It's no secret that I do not like Daylight Savings Time. It seems to come earlier and earlier each year, and stick around longer and longer. Theoretically, the changing of the clock was supposed to make life more convenient for people like farmers and ranchers, because the clock, and therefore other people's schedules, were supposed to be more in line with the agrarian lifestyle. I disagree. Someone who cares for farm animals and/or grows crops isn't influenced as much by the time on the clock as they are by the time that the sun is shining.
Every year, various states try to legislate DST out of existence, and there are always people who get up in arms and want the change to continue. They say things like the time change makes the day last longer. Umm, no. The tilt of the Earth on its axis, along with its rotation around the Sun, makes the day longer. Do you really think that the day changes its duration based on what the clock says? That makes me think of a comparison attributed to Native Americans. Cutting a foot off one end of a blanket and sewing it to the other end does not make the blanket longer. Whether the clock says 8:00 p.m. or 9:00 p.m., the duration of sunlight hours has nothing to do with what our clocks say. Yes, the sun may seem to set later, but that doesn't mean the day magically got longer. The sunrise was later, too!
Statistics show that DST and the time change are very hard on our minds and bodies. I've read that fatal heart attacks increase around the time change, as well as other causes of illness and death. As for me, and many others I have spoken with about this game of musical clocks, it really messes with my body's and brain's internal schedules. Things just seem...off. It's almost like having jet lag without the fun of traveling. What a rip-off!
On Saturday night before we went to bed, Trent and I changed the time on our watches and such. Liz was leaving town on Sunday to spend some time with her pregnant daughter while the bun finishes baking in the oven, so I didn't get to the clocks in the kitchen and living room right away. When I thought about it, I didn't feel like doing it. I had the brief rebellious attitude of 'it's stupid, I'm not going to do it,' but I knew that I would fix the other clocks before bedtime on Sunday. I also knew that it could wait until after I watched The Walking Dead and anything else that might delay the task.
At about ten minutes before 10:00 p.m. I knew that the time had come to change the clocks. Now, our kitchen has a wall clock, a microwave oven clock, and a stove clock. Let me pause in this narrative to remind you that the time change messes with me, makes me tired, and screws up my internal schedule and such. When I changed the time on the first clock, I had ingrained in my mind that it was nearly 10:00. My flummoxed brain changed that around to it being during the ten o'clock hour, and I changed the clock forward two hours instead of one. By the time I changed the second clock, I realized my error and corrected it, but was kind of embarrassed/disgusted with myself.
I told Trent that the time change was screwing with my brain and how I had set one clock forward two hours. In a sweet and gentle voice, he asked, "Why did you do that, honey?" I replied that I did it because I was a big fat idiot. In the same overly-exaggerated sweet voice, he said, "Oh, honey, you're not fat." I burst out laughing at the joking insinuation that the latter half of what I'd said was true. I gave Trent two fives and a baby five because of his quick wit, and we got a good belly laugh out of it.
In case you're wondering, no, I have not adjusted to the time change. My mental clock seems to have broken a spring or two and I have no idea of roughly what time it is any more. By the time I have it sorted out we will probably be close to going back to real time. Sigh. Thank goodness for watches. If they're set correctly. What time does mine say? Is it really that late already? Gah!
Postscript from The Lunatic: No feelings or husbands were harmed during the incidents related in this post. We thank you for your kind concern.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As
always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great
joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd
like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Thursday, March 16, 2017
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
A Woman's Story
What is a woman's story? What makes her the person she has become? To me, a woman's story is not a line that goes from Point A to Point B, zigging and zagging along the way, although it can often seem that way. I think it is something greater. It is a cloth woven of teaching and experience. It is a tapestry embroidered with the hands of many different dreams, beliefs, and opinions. And each woman's is different.
Along my path, who has helped direct the weaving and embroidering of my cloth? My life, my story, my essence, is the result of the influences of many other people, both male and female. I have been taught things that I still hold close to my heart and things that I have dropped by the wayside. I have learned from the joys and sorrows of others, storing the pieces of their lives in the depths of my heart and mind. And this has all shaped the person that I have become, the person who is still, I hope, growing and evolving.
Although she was only a part of my life for a short seven years, my mother and her life still influence me. She moved to this country with her husband and children after a failed revolution in her home country made life unsafe for them. She gave birth to her last child, me, after being in her new country for less than three years. As a child, I always knew that she was unhappy. I didn't know why. But I knew that my father was someone I both loved and feared. She probably felt the same way. At least the fear part.
My father, in his kinder and more nurturing moments, always encouraged me to be smart and do well in school. He already had two pretty daughters, so this ugly duckling was apparently destined to be the smart one. Even after he went to prison for my mother's death, the few letters that I received from him stressed that I should be a good girl and learn well. Fairly early, my feet were set on this path.
After time spent in an orphanage along with my sister Liz, fate and distant family brought us to the Denver area. While I had always thought that my mother didn't love me, I never felt that she actually hated me. That was what I got from my guardian's wife, Alice. The physical and emotional/mental abuse was designed to break my spirit, and in many ways it did. I bear the physical and mental scars to this day. Instead of being regarded as a bright little girl, I was the human refuse that had been forced upon her. She fairly quickly turned Liz over to her mother, no relation to us whatsoever, and I followed quite some time later.
While I was with Alice, I learned a deeper fear than I had ever known. Her tongue and her beatings were vicious, and her temperament was wholly unpredictable. It was impossible to learn how to behave while I lived with her. An action that resulted in a beating would convince me to change my behavior the next time I was in a similar situation. My attempts to change my behavior and avoid her fury made no difference. The beatings and humiliation would occur again and again. When I was playing next door and skinned a knee, my friend's mother insisted on putting a bandage on it for me. This resulted in my being beaten for trying to get attention. A week or two later, and another skinned knee. I went about my solitary play because I didn't want to get beaten for trying to get attention. Instead, I ended up being beaten for being too dumb to come in out of the rain. From her, I learned the fear of not pleasing others and the consequences that might be involved. I learned that others' happiness was more important than my own.
Gram grew up without a mother; her mother died along with the twins she was carrying in 1908 when Gram was not yet two years old. Although her beloved father was very progressive in some ways (for example, having her read aloud from books that he picked because they had been banned by the Catholic Church), he was very much a traditionalist in other ways. When she begged to have her long hair cut short for comfort, he wouldn't hear of it. Ladies let their hair grow long. When he came home from work to find that she had raided her piggy bank and gone to the barber for a short haircut, he didn't speak to her for several days. And when she discovered that she had a love as well as a talent for making hats, she told him that she wanted to be a milliner. Again, he was furious. A lady did not work outside the home. She gave up her hope of a career, but never forgot it. She told me of her squashed dreams many years after. From her I learned that the world and its expectations and assigned roles weren't always fair, and that regrets and longing can live with us forever.
In addition to these and other women that I have known well, there is a parade of other women and other experiences that have shaped me. When it struck me one day, several years after my father's death, that his less than five years of punishment for killing my mother was terribly short and terribly unfair, a sad and burning thought took hold of me. According to the law, a woman's death only warranted a short prison sentence. After all, my thoughts seemed to taunt me, they saw her as only a woman.
Now, I've never considered myself as a feminist or any other similar label. But I have a great sense of fairness. A woman, a man, a child - all have worth. A person who ends their spouse's life violently shouldn't pay for their crime based on some set of variables like a sliding scale. The life of a mother is of no less value than that of her husband who works as a janitor, and his is of no less value than that of a bus driver or school teacher or politician or doctor, no matter what their gender. A woman who is raped does not deserve to be killed for shaming her family. A girl should not find it impossible to get an education because she has to miss one week of school each month since she has no access to hygiene products. A person should not have their private life legislated by others. I could go on, but I think I've made my point.
These and so many other ideas, feelings, and experiences contribute to the weave of my life's fabric. They aren't all my stories, but they are all stories that color my life's tapestry. They are they colors of sadness, love, fear, hope, anger, shame, and so many other things that make us human. They change us as well as changing with us. And the becoming, the story, becomes a part of the greater fabric of humanity. May your colors never dim, and may they always shine for you.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Along my path, who has helped direct the weaving and embroidering of my cloth? My life, my story, my essence, is the result of the influences of many other people, both male and female. I have been taught things that I still hold close to my heart and things that I have dropped by the wayside. I have learned from the joys and sorrows of others, storing the pieces of their lives in the depths of my heart and mind. And this has all shaped the person that I have become, the person who is still, I hope, growing and evolving.
Although she was only a part of my life for a short seven years, my mother and her life still influence me. She moved to this country with her husband and children after a failed revolution in her home country made life unsafe for them. She gave birth to her last child, me, after being in her new country for less than three years. As a child, I always knew that she was unhappy. I didn't know why. But I knew that my father was someone I both loved and feared. She probably felt the same way. At least the fear part.
My father, in his kinder and more nurturing moments, always encouraged me to be smart and do well in school. He already had two pretty daughters, so this ugly duckling was apparently destined to be the smart one. Even after he went to prison for my mother's death, the few letters that I received from him stressed that I should be a good girl and learn well. Fairly early, my feet were set on this path.
After time spent in an orphanage along with my sister Liz, fate and distant family brought us to the Denver area. While I had always thought that my mother didn't love me, I never felt that she actually hated me. That was what I got from my guardian's wife, Alice. The physical and emotional/mental abuse was designed to break my spirit, and in many ways it did. I bear the physical and mental scars to this day. Instead of being regarded as a bright little girl, I was the human refuse that had been forced upon her. She fairly quickly turned Liz over to her mother, no relation to us whatsoever, and I followed quite some time later.
While I was with Alice, I learned a deeper fear than I had ever known. Her tongue and her beatings were vicious, and her temperament was wholly unpredictable. It was impossible to learn how to behave while I lived with her. An action that resulted in a beating would convince me to change my behavior the next time I was in a similar situation. My attempts to change my behavior and avoid her fury made no difference. The beatings and humiliation would occur again and again. When I was playing next door and skinned a knee, my friend's mother insisted on putting a bandage on it for me. This resulted in my being beaten for trying to get attention. A week or two later, and another skinned knee. I went about my solitary play because I didn't want to get beaten for trying to get attention. Instead, I ended up being beaten for being too dumb to come in out of the rain. From her, I learned the fear of not pleasing others and the consequences that might be involved. I learned that others' happiness was more important than my own.
Gram grew up without a mother; her mother died along with the twins she was carrying in 1908 when Gram was not yet two years old. Although her beloved father was very progressive in some ways (for example, having her read aloud from books that he picked because they had been banned by the Catholic Church), he was very much a traditionalist in other ways. When she begged to have her long hair cut short for comfort, he wouldn't hear of it. Ladies let their hair grow long. When he came home from work to find that she had raided her piggy bank and gone to the barber for a short haircut, he didn't speak to her for several days. And when she discovered that she had a love as well as a talent for making hats, she told him that she wanted to be a milliner. Again, he was furious. A lady did not work outside the home. She gave up her hope of a career, but never forgot it. She told me of her squashed dreams many years after. From her I learned that the world and its expectations and assigned roles weren't always fair, and that regrets and longing can live with us forever.
In addition to these and other women that I have known well, there is a parade of other women and other experiences that have shaped me. When it struck me one day, several years after my father's death, that his less than five years of punishment for killing my mother was terribly short and terribly unfair, a sad and burning thought took hold of me. According to the law, a woman's death only warranted a short prison sentence. After all, my thoughts seemed to taunt me, they saw her as only a woman.
Now, I've never considered myself as a feminist or any other similar label. But I have a great sense of fairness. A woman, a man, a child - all have worth. A person who ends their spouse's life violently shouldn't pay for their crime based on some set of variables like a sliding scale. The life of a mother is of no less value than that of her husband who works as a janitor, and his is of no less value than that of a bus driver or school teacher or politician or doctor, no matter what their gender. A woman who is raped does not deserve to be killed for shaming her family. A girl should not find it impossible to get an education because she has to miss one week of school each month since she has no access to hygiene products. A person should not have their private life legislated by others. I could go on, but I think I've made my point.
These and so many other ideas, feelings, and experiences contribute to the weave of my life's fabric. They aren't all my stories, but they are all stories that color my life's tapestry. They are they colors of sadness, love, fear, hope, anger, shame, and so many other things that make us human. They change us as well as changing with us. And the becoming, the story, becomes a part of the greater fabric of humanity. May your colors never dim, and may they always shine for you.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Friday, February 24, 2017
Salty
Someone I know posted an article online the other day along with an interesting statement. She said that she thinks that black pepper is overused in cooking, and that it often doesn't really enhance the foods that we automatically sprinkle it on. The article was written by someone who quit using pepper in their cooking years ago. She (the author) hadn't decided to quit using pepper; her pepper mill just quit working. She noticed that her foods began to taste better without the pepper, and then quit using it in her cooking.
When I decided to comment, I hadn't yet read the article. I fall more firmly into the salt camp as far as favored basic seasonings. There were some commenters to my friend's post that were vehemently pro-black-pepper. And some for whom that last sentence would be a gross understatement. There were others who were also bigger fans of salt than pepper.
I don't think that any of us were anti-pepper, it was just that we agreed it was routinely overused. How many recipes have you seen that instruct you to "add salt and pepper to taste"? Mashed potatoes? Add salt and pepper. Salad? Ditto. Just about every recipe you read except desserts will include that instruction. And with the trend toward savory desserts, even those recipes aren't all free from pepper!
Here's my problem with pepper - it can be like a person who thinks they're irresistible. It can come on too strong. Pepper, with its volatile oils, has a distinctly strong flavor. Instead of enhancing the taste of some foods, it can overpower it. Salt, in my opinion, is more likely to improve the flavors of many foods, whether they are robust or delicate. And you won't ever catch me eating popcorn without it! I am also a fan of different varieties of salt. I have Himalayan Pink, both ground and in a grinder, and Hawaaiian Red. My kitchen also houses Black Cyprus salt that looks like little black pyramids, Fleur de Sel, Chocolate salt, Bacon salt, Lime Salt, and Murray River salt from salt deposits in Australia, to name a few.
One commenter said something to the effect that salt kills and pepper heals, a statement with which I must respectfully disagree. Pepper, with such a strong, hot, or bitter flavor, can be too much for may people. And life without salt is impossible. Both humans and animals are drawn to it because it is necessary for their well-being. When my guardian Bill had horses and cattle on his land, there were always salt licks for the animals.
In many eras of human history, salt was valuable enough to be a form of currency or exchange. Even the ancient Roman legions couldn't function without salt. In addition to their ration of food and drink, they were paid in salt. In the non-coastal regions, it was precious enough to be a wage, and the word for salt evolved into the word salary. Litle wonder, then, that we have sayings about being worth one's salt - if we are competent at what we do, we are worthy of our salary, our salt. Pretty amazing for something we can now buy easily at a market, isn't it?
In the end, it's all a matter of personal preference, or perhaps I should say taste. My favorite of the two is salt, and I use it far more, but there are dishes that simply aren't as perky without that zing of black pepper. It comes down to loving the flavor of your food. Whether you favor one over the other doesn't matter as much as making food that will make you happy. So shake or grind or sprinkle - and enoy! Bon appetit!
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
When I decided to comment, I hadn't yet read the article. I fall more firmly into the salt camp as far as favored basic seasonings. There were some commenters to my friend's post that were vehemently pro-black-pepper. And some for whom that last sentence would be a gross understatement. There were others who were also bigger fans of salt than pepper.
I don't think that any of us were anti-pepper, it was just that we agreed it was routinely overused. How many recipes have you seen that instruct you to "add salt and pepper to taste"? Mashed potatoes? Add salt and pepper. Salad? Ditto. Just about every recipe you read except desserts will include that instruction. And with the trend toward savory desserts, even those recipes aren't all free from pepper!
Here's my problem with pepper - it can be like a person who thinks they're irresistible. It can come on too strong. Pepper, with its volatile oils, has a distinctly strong flavor. Instead of enhancing the taste of some foods, it can overpower it. Salt, in my opinion, is more likely to improve the flavors of many foods, whether they are robust or delicate. And you won't ever catch me eating popcorn without it! I am also a fan of different varieties of salt. I have Himalayan Pink, both ground and in a grinder, and Hawaaiian Red. My kitchen also houses Black Cyprus salt that looks like little black pyramids, Fleur de Sel, Chocolate salt, Bacon salt, Lime Salt, and Murray River salt from salt deposits in Australia, to name a few.
One commenter said something to the effect that salt kills and pepper heals, a statement with which I must respectfully disagree. Pepper, with such a strong, hot, or bitter flavor, can be too much for may people. And life without salt is impossible. Both humans and animals are drawn to it because it is necessary for their well-being. When my guardian Bill had horses and cattle on his land, there were always salt licks for the animals.
In many eras of human history, salt was valuable enough to be a form of currency or exchange. Even the ancient Roman legions couldn't function without salt. In addition to their ration of food and drink, they were paid in salt. In the non-coastal regions, it was precious enough to be a wage, and the word for salt evolved into the word salary. Litle wonder, then, that we have sayings about being worth one's salt - if we are competent at what we do, we are worthy of our salary, our salt. Pretty amazing for something we can now buy easily at a market, isn't it?
In the end, it's all a matter of personal preference, or perhaps I should say taste. My favorite of the two is salt, and I use it far more, but there are dishes that simply aren't as perky without that zing of black pepper. It comes down to loving the flavor of your food. Whether you favor one over the other doesn't matter as much as making food that will make you happy. So shake or grind or sprinkle - and enoy! Bon appetit!
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Old Friends
It's been a few weeks since I've written, and I freely admit to feeling guilty about it. I've toyed with various ideas over the last few days while I piddled away time binge-watching tv series and reading books. Okay, wait a minute, reading books is definitely not piddling away one's time. Last night I had a very vivid dream about someone that I haven't seen or spoken to in close to 25 years. I woke up thinking about this friend, and all of my ideas for blog posts slipped away. I needed to write about my old friend.
In this odd but incredibly realistic dream, I was in a school-type setting. I wasn't in any classrooms, and it must have been a college because of the lovely open campus setting. I walked into a room where a slightly older, very kind gentleman was sitting down on a classroom chair. He was a counselor or advisor of some sort, and I knew that he was very busy. Even so, he spoke to me for a few moments. He advised me to go to a woman named Kris B, with whom he had worked on an award-winning project.
My face broke into a huge smile because I knew her years ago. I told the man that I used to know her, and even went to New York City with her. He smiled as I told him how Kris had given me a wonderful compliment all of those years ago. She told me that among all of her friends, I was the only one who didn't just talk about going on a trip, but actually planned it and went. And we did go, one lovely early September. She was patient with me when we got off to a rocky start and I said I'd just as soon go home. Within hours, I fell in love with the city. And I was patient with her getting-ready-to-go routine that we joked about.
Anyway, in the dream I was a bit nervous to see Kris because our lives sent us on different paths and I was afraid that she wouldn't want to see me. When I saw her, busy at her work, she embraced me and made me feel welcome. Somehow I can see a real life reunion going exactly that way, and liberally sprinkled with joyful tears.
When I woke, I couldn't stop thinking about my old, dear friend Kris. We met at our banking workplace, both in the teller department. Our friendship developed fairly quickly, as I recall. We obviously got along well or we wouldn't have taken the plunge to go aross the country together. What fun we had on that trip! From the Statue of Liberty to the Hard rock Cafe (at that time only the second HRC in the world!) and Central Park, we saw so many wonderful things. We fell in love with the Carnegie Deli (just recently closed, to my great sadness) and its bickering waiters. It was with Kris that I discovered on our first full day in the city that we were slightly lost - in the Red Light District!
We went to Macy's and Bloomingdale's and Sak's and my favorite, Tiffany. We ate all sorts of wonderful food varying from street fare to dinner in the Crystal Room at Tavern on the Green. We rode buses and subways and acted like the city was ours. In fact, a woman who sounded like she was from New York stopped us to ask for directions to a specific address. Without skipping a beat, I was able to tell her exactly how to get there. We loved it.
My joy and zest for travel were awakened then. I've gone to several states and made it all the way to Budapest and various points in Hungary to find my family. I've seen Vienna, Austria and the incredible city of Paris. If I could, I'd jump on a plane tomorrow. Hey, my passport is still valid! Although it would take a little while for Trent to get one...
A little over a year after our great adventure, she was very supportive of me when I was hospitalized and diagnosed with lupus. Her dear sweet husband Joe, a paramedic, even stopped at the hospital to check on me. When I was feeling a bit better, Kris and I went to see a fairly new movie in the theater, a "chick-flick" called Beaches. In a nutshell, it's the story of two friends over the course of some years. One becomes very ill and dies. We wept profusely all through the movie. After the lights came on Kris told me, "I was sitting here thinking, she looks like Katrina when she was sick." And I told Kris, "I was sitting here thinking this is what I put my friends through." I have never seen the movie again. When I recently saw ads on the television about a made-for-tv remake, I announced that I will not be watching it, and I wondered whether her feelings would be the same.
As I said, life has taken us in separate directions and we drifted apart. I think of Kris from time to time, and very lovingly. If there was any way that I could help her in a time of need, I would do so without hesitation. Could we rekindle a friendship? I don't really know. After all of these years, we're different people now than we were before, so it could never be the same. And that's a good thing, because if it was the same it would mean that neither of us had experienced any life or any growth. But I will cherish the knowledge and memory of having such a wonderful and amazing friend, one that I will always carry in my heart. Thank you, Kris, for all of the love and memories.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
In this odd but incredibly realistic dream, I was in a school-type setting. I wasn't in any classrooms, and it must have been a college because of the lovely open campus setting. I walked into a room where a slightly older, very kind gentleman was sitting down on a classroom chair. He was a counselor or advisor of some sort, and I knew that he was very busy. Even so, he spoke to me for a few moments. He advised me to go to a woman named Kris B, with whom he had worked on an award-winning project.
My face broke into a huge smile because I knew her years ago. I told the man that I used to know her, and even went to New York City with her. He smiled as I told him how Kris had given me a wonderful compliment all of those years ago. She told me that among all of her friends, I was the only one who didn't just talk about going on a trip, but actually planned it and went. And we did go, one lovely early September. She was patient with me when we got off to a rocky start and I said I'd just as soon go home. Within hours, I fell in love with the city. And I was patient with her getting-ready-to-go routine that we joked about.
Anyway, in the dream I was a bit nervous to see Kris because our lives sent us on different paths and I was afraid that she wouldn't want to see me. When I saw her, busy at her work, she embraced me and made me feel welcome. Somehow I can see a real life reunion going exactly that way, and liberally sprinkled with joyful tears.
When I woke, I couldn't stop thinking about my old, dear friend Kris. We met at our banking workplace, both in the teller department. Our friendship developed fairly quickly, as I recall. We obviously got along well or we wouldn't have taken the plunge to go aross the country together. What fun we had on that trip! From the Statue of Liberty to the Hard rock Cafe (at that time only the second HRC in the world!) and Central Park, we saw so many wonderful things. We fell in love with the Carnegie Deli (just recently closed, to my great sadness) and its bickering waiters. It was with Kris that I discovered on our first full day in the city that we were slightly lost - in the Red Light District!
We went to Macy's and Bloomingdale's and Sak's and my favorite, Tiffany. We ate all sorts of wonderful food varying from street fare to dinner in the Crystal Room at Tavern on the Green. We rode buses and subways and acted like the city was ours. In fact, a woman who sounded like she was from New York stopped us to ask for directions to a specific address. Without skipping a beat, I was able to tell her exactly how to get there. We loved it.
My joy and zest for travel were awakened then. I've gone to several states and made it all the way to Budapest and various points in Hungary to find my family. I've seen Vienna, Austria and the incredible city of Paris. If I could, I'd jump on a plane tomorrow. Hey, my passport is still valid! Although it would take a little while for Trent to get one...
A little over a year after our great adventure, she was very supportive of me when I was hospitalized and diagnosed with lupus. Her dear sweet husband Joe, a paramedic, even stopped at the hospital to check on me. When I was feeling a bit better, Kris and I went to see a fairly new movie in the theater, a "chick-flick" called Beaches. In a nutshell, it's the story of two friends over the course of some years. One becomes very ill and dies. We wept profusely all through the movie. After the lights came on Kris told me, "I was sitting here thinking, she looks like Katrina when she was sick." And I told Kris, "I was sitting here thinking this is what I put my friends through." I have never seen the movie again. When I recently saw ads on the television about a made-for-tv remake, I announced that I will not be watching it, and I wondered whether her feelings would be the same.
As I said, life has taken us in separate directions and we drifted apart. I think of Kris from time to time, and very lovingly. If there was any way that I could help her in a time of need, I would do so without hesitation. Could we rekindle a friendship? I don't really know. After all of these years, we're different people now than we were before, so it could never be the same. And that's a good thing, because if it was the same it would mean that neither of us had experienced any life or any growth. But I will cherish the knowledge and memory of having such a wonderful and amazing friend, one that I will always carry in my heart. Thank you, Kris, for all of the love and memories.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
A Cat's Tale
This is the true story of a cat.
Trent and I have never really been cat people. I think that a big part of this for me is the experiences I had with Alice. During the hellish couple of years that I lived under her care, it was evident that cats were more important to her than human children. Especially more important than the orphan children of her husband's Hungarian relatives. As a result, I went through a period during which I actively disliked cats; this phase ended many years ago.
Trent has been a dog person for many years, as have I. We both take issue with the type of cat that will walk all over the kitchen counters and things of that nature. It kind of disgusts us. But we have had cordial interactions with cats who own humans of our acquaintance.
Many changes have occurred recently in the land of The Lunatic and company. Perhaps these will be discussed in a future blog post. One of the results of these changes is that Liz, my sister, has become a member of our household. Along with her comes a well-behaved and shy (reclusive?) cat named Brutus.
Brutus is a substantial (chunky monkey) grey cat that Liz adopted as a kitten. He was a motherless feral cat, and has some issues as a result. It takes him a while to warm up to people, and when he sleeps, as some cats seem to do for about 20-odd hours per day, he cries because of his bad dreams. It's sad and very touching, and frankly a bit heartbreaking.
So here's a brief rundown of Brutus' first week at the home of The Lunatic.
On Wednesday evening Brutus arrives in a pet carrier lined with his mother's bedsheets. The carrier door is opened, and Liz and I adjourn to the living room. Within less than an hour, this shy and frightened cat comes into the living room and gets on the pullout bed with Liz. He gives me a look, jumps off the bed, and hops up on the loveseat next to me. He allows me to pet and admire him and then goes back to his mommy. Brutus quickly discovers that the furniture here really suits him - both the pullout bed and the recliner provide hiding places that are perfect for a shy, fat cat.
Each evening, Brutus comes out from his nesting areas and cuddles with Liz. He also comes to see me, asking for some treats from the package I keep nearby. By Monday evening, he walks over my lap to visit Trent for treats, and allows him to pet and admire him until the treats are eaten. He then hisses something sassy about no treats, no touching, and goes back to his mother.
On Tuesday evening, Brutus is surprised to find himself more interested in the actions and behaviors of the other humans than he expected. He hears me place his bowl on the counter and get him some canned food which I bring to the living room. He eats some with gusto, and does more of his customary exploring. He becomes frustrated when his desire to follow Trent conflicts with his desire to stay with Liz. He deals with this by going to one of his hiding places. When Trent sprays some air freshener from a loud spray can, Brutus gets startled and runs for cover. In his aunt and uncle's bedroom! Liz comes in a short while later to lay on the end of the bed. Brutus joins the family and places himself between mom and aunt and allows both to pet him, AKA worship the cat.
When The Lunatic moves around during the night, she discovers that a big fat cat has moved so that he can lay next to her leg. She later feels him jump on the bed (after spending some time with Liz) but doesn't feel him lay down. That must be when he was with Trent. One cat, two new humans, and seven nights - I think we have been accepted as not only residents of his new home, but members of his family. Welcome to the family, Brutus. And don't ever start jumping on the counters!
And now his tale is told.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Trent and I have never really been cat people. I think that a big part of this for me is the experiences I had with Alice. During the hellish couple of years that I lived under her care, it was evident that cats were more important to her than human children. Especially more important than the orphan children of her husband's Hungarian relatives. As a result, I went through a period during which I actively disliked cats; this phase ended many years ago.
Trent has been a dog person for many years, as have I. We both take issue with the type of cat that will walk all over the kitchen counters and things of that nature. It kind of disgusts us. But we have had cordial interactions with cats who own humans of our acquaintance.
Many changes have occurred recently in the land of The Lunatic and company. Perhaps these will be discussed in a future blog post. One of the results of these changes is that Liz, my sister, has become a member of our household. Along with her comes a well-behaved and shy (reclusive?) cat named Brutus.
Brutus is a substantial (chunky monkey) grey cat that Liz adopted as a kitten. He was a motherless feral cat, and has some issues as a result. It takes him a while to warm up to people, and when he sleeps, as some cats seem to do for about 20-odd hours per day, he cries because of his bad dreams. It's sad and very touching, and frankly a bit heartbreaking.
So here's a brief rundown of Brutus' first week at the home of The Lunatic.
On Wednesday evening Brutus arrives in a pet carrier lined with his mother's bedsheets. The carrier door is opened, and Liz and I adjourn to the living room. Within less than an hour, this shy and frightened cat comes into the living room and gets on the pullout bed with Liz. He gives me a look, jumps off the bed, and hops up on the loveseat next to me. He allows me to pet and admire him and then goes back to his mommy. Brutus quickly discovers that the furniture here really suits him - both the pullout bed and the recliner provide hiding places that are perfect for a shy, fat cat.
Each evening, Brutus comes out from his nesting areas and cuddles with Liz. He also comes to see me, asking for some treats from the package I keep nearby. By Monday evening, he walks over my lap to visit Trent for treats, and allows him to pet and admire him until the treats are eaten. He then hisses something sassy about no treats, no touching, and goes back to his mother.
On Tuesday evening, Brutus is surprised to find himself more interested in the actions and behaviors of the other humans than he expected. He hears me place his bowl on the counter and get him some canned food which I bring to the living room. He eats some with gusto, and does more of his customary exploring. He becomes frustrated when his desire to follow Trent conflicts with his desire to stay with Liz. He deals with this by going to one of his hiding places. When Trent sprays some air freshener from a loud spray can, Brutus gets startled and runs for cover. In his aunt and uncle's bedroom! Liz comes in a short while later to lay on the end of the bed. Brutus joins the family and places himself between mom and aunt and allows both to pet him, AKA worship the cat.
When The Lunatic moves around during the night, she discovers that a big fat cat has moved so that he can lay next to her leg. She later feels him jump on the bed (after spending some time with Liz) but doesn't feel him lay down. That must be when he was with Trent. One cat, two new humans, and seven nights - I think we have been accepted as not only residents of his new home, but members of his family. Welcome to the family, Brutus. And don't ever start jumping on the counters!
And now his tale is told.
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Monday, January 23, 2017
The Qimas Solution
It was very early in the morning. By early, I mean get up and tinkle and go back to sleep o'clock. It was dark and at least three or four hours before my planned wake-up time. I had one very clear and urgent thought as my mind crossed into consciousness. Their bodies haven't had enough time to clear the Qimas Solution before they have to wake up.
I became aware that it was too early for me to get up for anything other than to answer nature's call. I shook my head as I stumbled into the bathroom. What the heck had I been dreaming about? As a general rule, if I wake with coherent (or even partly incoherent) thoughts related to a dream, I remember at least the last part of the dream. This time I was coming up completely blank. I was able to find some amusement from the idea I had awakened with. In fact, I opened up Blogger on my phone and saved the title you see at the top of this post. It was just so odd, and I didn't want to wake up later with it fully erased from my memory.
When I woke up hours later, the memory of the incident was still there, but I couldn't remember the name of the Solution that was still coursing through the bloodstreams of the faceless and possibly victimized bodies. I looked at the title on my phone and once again shook my head. I still had no clue what it meant or where it came from.
You may think that this is a tempest in a teapot, and it sort of is. But I routinely have extremely vivid dreams. I suppose most of us do, or the dreams wouldn't accomplish the mysterious functions they perform. But I am also someone who remembers most of their dreams. In fact, when I have repeating dreams, or serial dreams as I tend to call them, I will frequently have thoughts like oh no, not this dream again! Many people, including Trent, seldom if ever remember their dreams in the morning. I have awakened happy, sad, irritated, frightened, disgusted - you get the idea - all because of remembered dreams.
The following night (last night), I woke up numerous times thinking about the silly Qimas (KEE-mus) solution and the blog post I was going to write about it. I was, over and over again, composing the blog post in my sleep! After about the fourth time I awakened while mentally writing, I promised myself that I would write it before the next time I went to bed. And that is why I am writing, and you are reading, about this odd bit of mental nonsense.
I fervently hope that the Qimas Solution will not affect your dreams tonight. Since I don't know the contents or purpose of the Solution, I have no idea of the potential side effects. And I hope that by the time I go to bed tonight, the Qimas Solution has had sufficient time to clear itself from my bloodstream!
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
I became aware that it was too early for me to get up for anything other than to answer nature's call. I shook my head as I stumbled into the bathroom. What the heck had I been dreaming about? As a general rule, if I wake with coherent (or even partly incoherent) thoughts related to a dream, I remember at least the last part of the dream. This time I was coming up completely blank. I was able to find some amusement from the idea I had awakened with. In fact, I opened up Blogger on my phone and saved the title you see at the top of this post. It was just so odd, and I didn't want to wake up later with it fully erased from my memory.
When I woke up hours later, the memory of the incident was still there, but I couldn't remember the name of the Solution that was still coursing through the bloodstreams of the faceless and possibly victimized bodies. I looked at the title on my phone and once again shook my head. I still had no clue what it meant or where it came from.
You may think that this is a tempest in a teapot, and it sort of is. But I routinely have extremely vivid dreams. I suppose most of us do, or the dreams wouldn't accomplish the mysterious functions they perform. But I am also someone who remembers most of their dreams. In fact, when I have repeating dreams, or serial dreams as I tend to call them, I will frequently have thoughts like oh no, not this dream again! Many people, including Trent, seldom if ever remember their dreams in the morning. I have awakened happy, sad, irritated, frightened, disgusted - you get the idea - all because of remembered dreams.
The following night (last night), I woke up numerous times thinking about the silly Qimas (KEE-mus) solution and the blog post I was going to write about it. I was, over and over again, composing the blog post in my sleep! After about the fourth time I awakened while mentally writing, I promised myself that I would write it before the next time I went to bed. And that is why I am writing, and you are reading, about this odd bit of mental nonsense.
I fervently hope that the Qimas Solution will not affect your dreams tonight. Since I don't know the contents or purpose of the Solution, I have no idea of the potential side effects. And I hope that by the time I go to bed tonight, the Qimas Solution has had sufficient time to clear itself from my bloodstream!
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
Monday, January 9, 2017
How to Open a Box
Having been around for a little while, I have learned many things. I have also not learned many things. Today I want to share a valuable lesson with you on how to open a box.
In order to open a box, you must first acquire one. Think of something that you would like to eat. Look at your phone's treasure trove of apps with store membership rewards and coupons and specials. Check your rebates app(s). Determine, through the use of these research venues, which store has the prize which you seek.
After loading any and all applicable coupons and rebates on your cellular device, arrive at the store and locate the product. Scan the shelves to find the closest-to-perfect match. Breakfast biscuits? Check. Ooh, chocolate? Check. Itty-bitty bite-sized morsels of yum so that you don't have to bite into them and send crumbs tumbling everywhere? Check. While waiting in line, resist the brightly colored packages of chocolates, candies, and beef jerkey. Ignore the gums and mints and Burt's Bees lip balm, and the tabloid headlines that scream at you with their bold print. Pay for your treasure (and your other groceries - you wouldn't drive to the market for just one thing, after all) and head home.
Curse your insanity as you lift your ridiculously heavy reuseable shopping bags onto your shoulders. Carry so much that it makes every muscle in the upper half of your body tremble, because you do not want to make a second trip out to the car. Take everything that requires refrigeration or freezing out of the bags, stow them away accordingly, and collapse onto your favorite sofa or chair for a few minutes of recovery. Heave a sigh and gather up your cellphone to take pictures of barcodes and your receipts because rebates are important. Go sit on the bed with your legs up just because it feels good.
Forget about your treasure until a day or two later. Smile as you recall that box full of cute little chocolate yumminess in individual-serving packets. Sit down with the box in your lap and see the upside-down instruction to gently lift the flap with your finger. Squeeze your finger under the end of the flap and realize there's enough glue there to build a model airplane big enough to hold small children, and strong enough to hold together while it flies. Notice the inadvertent gasps coming out of your mouth. You will not be defeated by a little cardboard box!
Slide you finger across the half-inch wide swath of glue as the lid reduces in thickness by half - that glue isn't moving for anybody, anytime. Holler as the glue slices your finger a little bit. Throw the box down, wash your hands, and find a bandage. You don't want blood from a chocolate injury all over the house. Return to the box and realize that you'll never be able to use the locking tab feature - the locking tab is very thin and the slot is covered with the killer glue. Decide that being careful is no longer necessary and just tear the other side of the lid to get into the box.
Nibble on your morsels of chocolate yumminess while emptying the box into a resealable and more finger-friendly container that is perfectly suitable for snacks. Remind yourself that the next time you buy these overpriced nuggets of yum you will just open the box with a knife or some scissors. Wait three months and repeat the process because you forgot all about that evil glue and its bloodlust. Sigh and swear to yourself it won't happen again. Until the next time.
A note from The Lunatic: No, I didn't cut myself. But when I was trying to open that box today, I could imagine that happening to some unsuspecting seeker of chocolate delight. And I did not tear the box lid open. But for a second there I really wanted to!
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
In order to open a box, you must first acquire one. Think of something that you would like to eat. Look at your phone's treasure trove of apps with store membership rewards and coupons and specials. Check your rebates app(s). Determine, through the use of these research venues, which store has the prize which you seek.
After loading any and all applicable coupons and rebates on your cellular device, arrive at the store and locate the product. Scan the shelves to find the closest-to-perfect match. Breakfast biscuits? Check. Ooh, chocolate? Check. Itty-bitty bite-sized morsels of yum so that you don't have to bite into them and send crumbs tumbling everywhere? Check. While waiting in line, resist the brightly colored packages of chocolates, candies, and beef jerkey. Ignore the gums and mints and Burt's Bees lip balm, and the tabloid headlines that scream at you with their bold print. Pay for your treasure (and your other groceries - you wouldn't drive to the market for just one thing, after all) and head home.
Curse your insanity as you lift your ridiculously heavy reuseable shopping bags onto your shoulders. Carry so much that it makes every muscle in the upper half of your body tremble, because you do not want to make a second trip out to the car. Take everything that requires refrigeration or freezing out of the bags, stow them away accordingly, and collapse onto your favorite sofa or chair for a few minutes of recovery. Heave a sigh and gather up your cellphone to take pictures of barcodes and your receipts because rebates are important. Go sit on the bed with your legs up just because it feels good.
Forget about your treasure until a day or two later. Smile as you recall that box full of cute little chocolate yumminess in individual-serving packets. Sit down with the box in your lap and see the upside-down instruction to gently lift the flap with your finger. Squeeze your finger under the end of the flap and realize there's enough glue there to build a model airplane big enough to hold small children, and strong enough to hold together while it flies. Notice the inadvertent gasps coming out of your mouth. You will not be defeated by a little cardboard box!
Slide you finger across the half-inch wide swath of glue as the lid reduces in thickness by half - that glue isn't moving for anybody, anytime. Holler as the glue slices your finger a little bit. Throw the box down, wash your hands, and find a bandage. You don't want blood from a chocolate injury all over the house. Return to the box and realize that you'll never be able to use the locking tab feature - the locking tab is very thin and the slot is covered with the killer glue. Decide that being careful is no longer necessary and just tear the other side of the lid to get into the box.
Nibble on your morsels of chocolate yumminess while emptying the box into a resealable and more finger-friendly container that is perfectly suitable for snacks. Remind yourself that the next time you buy these overpriced nuggets of yum you will just open the box with a knife or some scissors. Wait three months and repeat the process because you forgot all about that evil glue and its bloodlust. Sigh and swear to yourself it won't happen again. Until the next time.
A note from The Lunatic: No, I didn't cut myself. But when I was trying to open that box today, I could imagine that happening to some unsuspecting seeker of chocolate delight. And I did not tear the box lid open. But for a second there I really wanted to!
***************************************************************
The Tip Jar:
As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:
https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic
Thank you for reading!
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