and riff on the quote, creating a sermon of sorts on my beliefs and life mottoes, thereafter castigating all mankind for not recognizing the evil that is in all of us and admonishing us all to rise to the occasion of goodness and mercy that is within us all to effect.

Then, after one or two false starts at sermonizing, a blinding flash of insight seared into my consciousness, rendering my fingers unable to restart my self-important preachifying, and speaking thusly to me: "People don't want to read that crap! People want to read about farts and burps and things you did that caused you embarrassment! People want to know what it is about YOU that makes them feel better about themselves!"

And so, I threw Henry out the virtual window of my virtual bedroom (an aside: he was there because he's a sexy sexy man with all the quoting and whatnot, and who doesn't like a man with brains AND publications and a sense of moral indignance?) and turned myself 180 degrees toward you, gentle readers.

Herewith, then, is a story of yet another of my quirks, another example of just how much real life is a discomfiting place for me to live. Sit back, and enjoy, for you could have been subject to much higher moralification than this, and thus you should thank your lucky stars I'm always thinking of you.

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When I was in my fifth year of college, I was dating a fellow I'll call Marc (because that's what his name was, and he doesn't read this, and so ha-ha I can too if I want to call him by his real name).

Marc was a tad younger than me, by, oh, about 3 years. No matter, he was tall and had a moustache, which met many of my criteria the time for a likely bed partner. We'd started dating the previous year, and had lived in the same apartment over the summer while we both attended summer school (me to get my organic chem classes out of the way; him to, um, I don't remember).

Over the year or so that we had dated I had met his family - Italian Catholics from Connecticut who looked askance at me, the blond Protestant, very likely despairing for their son's soul should he keep on with my particular brand of heathen. I had visited his grandmother in the old-folks' home, during which visit I was instructed not to speak directly to her lest she get upset. I had listened to his music (John Prine and The Grateful Dead, which was a sacrifice because I was more a Laurie Anderson/Prince/Syrogyra kind of girl) and coached him through a lip-synch contest and loved him as best I could.

But I was clueless, and as the relationship began to fall apart I hung on much too tightly.

I hung on when we didn't see one another for days.

I hung on when he didn't call me to go out.

I hung on when someone told me he was becoming "really good friends" with another girl (a girl I later despised with the power of a thousand rabid ferrets).

And then, one day, I cornered him in the science building stairwell and told him we needed to talk.

About what? He asked.

About us, I said.

I don't think we should be seeing one anymore, I said.

I didn't realize we were seeing one another at all, he said.

Oh, I said. I don't recall us breaking up or anything.

Well, I thought you'd get the message when I stopped calling you, he said.

At which point my heart sunk straight to the bottom of the earth, my soul cracked open, and I think I may have experienced a moment or two of hysterical blindness (or was that blinding fury? One wonders).

I had been so very stupid. I had thought that the breakup signals would have been more clear. Maybe a fight, maybe a note, maybe a phone call? I hadn't read between the lines to see that he'd left me behind already, and had started in with another girl.

So very very stupid. Put me off men altogether for a couple of months, it did.

Several months later, when I was working at JM's (now closed) as the deli manager, we got a takeout order from Marc and the girl (who looked a great deal like a mole, complete with squinty eyes and protruding nose. Why he dumped me for her I'll never know, except to suspect that she must have given extraordinarily good head or something). Well well, I thought, well well. Here is my chance to get back at Marc-with-a-"c", the fiend, the cad, for making me feel so foolish!

And so, in addition to the lettuce and tomato and jalapenos on his "Rat" (a sandwich made with 4 kinds of cheese and herb mayo, then toased), he also got a big ol' honking gob of my spit.

"Eat frrrraish, you bastard!" could have been my cry, but instead I quietly wrapped up the cheese and spit sammich in white butcher paper, handed it to the delivery guy, and felt very very good indeed.

So.Awfully.Mature, don't you think?

And yet, so very satisfying.

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What would YOU have done, in the same circumstance?
 
with major LURVE from tiff 9:30 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Monday, October 23, 2006
In which I declare almost complete happiness
Over at the Monkeybarn, there are some spooky things happening! Not one, but TWO awesome starts to serialized stories.

Check out the first part of "Nighty Nightmare" here

Check out the first part of "The Celery Stalks at Midnight" here.

One installment a day for each of these stories will be issued throughout this week as a run-up to Hallowe'en. You don't want to miss them, because they shall make you pleased indeed if you've got any kind of appreciation for the creativity and mad writing skillz of others!

(And, you know you should...so get over the jealous/envy/sloth thing and click over there and be HAPPY that these people love you enough to write spooky stories for you!)

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Here's he thing that prompted the title of this post:

Some of you who know me know that I have "issues" with clothing.

Issues like, I HATE the following: tags in the neckline, tight collars, turtlenecks, polyester, tight sleeves, tight shoulder seams, waistbands that cut into soft belly flesh, capris, wool, pantyhose, pinchy shoes, sleeveless shirts, anything crepe, etc. etc.

These issues have pretty much left me way out in left field when it comes to fashion. (Notice I did not say style, because style and fashion are 2 verrrry different things. I have style, plenty of it, but it's not very fashionable).

My issues with clothing afford me a limited range of options when it comes to what lands in my cloest, and even fewer options when it comes to those items that STAY in my closet.

To wit:I can fit all of my clothing, all seasons of it, in my half of our closet, all at once (granted, it's a wl-in, but it ain't palatial). I do not need to rotate my clothing, for what's there is worn almost all year. I have 5 pairs of pants, only one of which is exclusively for cooler weather. I have about 12 shirts that I like enough to continue wearing. I have several skirts, none of which I've worn in the last 4 months (and most of them are for summer only because they're gauzy and light and look better than shorts if I have to go out when it's hot and don't want to look like "Ropy, the Varicose Girl." Plus, the canklage.....oy.)

So it is with pleasure that I announce 2 new additions to my wardrobe. Yes, 2! Woo-hoo!

I am the PROUD owner of 2 long-sleeved mini-rib scoop-neck tees; one in brick red and one turquiose. Tees so soft and supple that they feel like I'm not wearing anything at all. Tees with a generous neck opening and sleeves long enough for my gorrilla-length arms and shoulders that fit my Valkyrie-esque proportions and enough "fit" to show off the fantasy-inspiring boobage without being so tight it looks like I'm a desperate former starlet whose only remaining assests come in a D-cup and by God you better look at them right now because I'm overdue for that second facelift and it's not so pretty above the neck like it used to be!

What's better than that?

I'll tell you what.

They were 5 dollars each.

Freaking sweet. I cannot belive I hesitated, even for one MOMENT, in buying them. I almost didn't, thinking they would be "right." What a shame that would have been.

Now I'm planning to hit the OTHER WalMarts in the area (oh yes, I did buy clothes at Wally World! Don't hate.) to scoop up whatever colors they might have, because y'all, the sad fact is that I bought the LAST TWO of these tees at my local mega-merchandizer and lord, I need more than just those 2. Many many more.

If I find more, I may never wear anything else again.

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Oh, and the baking frenzy continues!!!!! Yes, the Tiff stood firm in her autumn-inspired baking efforts (and the additional effort of using up all the apples we picked on vacation), and turned out two luscious homemade apple pies yesterday afternoon.

Plus a roast chicken.

And sauteed yellow squash with fresh basil.

But, back to the pies - my goodness, the things I learned! I found out that putting in TWICE the amount of sugar necessary into a "regular" apple crumb pie (oopsie!) will cause it to overflow a tremendous molten stream of apple syrup, which is hella difficult to clean up if you're not smart enough to line the baking sheet you've put the pie on with foil (did that make sense?). So, don't do that. I also learned that the recipe for "sour cream apple crumb pie" that I scarfed up from "allrecipes.com" makes a pie so damned good it's, it's, it's, well, I don't know what it is except that it's sensual goodness in a tender crust that makes one wonder if this is the kind of food that gets served in heaven instead of that Philly stuff those teevee angels keep slathering all over their toast. 'Cause manohman, I was feeling mighty angelic after just one tiny slice.

Oh yes, it is that good.

(Extra bonus happy family fun points for Thing 2, who peeled and chopped apples, measured and mixed ingredients, and kept me company by telling me all things Pokemon while this ultra-domestic bakerification was happening. That little dude totally rawks.)

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Lastly, I did NOT know that young men of 9 and 11 knew the term "hoodies!," or that receipt of said hoodies would cause a clamor of gratefulness.

Now, I do.

Ain't it nice there's always something new to learn in this world?
 
with major LURVE from tiff 9:04 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Sunday, October 22, 2006
I DARE you.
What does this picture make you think of?


(Courtesy of Opacity.us)

Is it spooky, or scary, or very very sad indeed? Does your mind wander through dark alleys of doom, or around misty moors of melancholy, or down the long halls of horror?

Hmmm? Does it?
If it does, I have a little dare for you.

C'mon, I know you want to.
 
with major LURVE from tiff 9:46 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Friday, October 20, 2006
Kitchen throwdown
OK - let's do something different today here at NAY. Let's forget that on Fridays there used to be funny stuff here about news headlines and shizz, and just turn the tables ENTIRELY and talk about one of my favorite subjects:

FOOD.

You may not believe this, but your Tiff is a pretty darned good cook. Why just last weekend I made banana nut bread and apple cake, from scratch! And people ate them! My word, it was exciting.

Yesterday was the occasion of another culinary triumph at Casa Teef, in that I used a crock pot to good advantage to make the whole house smell good all day and to provide a deelish dinner to the denizens of my domecile. Because even the youngsters liked what came out of said pot, I offer up here the recipe, so that YOU can boldy stride into the kitchen your OWN daggone self and emerge a victorious crock-pot wunderkind.

"Crock pot chuck roast"

1 3-pound chuck roast
1 cup baby carrots
3 stalks celery, chopped
1/2 red onion, chopped
1 cup whilte wine
1 cup water
1/2 cup tomato juice
1/4 cup red wine vinegar
salt
pepper

(My crock pot is actually an oblong slow cooker......if yours is a crock, just stand the roast up and proceed as directed).

In the morning:

  1. place frozen roast in slow cooker (y'all, it's fine, trust me)
  2. dump in veggies
  3. dump in liquids
  4. sprinkle with S&P
  5. cover tightly and turn on low
  6. cook for 10-12 hours

In the evening:

  1. walk in house and begin salivating beccause damn, it smells fine in here, just like Grandma's house on Sundays after church
  2. pour self a cocktail and tell everybody to get out of the kitchen, because "it's magic time"
  3. turn off cooker
  4. start some water boiling and preheat the oven to 375, peel and cube a few potatos (and why not try combining sweet with white?), throw 'em in the boiling water
  5. uncover roast and remove it to a serving plate using a couple of spatulas (be careful becausae the roast will be like buttah!)
  6. stick some biscuits in the oven
  7. using an immersion mixer or a blender, whiz up the veggies and liquids into a coulee (fancy-pants cooking term for "whizzed up stiff") to use as gravy
  8. turn off potatos, drain, mash
  9. take biscuits out of oven
  10. serve

Not hard. Not time-consuming, really. I think everything was ready within 40 minutes of me walking through the door.

Nutritionally, it's a reasonably robust meal, because of all the veggies in the gravy and the protein in the meat, and the beta-carotene from the sweet potatos. One could improve on that by adding maybe a salad, but, really, enough is enough, don't you think? We shouldn't like to go overboard and actaully climb the entire food pyramid all in the space of one meal, after all.

==========================

Anybody know anything about raising goats?

==========================

Today, in direct opposition to yesterday, my job does NOT suck. You know why? Because the project that was sapping my will to live was taken away from me.

OH! The gnashing of the teeth and the moaning and wailing that did NOT occur were wondrous NOT to hear! The breast beating that did NOT happen was wonderful NOT to undergo! The joy was palapable, the "yippee!!" was audible, the albatross around my neck and the monkey on my back found new homes, and all was well in Mudville.

Hells, yes, do I feel GOOD today! (anybody else remember that old Coast Soap ad?)

=============================

The boiling oil thing back in the day must have hurt a lot. A lotalotalot. Shoot, I got some super-heated oil on my THUMB this morning and it almost made me cry.

===============================
Or, maybe, sheep? Anybody know anything about raising sheep?

Or chickens?

The best way to lay out a barn?

Anybody?
 
with major LURVE from tiff 10:38 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Wha'd you say?
The results of the sleep test are in! I have "slight sleep apnea." Lemme just say now that this is likely the only thing "slight" about me besides my attention span, so I'll take what I can get.

Huzzah! Another sleep test looms large on the horizon! This time with a MASK!

Ooooh, I'll be in disguise! I shall call myself "Mistress SeePAP", or perhaps "Titratia"! You shall not recognize me behind my O2 mask of power and energy! The mask shall suffuse me with ebullient energy, I'll be ready to conquer the world with my newly replenished stores of FOCUS and ALERTNESS!

Huzzah, once more, for the possibility of the inception of Titratia, queen of SLEEP!

=======================

Also, I have a new grunge band name. "Redundant uvula."

Cool, huh?

(oh, and it's not something I made up. It's something I have. Aren't I the lucky one? Who knew one lone uvula could be redundant? And yet, it is.......because "redundant" in this case means "really big," which is a curious thing, when you think of it. Is there a size limit? Apparently so.)

======================

Today, I hate my job. Today, my job is the suckiest suck-tastic job ever in the panoply of suckage that ever sucked.

Today, my job is a soul-sapping wasteland of suckification, in which I find myself mired in the opinions of others; others who do not believe I am swell and terrific, but instead believe that I suck with the force of a class 5 tornado.

(an aside - I can suck like a class5 tornado, if I want to, but didn't want to at work. There's a place and a time for sucking, and it is most certainly not at work.)

That is all I'm saying about THAT.

=======================

Also, I enjoy being awakened at 4 a.m. Really, it's great. It's so great to be kicked out of bed by a hallucinating partner (thanks, Chantix!) who claims that YOUR side of the bed is HIS side and you must get out now so he can go back to sleep.

It's awesome to be up that early! So dark!

It's like being a cop, or a morning newscaster! Early, early! Darkety-dark-dark!

I awarded myself some gold stars for turning on the computer and working for a couple of hours, then sending out a few e-mails at oh-dark-thirty to people who might be impressed by that kind of thing. Never miss a chance to make it appear like you've slaving away in the wee hours, kiddies!

Once the sky was brightening (in the east! imagine!), I was done with the immediate tasks at hand, and so took a nap in the recliner. And ohboyohboy, the dreams! Oy! Not so much with the restful! But also not so much with the shoulder pain and the snoring and the being kicked out of bed, so, whatever.

By 8 p.m. this evening, the combination of job suck and lack of sleep should be evident. I cannot wait to find out how this day is going to end.

At least there's a roast in the crock pot.

Now, did I turn it ON?
 
with major LURVE from tiff 11:46 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Many things, all at once
First - have you ever wanted to write a spooky story? Have you? HAve you ever wanted to write a spooky SHORT story? Have you? Hmmmm?

Well, NOW'S your chance! The Wordsmiths have struck again with a writing challenge for November! It's a good 'un for all y'all with an eerie bone.

=============================

Next - newsflash - the brain MRI came up clean.

Begin celebrating now.

=============================

Question for ya - what was you favorite Hallowe'en costume of ALL TIME?????

As a kid, I was a clown a lot of the time. I think we just had the costumes lying around, and Mom would do up our faces with her makeup, and that was it.

One year, when I was 12, I dressed up in some antebellum thing my mother had from a church show she was in, and paraded myself around as quite the grand lady. I think that was the last year I went trick-or-treating, because young ladies with curves, even if they ARE only young teenagers, should probably NOT be flouncing around in the dark begging for candy from strangers.

If I recall correctly, that last Hallowe'en I went out with my friend Bonnie. Just the 2 of us. No parents! We were so grown up! It was scary! There were boys! I was thrilled! I don't recall we did much door-to-door work; rather, we spent a lot of time walking along busier streets waiting for people (boys! teenagers!) to honk at us or yell something sexy.

Remember, I was 12. Hormone-induced stupidity started early.

Anyhow, I think that one was my favorite costume, because it's almost the only one I remember that wasn't a clown.

============================

One last thing - does Starbuck's coffe make you fee like you're head is spinning if you drink it on an empty stomach? It does to me. Good God, I'm buzzing! Woo!

I don't normally "do" the Bux, but the local upscale coffee place has closed (for lack of business, apparently, because it was in a craptabulous location), and this morning after getting the "all clear" on the tumor thing I was in the mood for a little caffeinated bucking up. So, I ordered my a Grande Breakfast Blend with room (I'm lingo-tastic! Lookit me over here with the fancy bux-speak!), and tossed that sucker down in about a half an hour. And hour later, and I'm ready to levitate. That's some good sheeyit right there, that is!

It's probably a good thing I didn't get the high-test rocket fuel, or I'd be having palpiations or be on the ceiling right about now.

=============================

That's it for today, y'all! I've got work to do!
 
with major LURVE from tiff 11:17 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Gray Marble Stories
It's time, once again, for story time. Yes, the exiled Hyperion has been in touch with yours truly, and has pitched yet another co-writing experience. Who am I to say no?

As always, we picked out a picture for inspiration and wrote a story of our own choosing from it. We had something like 24 hours to turn the stories around, a small luxury all things considered.

Hyperion's story (which I have not yet read) is posted here. I'm intrigued by the title, because it's all Latin-y and demi-obscure. For sure his story is better than mine, just on that alone.

My story is below, and while it may not be a thing of wonder, it is, at least, a thing. I did NOT adhere to my heretofore self-inflicted 500-word limit, so get ready for the wordy. Feel free to leave your comments, particularly those of a constructive nature, because, well, I said you could.

=============================================


"Getting an Answer"


Ah, God, the pain. Tight muscles loosening, uncramping, stretching, stinging with the force of a posture too long held. The fire of the nerves coming alive, a pop of joint and crack of ligament as the pose is allowed to relax. So hard to just let go, to let the earth take her down to the resting place, to not fight to weight of her body.

Sharon focused her breathing on her gut, on a low chakra, the seat of her warmth, forcing herself to believe that opening her personal vivid red spot would actually draw strength to her sexual self. Hell, she’s take drawing strength to her gosh-darned bladder if it would take the pain away from the pose release. Stupid yoga.

Even after a year of practicing the art, Sharon knew she had a lifetime of "practice" before she got even nearly close to good. The teacher, plump and limber, could crow and crane at the drop of a hat, and yet Sharon was struggling with a perfect down dog and still swayed when in mountain pose. Something to do with her disease, with the stiff joints of arthritis that plagued her like cement in her elbows and knees. She longed to be supple, to bend like a willow in a breeze, to sway like a reed. But no, she was stuck fast to the earth, fighting her own creaking body’s arc toward rigidity.

No matter, the thrice-weekly sessions kept her one step ahead of her disease, and that was good enough. After the OM-ing that always ended the class, Sharon showered, blotted her wet hair, and walked back out into the noisy streets of the city, feeling more limber than when she entered the gym, grateful for the change.

Breathing the fumes of buses and cars and people and hot dog carts and street vendors, she smiled deeply, striding toward her office. Her office was one block up and one block over from the gym, a short distance that took her past the church with the tiny grotto, an incongruous landmark in this modern place. Sharon loved to pause at the hidden well and watch the last of the city’s artesian springs drip its mysteries into the shallow shell-shaped pool, above which the Holy Mother floated as beatifically as the Venus did on arising from the ocean. So damp and cool, so feminine and private, it was a place of luxurious secrecy in the anxious bustle only a few feet away. Sharon would breathe her few regular prayers and cross herself furtively as she observed her personal church. The wet air suffused her with an ancient energy, or so she liked to think.

Church over, and the office gained, the work of the day took her thoughts and mind far from the peace of the morning. The regular cycle was launched. Coffee, headache. Lunchtime, stiff joints. 2 o’clock meeting, creaking spine. 5 o’clock, popping neck, aching feet. Just like usual.

Sharon pushed the file drawers shut, locked them, dropped the key into the top drawer of the desk, shut off her computer, pressed herself out of her chair with a groan, and was headed toward the door by 5:15. Her mind was racing far ahead of her body while she plodded down the four flights of stairs, thinking about her date. What does one order at a wine bar? What does one DO at a wine bar? How does on tell one’s date that one is so very much hoping it works out with him because every other man one has dated has cut and run when they leared of one’s disease?

It wasn’t like she wasn’t pretty or smart or successful, because looking at herself she could tell she was almost beautiful, and knew the degrees she’d earned from Brown were proof of her intelligence, and certainly having a job that paid enough to support all her needs was a measure of success. No, until the men found out about the arthritis, and its projected course, they were plenty interested. Sharon wondered when she was going to meet someone who would accept her for her, and not for what might possibly someday be.

She’d met tonight’s “wine bar guy” online, on a dating service for people with disabilities. At first Sharon had balked at the idea that she had a disability, but what could she do? For sure all the men who’d run from her were an indication that something was indeed wrong with her; her own creaking body was reminder enough that she wasn’t exactly in the pink of health. A few more years and her joints would become even more immobile, and she’d be disabled for real. This evening’s fellow had accepted her explanation of her disease readily, countering that his case of mild cerebral palsy would make them quite the odd pair. CP notwithstanding, he seemed almost too good to be real; their IM chats were long and full of good humor, his phone voice was rich and deep. He had an archaic way of expressing himself that she thought sexy; he blamed it on learning English from elderly nuns. Sharon was more excited about this date than she’d been in a good long while, and held out hope that her fervent prayers at the grotto would be answered.

During the cab ride over, she fixed up her lipstick and finger-combed her thick dark hair, loosening it little for a romantic effect. A quick spritz of scent and she was there in sprirt and in flesh. The bar was dark, cave-like, with smoky jazz playing quietly under the clink of glasses and the occasional outburst of laughter from the groups of well-dressed young people lounging in leather club chairs and long banquettes. Sharon seated herself at the long copper bar, and very quickly felt a tap on her shoulder and a low mention of her name. To say her spine tingled at his voice would have been an understatement, for the resulting bolt of electricity started deep at its base and shot through her brain in an instant, a fine sensation if ever there was one. She turned to him, meeting his eyes and falling instantly in love.

Throughout the long evening they talked and ate, first stealing glances, then offering a touch of the hand, then sliding close to one another in a back booth, sharing their dreams and politics and religion and opinions, not able to get enough of one another, not wanting the night to end. They closed the bar, both a little drunk, caught a taxi back to his apartment, and made supple sweaty love on his enormous bed. After, he brought her ice water and rubbed her hands, whispering of all the things they would do together, of the mysterious great good fortune that had brought them together, of the future they had, of his instant deep love and need for her. As he drifted off to sleep, she studied him, memorizing him, and she wept quietly, thankfully, to the Virgin of the Grotto for hearing her prayers at last.

Long years went by, which they spent in a rich exhaustion of life. They traveled, married, got a dog, read great books, bought art, drank fine wines, learned the crow and crane together, and fought growing old before their time. He was the first to go; a mere 30 years after they’d first met. Sharon’s grief was immense, earth-shattering. She was bereaved and helpless. The void was tremendous.

Her sisters moved her out of the apartment and into a rest home to quiet her nerves and help heal her mourning mind. There was no consoling her until the day she found the spring at the back edge of the lawn. Cool water, a statue of the Virgin, a small sunny place hidden among overgrown boxwoods, easy to get to in the wheelchair. She went there every morning, crossed herself shakily and said her few prayers.

The nurse found her there a year later, kneeling by a section of low wall that had been uncovered when an ancient boxwood had died. Sharon’s lifeless body was rigid, her eyes toward heaven, a smile on her face, her fingers on a marble plaque of two adoring lovers. As the orderlies removed Sharon’s body, the nurse remarked to them that she had never seen that plaque before, and thought it strange and a little tasteless that it should be right next to the Holy Mother. One of the orderlies said she should read the inscription, and take her faith more gently. Leaning close, she touched the loose stone hair of the female figure, warm in the afternoon sun, and read:

“Prayers are answered for those who truly believe.”
 
with major LURVE from tiff 10:30 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Monday, October 16, 2006
The Matrix - NC style
Y'all, I have firm evidence that the scenarios played out in the "Matrix" flicks are real.

Yes, you heard me, REAL.

How do I know? From where does this evidence come? It's nothing more than first-hand personal experience, my friends. RECENT personal experience.

Oh, sure, they SAID I was participating in a so-called "sleep study," but you can't fool me, I KNOW that once fully kitted out I was hooked up to a central respository of nightmares and lost hopes, taking my place in the vast dreamscape playland of imagination-starved plutocrats and demigods of industry.

Why ELSE would all those wires Friday night have been necessary? If I recall correctly there were:

5 on the scalp
1 on the forehead
1 on the cheekbone
1 on the jaw
1 on the chin
1 on the throat
3 on the chest
2 on the legs
-------------
15 altogether!

Not to mention the 2 elastic bands that went around my chest, to "monitor my breathing" (or so it was told to me), but could just as easily have been there to force my breathing into an unnatural pattern based on a series of mild electrical stimuli intended to harmonize my respiration with all the others around the globe similarly attached during that period of time.

Well, they COULD have, you know.

Oh, and there was an oxygen sensor on my finger, and air flow cannulas in my nose and mouth.

Sweet freaking dreams, my ass! Who can dream when bedecked in so many POUNDS of electronic finery? I had an actual DREADLOCK of wires snaking out the back of my head, and if you've ever had an IV line and felt like any small movement might tear that sucker right out of you arm, then you'll know how I felt when I say I didn't feel like I could move my head one INCH for fear of detaching any of the lines that was undoubtedly channeling my dreams into a vast network of virtual reality for the uber-rich to use as a wildly varying backdrop for their salcious and vivid nocturnal role-playing games.

Oh, sure, the bed was comfy enough, and the "sleep lab" lady was the most pleasant thing this side of a slab of warm apple pie, but who can sleep when there are wires attaching you to a monitoring system, and the sensor on your throat is adhered tightly with some kind of tape that itches and pulls when you turn your head, and you're afraid to breathe because then you might SNORE and that would be bad because if you do that means you might have to get a stupid-ass CPAP machine to help you breathe at night so you don't die in your sleep, all unknowing? Who, I ask you, can sleep under those conditions? What god-awful freak of nature can SLEEP under those conditions???

Um, well, apparently I can.

Not very well, mind you, and I had dreams of sharks and drowning and airplane crashes and losing my children and having my fingers chopped off and tremendous cities of sharp-spired buildings belching yellow smoke over a blasted-out husk of prairie, but I did indeed sleep, in between visits from Miss Monitor, who, even though she tried to be quiet when reattaching my electrodes to the monitoring unit, did have that soft sneaker-squeek on the linoleum floor that was enough to alert my semi-alert brain to "wake up! intruder!"

(As a short aside, someone shold tell that hospital that having one of those insta-squirt electronic air freshener thingies in the sleep lab room is NOT such a hot idea, because of the "CLICK CCCHHHHH" sound it makes every, oh, 10 MINUTES or so that, if they're not used to it, could maybe wake a person right the heck up from a shallow restless sleep.)

Needless to say, the Matrix got their money's worth out of me. I hope they're happy, I hope my discomfort and suffering was worth it.

But, dear friends, be aware that a truly nefarious turn of events may be about to take place, in that it looks likely that I'll have to go back for another "study." It's been hinted that I have sleep apnea in addition to the snoring.

Sure, I do. SURE I have apnea AND snoring. That's what they SAY.

If you ask me, I suspect that their lame-ass "apnea" is an excuse to get me strapped back down so they can get another dose of the nocturnal Tiff-scape to greatly enrich the hive-mind of the NC Matrix.

It's the only thing that makes any sense to me.
 
with major LURVE from tiff 5:14 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Friday, October 13, 2006
Not always what you think

Much like this lovely lady's hairstyle, things aren't always what they appear to be.

For example, those aren't just ANY balloons.

I know, it took me a minute too, to move away from the "bubblehead" joke and "head" toward something more "potent."

If you get my drift, and I think you do.

Because you are a bunch of clever bunnies, I offer you a chance to provide your own caption to this lovely photo of this air- bukakke sweetie - leave 'em in the comments.

========================
Now, for MORE things that may not be what they seem:

Bush gives Hastert boost in time of need

Dennis was having trouble leaping over the high moral ground, I guess.

Bush to sign security, Internet bill

If Bush is signing the bill, does this mean I can ignore Embarq this month?

UM study: Meth may lessen stroke damage

So look for a bunch of scabby strung-out geriatrics to appear on YOUR street corners soon!

Troops battle 10-foot marijuana plants

Is it too late for me to volunteer in the Army, 'cause dude, I'd like me some of that action! Break out the flamethrowers!!!!!

Probe sought of breast implant maker

"Sir, wer'e going to need records, including photographs, of all the women who have used your product. Yessir, all of them. Befores and afters. Also, you need to ask a couple hundred of them to appear in person at the Hilton at 3 p.m. on the 6th for a hands-on examination of your product. Oh, and one last thing - bend over, it's time for your probing."

==============================

Have a lovely weekend y'all.

 
with major LURVE from tiff 8:57 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Virtual reality
Lie down here please.

OK, lift your legs and I'll put this pillow under them to make you more comfortable, because this will take a while.

Would you like headphones?

I'm just going to use this strap to keep you still so you don't move.

Now, close your eyes while I slide you into position.

Perfect.

If you need me for anything, just press this button; be careful though because it's really sensitive.

OK, here we go.

(pause pause pause pause pause)

Sorry, had to get warmed up first.

Here we go.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!

(Jesus! What the hell was THAT? Must.Hold.Still)

zzzzzZZZZZZZzzzzzzZZZZZZZZzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!

BooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOp.

(Holy crap that's loud. Must. Hold. Still!!!)

ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat

Bimiinibiminibiminibiminibiminibiminibiminibimini

Bubbububububububububububububububububuubbbbbb

ZZZZZOt ZZZZZZZot ZZZZZZZot ZZZZZZot

rrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAatatatatat!!!

OK, I have to slide you back out and find a vein. You're doing great.

Yeah, that last one is for finding strokes. It's new. Pretty loud though, I know.

(the tourniquet is applied, the hand slapping begins, the vein is found, and the needle slips in)

You'll want to apply pressure to that so you don't bruise.

I'll turn the fan down, it's really cold in here.

(no duh - the shivering is making it hard to hold still!)

All right, back in you go.


BZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!

(God, I'm hearing in colors now. That is some good shit in that syringe!)

zzzzzZZZZZZZzzzzzzZZZZZZZZzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!

BooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOp.

(Why am I hearing salsa music and tasting bananas? Must. Hold. Still)

ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZat ZZZZAt ZZZZat ZZZZat

Bimiinibiminibiminibiminibiminibiminibiminibimini

Bubbububububububububububububububububuubbbbbb

ZZZZZOt ZZZZZZZot ZZZZZZZot ZZZZZZot

All right, you're done.

Just lie there until you can get up.

You did great.

Yep, that's your brain allright.

No, I can't tell you if there's anything wrong with it.

(Damn!)

Here's a survey, would you please fill it out and send back to the hospital? Thanks a lot.

=========================

Thus endeth the inaugural MRI of my brain. Results next week.
 
with major LURVE from tiff 11:30 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
A something I like to call Public Service
Beware - Crossposting Alert!

=======================

Over the Monkey Barn, I've started a little something called "Things Girls Like" as a matter of public service to all the confused men-folk out there who realize the the holiday season is fast approaching and are already getting the shaking heebie-jeebies at the thought of having to actually BUY something for their lady(ies) that she(they) won't hate.

My word, dudes, do not panic, because Auntie Tiff is here to help you!

I offer linkage here as a means of spreading the word about this new service, and expect no more in return than that you click-through and leave slavishly adoring comments at the Barn. Might I suggest something along the lines of "My God, I'm saved! Thank you Tiff for the incredibly helpful ideas! You're a life saver!"

Edition 1: Things Girls Like That Are Free!

Edition 2: Things Girls Like for Under $20

Proposed Edition 3: Things Girls Like for Around $50.

And more as time and inspiration and money clips allow.

============================

Quick question for you:

Are you one of those people who leave their e-mail inboxes stuffed full to the brim of unread mail, or are you a declutterer?

My personal style is to read/act on it/file it as read unless I can't get to it right away, then I leave it in the inbox until I can get to it. Never more than 30 messages are resident in the inbox if I can help it. A very good day indeed is when there are NO messages in the inbox, because that means I' ve handled all of it and there's nothing left to do.

One wonders if this indicates some kind of obsession, but that's a topic for another day. I want to know about YOU!
 
with major LURVE from tiff 10:01 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
On little cat feet
What creeps in on little cat feet? Is it fog? Mr Sandburg, do you know?

Yeah, well, fog.

I had thought it might be love. But no, it's fog.

So, perhaps I should find another quote to adequately describe the impact this particular day has on me.

Um, how about this one?

The love of husbands and wives may waver; brothers and sisters may become deep-rooted enemies; but a mother's love is so strong and unyielding that it usually endures all circumstances: good fortune and misfortune, prosperity and privation, honor and disgrace. A mother's love perceives no impossibilities.
- Paddock

Yes, that one is true.

Also, this one:
Becoming a mother makes you the mother of all children. From now on each wounded, abandoned, frightened child is yours. You live in the suffering mothers of every race and creed and weep with them. You long to comfort all who are desolate.
- Charlotte Gray

And, this one, especially today:
My mother groaned! my father wept.
Into the Dangerous world I leapt:
Helpless, naked, piping loud;
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
- William Blake

Eleven years and one day ago I was waiting for the overdue arrival of a piping fiend of my own.

Eleven years and 90 minutes ago I held him for the first time, and something in my heart broke open. I think it was the door to motherhood, and all that that word contains.

As that boy has grown, so has my affection for him and my amazement at who he is.

Eleven years of being a mother to the blond-headed blue-eyed freckled boy who is Thing 1, a long drink of water who loves speed, Nintendo, the trombone, his brother, his father, his dogs, and me.

Eleven years of having that door break open over and over again, never on the same place twice.

Happy birthday, Bean, we sure do love you.
 
with major LURVE from tiff 9:12 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Monday, October 09, 2006
The super-colossal vacation mega-recap.
3500 words about not much.....Now you can accompany me on vacation! Yay!!

==========================

Day 1 - 30 September - vacation BEGINS!

Leave home around 10. Get to rental place by 2:50, pick up keys, head to house - it’s on a great big hill! Incredibly good view from the front porch, and the house has all the modern conveniences, including a dishwasher, 3 teevees, wifi internet, etc etc. By 4:30 we’re on the front porch taking photos of the mountains and the cows across the street and sipping cocktails. Dinner, then movies, then bed.

Day 2 - 01 Oct

Up at about 8, Ponce takes some photos of the early sun on the fields and coming through and clouds (he IS a photographer, after all, and the opportunity is too good NOT to take advantage of). After listing out the stuff there is to do and checking the weather channel for the forecast, we decide to head way south to the Altapass Orchard, because I’ve got a jones to go pick apples. We take the Blue Ridge Parkway south, stopping at numerous overlooks to get a geek at the views and take photos. The day turns from partly cloudy to absolutely sunny and gorgeous. On the way we’re diverted off the parkway due to a closure, stop at a local shop for coffee and fruit ciders, and meander back to the parkway. We pass over the Linville Viaduct (like being suspended over the valley!) and stop at the visitor’s center to find out where Grandfather Mountain is. On learning that the viaduct is ON Grandfather Mountain (woot! Score!), we retrace our path and do another turn on the viaduct to get a good look while ignoring the plunge of death that is entirely possible if one should happen to go a touch too fast through the S-curves of the viaduct. More photos. And some more. We travel then to Linville Falls and hike into take a look a what’s there - the first stop is about 0.4 miles one way, and by the return trip Thing 2 had had enough of walking and lugging photo equipment (LOTS of photo equipment - see earlier comment about the pro photog in the family), so while and Ponce ans Thing 1 took a trip up to the top overlook, Thing 2 and I hang out on a bench and talk about Zatoffian things (a note:Zatoff is an alien world from which our family came many years ago. Thing 2’s shadow and reflection still attend school there, and they tell him of many and wondrous things that happen there). At last we head down the road to our final destination - Altapass Orchard, a 100-year-old orchard right on the side of the mountain. The promise of lunch (at 2!) took us to the lunch wagon and some hawt dogs, chili, brats, and yellowjackets (GD effing yellowjackets, I was going to say). After a nosh and a quick study of the people clogging to the live music being offered, we bought empty bags and ambled around the orchard, tasting and picking and avoiding more bees. After picking we head out in the car using must have once been “the road” before the parkway came to be, and then decided to opt out of a return trip on the parkway and head down 226 to Little Switzerland instead. It becomes abundantly clear to me very early on that Route 226A might actually want to kill me, with switchbacks and yawning chasms and sudden turns and no respect for the vertigo of the person in the passenger’s seat with a CLEAR-with-a-capital-K view of the sudden and horrific death that awaits should, say, brakes fail or the driver lose consciousness or the accelerator get stuck or the driver go suddenly psycho killer. This road, this horrible horrible killer road about drives me insane as I fear for my life, but Ponce is having a ball doing the driving. He actually wants to stop at an inn that looks like it’s got one foot on solid ground and three other feet about to jump off the side of the mountain. I have to voice my opinion on this matter in a MOST strenuous and fear-charged manner, and I’m sure much to his disappointment we continue on down the road of death.....for what seems like far far too long to be sustained by my wildly beathing heart. However, once we reach route 221 things start to perk right along, until we get to the part where someone has had an accident and we need to double back to route 105 because apparently that “someone” was having to be extricated from their vehicle, thus bringing the “road of doom” scenenario full circle in my fear-addled brain. We then utilize truck 221, which is marginally less twisty than 226A was, but only just. By this time I’m getting used to all the winding and the dangerous and the sheer dropoffs, and can look around me without fearing for my life. Amazing what the brain can do when faced with such danger!. After all, I was the one who wanted a mountain vacation and I therefore needed to start enjoying myself before I began to doubt my own sanity. We go through some very pretty areas on Shull’s Mill Road, and find our way back to Blowing Rock and the Food Lion for dinner stuff. Burgers and salad for dinner and it’s off to bed. I have officially had enough.

Day 3 - 02 Oct

Coffee and breakfast before heading out to Boone to get a gas cannister at Lowe’s and some videos and Playstation games, because, what’s a week in the moutains without movies and Playstation, right? Come back to the house, pack up a snack bag, drop off the gas and vids, and it’s off to Grandfather Mountain as the big adventure of the day. We take 221 south all the way down, a 19-mile trip that takes an hour, and which I suspect was more like 30 miles than 19 but who’s counting when you actually arrive alive after conquering yet ANOTHER stretch of the twist and climb, right? Once at the mountain (at about 1), we pay the hefty fee (seriously, like $40!) and start our climb up the mountain in our little car, at which point we decide that there are reasons for 8-cylinder 4-WD vehicles to exist, and this road is one of them. Our little rice-burner is doing hard duty up the switchbacks, and yet pulls us up in fair fashion. We make a stop at the nature center for lunch and a look around. The building is impressive, high ceilings and a cook-to-order eatery (with pagers to tell you when your food is ready! How Mountain-y!) and a gift shop and nature museum with samples of gems and minerals and birds and mushrooms. We take some time to also visit the animal habitats near the nature center. There are bald eagles, goldern eagles, river otter, cougars, bears that LOVE to be fed (50 cents a cup for bear food!), and bear cubs that apparently like to hide. The habitats are perched on the side of the mountain, and are pretty impressive, particularly the bear enclosure. Back into the car, and we make our way up the mountain to the tippity top, a climb along numerous switchbacks that are almost as scary as the infamous Route 226A. It’s quite a trip up, and the road does NOT have generous shoulders. Those with concerns for their safety need not apply. Out of the car, we hoof it a few paces to “the mile-high bridge,” a steel bridge suspended between peaks of the mountain that is indeed a mile above sea level (though only a few hundred feet above the shoulders of the mountain, which is really and honestly just about enough to scare the living CRAP out of any sane person) and does happen to maybe shake a little when you walk along it. Thing 2, the dear boy, is not a huge fan of this bridge or the height, while Thing 1 is practically bouncing for joy. After making the trip out to the other end, we take a break for photos, and then head back, pausing for more photos, because a feat of daring such as this deserves to be memorialized, particularly because it’s not likely to be repeated in this lifetime, at least by me. The boys and I take some time to browse the gift shop while Ponce takes a walk out the bridge path for more pictures, and at about 3:15 we’re done with the mountain and start to head back. We pause at an overlook to use one of those big silver viewy thingies and the kids get a good gander at what’s around them. The sumac are heavy with berries, which makes a wonderful backdrop for the starkness of the mountain. The parkway is a quick trip back to the detour to 221 (apparently a new bridge is being built, presumably because the old one became too much of a deathtrap or something), where we stop to buy sourwood honey from a roadside stand. One more quick trip to the Blowing Rock Food Lion for some dinner stuff (ribs tonight!), and it’s home by 4:30 to figure out how to run the grill, do a load of laundry, play PS2 games, and relax. Thing 2 read us a spooky story, then I did, and we all watched “Health Inspector” after a great rib dinner. Because, yes, we took care to make our entertainment choices mimic the serene and beautiful surroundings. Not.

Day 4 -

Today we’re determined not to travel too far afield! Thing 2 and I are up first and enjoy a gorgeous sunrise (it comes up late here - 7:20 or so). He tries some sourwood honey on canteloupe and declares it good. Once Thing 1 is roused at 9 and fed we’re out the door to go to Moses Cone State park, which is only a couple of miles away from our rental house. The mansion is huge, with a spectacular view of a large lake and far hills. The whole first floor is taken up by local craftpeople selling their things - some really cool stuff that’ll set you back a cool several dozen/hundred dollars! While there are miles of carriage and riding trails at the park, anything of interest is several miles by foot, and so we decide to go to Price Park, a few miles south, to enjoy the up-close fishing lake and hiking. While Ponce fishes, the kids and I take a hike around the lake, some 2.7 miles though autumn woods in warm temps and a nice cool breeze. The kids soon lose themselves in a long converstaion about Zatoffian monsters and their special powers and which of the element-bending skills each of us family members has and which monsters can be captured by releasing clouds of mosquitoes, etc. etc. It was an amazing 2 hours or so listening to them go on and on. By the time we return it’s after noon, and so we decide to go into Blowing Rock for lunch and a gander around. Little did we know that finding parking was going to be such a major issue! Even in this off-peak season there are still a number of touristas, many of whom are very elderly ladies with little to no regard for traffic-crossing rules or vehicular traffic in general, and indeed several of them seemed to have a distinct death wish! Found a spot way down on Sunset, and hoofed it up to the Mellow Mushroom for some pizza. After being abandoned in a booth for 5 minutes or more with no offer to take a drink or order or even to give us menus, we scooted out of there in search for something else. Wound up at the Speckled Trout, and, while the food wasn’t spectacular at least the service was attentive and we were fed. Plus, the beers were cold, which is a good thing! We spent some time buying books at the library sale, then hung out at the town park while the kids played. By about 3:15, after visiting the dulcimer store and the coffee shop we were on our way back to the house with a quick stop at the Food Lion for more dinner fixins. We had burgers for dinner Mmmm, burgers!) and then hung out and the kids played playstation. I, being the ultimate party monstress, went to bed at about 9:30, not long after the kiddies - the vacation letdown hits!

Day 5? Yup - day 5.

Ah - sunrise - a little cloudy and overcast, but by 7:30 the sun is breaking through the overcast and the bright sun blasts in through the front windows. A little more color is on the mountains today. After a little online research we decide to go to Grandfather gem mines and trout farm (or, maybe, trout farm and gem mine?), which is not too far out of Boone. By 10:45 or so we’re at the troutfarmgemmine/ gemminetroutfarm, a small operation on the side of route 105. Gem mining first - 2 $15 buckets of stones that can be sluiced and picked over, and which turns out to be quite a lot of stones! Some huge finds, some small glints of color in the bottom of the screens, some not quite gems so we keep them in the baggies for now. Kevin from the gem shop is generous with his cold beer (yay Kevin!), and with his impressions of what we’ve found. Emeralds and amethysts and calcite and tourmaline and many many others, including garnets and sapphires and pyrite, all tantalizing and possibly valuable! After a picnic lunch in the car, fishing is next, with worms and corn and poles and net from the trout farm stock, along with bucket and towel! A complete kit, and all we need to do is pay $4.25 per pound for whatever we catch. They do all the clean up, sweet! Ponce catches a big fish on a lure with his tackle, and Thing 1 soon follows suit with a smaller fish caught with a worm. I’m playing net woman and photographer all at once on this warm autumn day at the gem mine/trout farm behind the mini stor-it off Route 105, and am perfectly happy in this role and with this day. Thing 2 and I are next to catch our fish; I catch a nice-sized fish (side, hooked, but whatever) while Thing 2 simultaneously hooks a lovely one on a worm. Beautiful fish, and once we return our tackle and bait, the young guy in the filetting shed (who is shirtless, and thank you God very much for that) has started to clean and skin them for 50 cents a fish. Again, sweet!! All in all, once we’re done with gems and fishing it’s been 4 hours of pretty darn good fun. So, we returned to the house after purchasing makings for dinner, and I took a nap while the boys all read on the front porch. While the boys watched “Star Wars 2” Ponce and I talked on the porch watching the sun go down shining on the newly-bright hills to the east as a giant moon rose above the horizon. A very pretty place indeed, and just the place to eat fresh-caught trout while counting our gems.

Day 6

For sure the moutains have more color now that they did when we first arrived. Also, the moon is now almost full - tomorrow maybe! Today was a “nothing” day, in which I read almost an entire novel (“Lost Nation” by Jeffrey Lent - a recommended selection), no trips out were made by me except to the dump (which was closed). Ponce and Thing 2 went to town for a while to poke around and people-watch while Thing 1 and I stayed here and were total wastes of space. The boys played Monopoly in the late afternoon, and after dinner we watched “Van Helsing” as an exciting finish to an ordinary day.

Day something - Friday

A lazy start to this last full day of vacation, with only minimal plans. We only got up at about 8:30, which is pretty late when the sun’s coming right in through the front windows and bouncing all over the house. We pick and choose for breakfast, trying to finish up what we have in the fridge and pantry so we don’t have to lug a bunch of stuff home. The cabin feels so much like home that I try to do a quick redesign of our terrible kitchen at our real home, using the open feel and eat-in feature of this kitchen as an example. If only we had the view! We putter around for a couple of hours, watching teevee or reading or playing GameCube. Ponce briefly brings up leaving early, because it didn’t look like the weather was going to be that great, but I think my expression told all the tale the needed to be told. :> So, we decide that a trip to Mystery Hill will fulfill the entire list of touristy things we wanted to do. Well, we bypassed the place and decided to stop in at the toy store up the road first. Then because it seemed like the thing to do, we decided to do Mystery Hill on the way back from a trip out to Valle Crucis to see the Mast General store. Too bad that in Boone there was traffic of epic proportion, making us think that our trip was ill-fated! However, once free of Boone and whatever happenings were bringing in people by the thousands, we made it out to Valle Crucis though gorgeous little valleys tucked up under the shoulder of the hills. When the sun breaks through and illuminates the floor of a broad green valley floor while the brilliant trees shine with their own colors on the slopes all around, there’s almost no prettier sight. At the Mast Geenral Store (“at the same location since 1883, and boy howdy don’t the tilt of the floors just SHOW it!”), potato guns were purchased for each child, and we poked around for a bit, examining the old timey wares and the new-timey outerwear and shoes. Ponce took some photos of a herd of horses in the widest part of the Valle Crucis valley, and then we were off down the road again, following south 194 to Broadcreek (?) to 105 to Shull’s Mill to 221 to Blowing Rock - a safe trip down reasonably unbusy roads. One there we decided that the original point of this trip, Mystery Hill (remember?), was not going to be on the the menu for the day due to lack of time. We deferred it to Saturday, stopped at the Food Lion for dinner and headed home to shoot potato pellets at the trees and steel back in for one last night in the mountains. After dinner we wound up watching “The Three Amigos” as a family fun night thing, which of course the boys loved loved loved. Especially the unfortunate 3 Amigos “sah-loot” of arm cross, arm cross, head turn, pelvic THRUST accompanied by a guttural “huh!” Such wonderful memories we’re building, brings a tear to my eye, it does.

Day the last - Oct 6th, maybe?

Yep, the last day. Normally I wouldn’t write anything of the last day because it’s usually only packing and packing and grumbling about vacation being over, but in this case we did some vacation-y things that need to be captured if only for their sheer cheesiness. After the packing and the last big breakfast and the dishwasher running and the clothes washing and the dump visiting and the key dropping off of this morning, at the reasonable hour of 10:30 a.m. we were at the fabulous and never-to-be-duplicated “Mystery Hill” in gorgeous Blowing Rock, right off of Route 321, up the street from the Riverside Rental Cabins, and next door to the Appalachian Heritage Museum. Yes, THAT Mystery Hill! Sweet heavenly days, you know when you enter THROUGH the gift shop that it’s going to be something very special indeed. Something that might even require a purchase of the proffered dream catchers or pop guns or authentic plastic Indian artifacts to endure! Who knows what terrible secrets lie within Mystery Hill? For the low low price of $8 for adults and $6 for children, we found out......and oooooh, spooky optical illusions! Spooky! Eeek! Watch out as the Mystery platform makes you look larger at one end than at the other if you stand in just the right spot to observe the creepy phenomenon! Ooooh, scary animatronic feet of the “Revenooer” who had the misfortune to die right on the entryway to the Mystery House! Ooooh, spine-tingling the weirdo freaky daggone Mystery House itself, that upon entering makes you lose all sense of balance and equilibirum! Mind blowing! Seriously, though, I don’t care HOW much I paid to get in, the Mystery House was well worth the price of admission. It was fine fine fun. It looks like you’re standing at something like a 45 degree angle to the ground, and water apparently runs uphill and balls roll up an incline and if you hold a broom by 2 fingers from the very tip it will swing OUT from you, and walking up hill is a challenge and manohman the wee bit of your brain responsible for balance and making sure all is right with the world are definitely NOT all right with the world and those of us with maybe motion sickness issues have a tougher time with the adjustment than others but hooBOY what a hoot. What a hoot, a hoot, a hoot!. The rest of Mystery Hill? Meh. Optical illusions we’ve seen before, and the Incrdible Bubble Room af Amazement, in which you can be encased in a GIANT bubble if the bubble is made just.exactly.right. Yeah, meh. I’d go back to the Mystery House of equilibrial befuddlement any time. After that it was a quick split out of Boone to home, which, depsite a McD’s stop was made in under 4 hours. And now, home. Also good; it’s just too bad there aren’t mountains out the windows.


 
with major LURVE from tiff 7:38 AM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Sunday, October 08, 2006
17 years and counting
17 years.

11 homes.

12 moves.

8 jobs.

3 dogs.

2 kids.

1 marriage.

By God, there were times even I didn't think it was possible, and yet here we are. I suppose Mark Twain was right...."Love seems the swiftest, but it is the slowest of all growths. No man or woman really knows what perfect love is until they have been married a quarter of a century."

Well, only 8 more years to find out.

Happy Anniversary, Ponce.

 
with major LURVE from tiff 5:09 PM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Still on vacation
But I haven't forgotten y'all.

It's beautiful here - we've watched fall come across the mountains and have had many an adventure.

More Monday.
 
with major LURVE from tiff 5:18 PM | | Old Blogger Comments: 0