The Other Cat's Grass...

Mackie wants out and Spawn wants in. They can sit like this for hours, never making eye contact or acknowledging the other one's existence. Mackie will not go out as long as Spawn is on the stoop and Spawn will not leave for hours and hours; not until he's good and ready and ready to give up on the possibility of getting a treat from me.

I think there is a rap song like that:

I want what you've got
You want what I've got...

Anyway, I had a friend once who seemed to have it made. Her husband made oodles of money; she didn't have to do anything but work 2 hours a week at the local rubber stamp store so she could get their discounts;, she got to spend whatever she wanted on her Hall teapot collection and on slight acquaintance she seemed to have it all. I could have been envious but I just wasn't. And it was a good thing, too, because on further acquaintance I discovered she had a hoarding disease, and that paranoia thing where you never let anyone into your home or invite friends over, as well as a host of ailments and oddities that brought her 'lucky life' down in my opinion to a mere trickle.

Nope, I had already realized long before that, that I don't want to trade lives with anyone. Not for an instant. No matter how weird or hard or strange my life can be, I don't want the other man's grass! My problems are FAMILIAR to me. I don't want to adopt another life because of the problems that come with it. Foreign ones.

Anyway, I am pretty sure that Mackie knows his grass is the greenest, as well!

Victim Threat Level in the Yellow! (Elevated!)

Yup. I'm still the Vector for Nut Magnets and now it seems I'm attracting Victims like Quarks and Protons into a Black Hole!

Today was a busy one. I had to go get my annual TB test for work, pick up my meds. swing by the grocery for cat food and coffee filters and then try to find the nearest Safeway Gas Station because I get 10 cents OFF per gallon but only until the 30th of this month. Plus, I had to swing by the License Only Cosmetology store so I could get the stuff I need to turn my hair back to blonde from this weird Ash Head I've got now.

Busy times!

As I was tooling the aisle in the Safeway I happened to see this lady with the prettiest red hair. She had golden highlights and she had a layered mid-length bob. Very attractive! And it's my motto to compliment people because compliments don't cost me a thing and they sure do make people feel good!

So I told her I loved her hair and the next thing I knew, I was pinned between the Cocoa Puffs and my cart listening to her really looooooong tale about all her troubles. And believe me she had a few! Her husband is a cop and has a broken foot from chasing down a druggie. He has a bad rotater cuff from being yanked violently by a sex predator trying to escape his grasp; her twins have cerebral palsy; her daughter has scoliosis; her son is perfectly fine 'but it's just a matter of time!' she said; she herself had some kind of virus that drained every bit of potassium from her body, migraine headaches, fibromyalgia, multiple skin lesions, and the Black Plague.

Well, not those last two but I was just standing there trying to inch away while allowing her the space to vent her little heart out to somebody who would listen!

I told her to make sure she took a little time for herself no matter what. What I should have told her is to start a dang blog so she can vent all she wants to!!!!

I could have taken a couple of push-pins out of my feet and given her a quick acupuncture treatment, but I could tell she really didn't want anything to get better. Not just yet. Not until after her son becomes a helpless cripple or an alcoholic at age 7.

Finally, I escaped. As I turned around and headed for the check out stand, bearing down on me like a bullet to the bullseye was an elderly women in a whiplash collar, both arms bandaged, legs in plastic braces, wheeling herself along with her food basket precariously balanced on her broken knees...avoiding eye contact I ran as fast as my crucifixion feet would allow.

My main reason for going to the grocery was to buy coffee filters. Because I don't own any! I own a Braun with a permanent gold filter. This morning when I made coffee in my new/used Mr. Coffee I just dumped the scoop of chocolate vanilla blend coffee right into the basket. And YUM! Chewy coffee!!!

Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

As most of you know, Miss Kitty likes to talk about BIG stuff and also likes to hoard things like Bug Lights in case of a nuclear freeze she will still be able to keep her porch light on.

But we haven't bought Bug Lights in ages, however we have started to buy Tweezers. We've purchased 3 tweezers in the last 2 weeks. And we are still browsing the tweezer aisle and talking about slant versus straight tweezers. Miss Kitty will not use a slant tweezer. And no matter how I tell her she has at least 15 pairs of tweezers in her make-up drawer at home, she insists that she has to buy tweezers.

I guess she's got a BIG, BIG, BIG whisker problem. And since her eyebrows are tattooed on, I just don't want to KNOW what she's tweezing.

And then there's the Coffee Maker issue. In the 3 years I've been with her we have purchased 6 brand new Coffee Makers. At first I didn't catch on: if she said she needed a new one I didn't ask any questions about why?. After the 3rd or 4th one I started to wonder what was up with that?

It appears she doesn't like a dirty coffee pot. And she thinks that might mean it is wearing out and she has to buy a new one just to have a backup. She's got 4 used Mr. Coffee's in the garage in case something happens to the newest one, and 2 brand-new-in-the-box Mr. Coffee's just in case. Obviously she's got a stockpile of coffee on hand as well.

Yesterday, after unpacking the new Mr. Coffee we just purchased, I asked her what she was going to do with the old one? On a rare whim she told me I could have it! But keep it on hand in case something goes wrong with her new one! Because it's a BIG deal not to have coffee. BIG!!

Meet BIG Mr. Coffee

(Look, Joy! Twinkly lights on my two tiered plate rack!)

Tool Time!

There is a cool country song out right now by Rascal Flatts that is my theme song and my motto and my anthem. It's called Every Day.

I come around all broken down and
Crowded out
And you're a comfort
Sometimes the place I go
Is so deep and dark and desperate
I don't know, I don't know

Every day, every day
You save me
Every day you save my life.

Okay, now some folks are singing that about Jesus and some are singing that about their significant other, but I'm singing it about the wonder drug LYRICA.

It's the definitive drug for fibromyalgia pain, which isn't affected by normal pills like Advil or Ibuprofin or Vicodan or Demerol or Opium. I love it and I say it saves my life. Every Day.

But there's just this one thing that bothers me about Lyrica: THE COMMERCIALS.

The ones on television depict a spiffy middle aged woman prancing around in a flea market with a big heavy bag slung over her shoulder. Or dancing into the wee hours with the ubiquitous grey haired man who in real life would just be GAY he looks so good. Or standing in a windy field of daisies leaning on a white rail fence jabbering on about how she has just hoofed it over 40 acres with her mule. That's right, 40 acres and a MULE.

I think they should show it like it really is: Every day it's like somebody took one of these:

and pulverized the hell out of every soft tissue and muscle in my body. Every day. And I mean beat me up good, too, not some light percussion massage.

So when I saw this latest print ad I laughed in Wild Peals of Angry Mirth...

Because I'm like: PUSH PINS????? PUSH PINS????? Is this somebodys idea of an understated joke? Because for ME, what is sticking into my feet all over are THESE:

And it feels like THIS:

And what's worse? I have to WALK AROUND LIKE THAT.

The Slime of Miss Green Moldy

Hey, what can I say? I can't remember why I'm standing in the kitchen spinning in circles with the water running, the tea kettle boiling, my Sim peeps hollering for help while sweat trickles down the middle of my back and pools in my butt crack, but I can STILL MAKE UP SILLY TITLES FOR THINGS!

For those of you who were not born before the Flood, that title is a take on some old movie: the Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.

I thought of another one, sure to go right over the heads of the less aged and/or historically savvy: "Would you like some Menachem Bacon with those eggs?"

Okay, today was one of those days. Up at 3:30 for no reason at all except I could tell my body was done sleeping for the night. Exhausted by 10 am with a mounting headache, I decided to pop out to the grocery store really quick for some laundry detergent and the super duper bottle of quick-release Advil. My hair was wet from the shower, I had on baggy clothes that are stained and frankly not fit for the charity barrel, and the worst shoes on earth: old red tennies that I spray painted pink once upon a time on a whim.

Because, you know, I'm just popping out for 15 minutes. I'll keep my head down low. I won't meet anyone I know. I won't be talking to any strangers. There won't be any dangers, dramas or emergencies between there and back again.

At the grocery store I successfully avoided the cute produce dude that has teased me for years that he is my husband because once, a LONG time ago he was sweeping the floor and I jumped over the broom.

I avoided going to my favorite checker because I felt too badly to make eye contact.

I made it all the way to pulling out my debit card when two ladies behind me raised a fuss about the cute little card holder I made out of paisley paper to keep my card from losing it's swipe. It's just like an old library card pocket, back when library cards were made of paper and needed to be protected. You know, kids, before PLASTIC was invented.

They kept insisting that was my hidden talent and where my fortune lay! I wanted to hang down my head and cry because, frankly? If that's my hidden talent? and where my fortunes lie? Then I'm a lost goner. Because I could probably sell them at 5 cents apiece and once I'd saturated the market I'd have made a quarter.

Finally I made it out of that store without too much fuss and as I pulled into the alley behind my building I almost ran smack dab into a downed power wire! Or, it could have been a telephone wire but how would I know? Like the Good Samaritan that I am, I whipped my car across the alley to block all other traffic and threw on my flashers.

I asked a nearby parishioner of the church, congregating in the parking lot like always, if she had a cell phone and explained the situation. She debated whether it was a 911 emergency or not while I had time to take stock of her bling, her perfectly coiffed hair, her designer shoes and the fact that her ear robot was the best quality shiny Star Wars model available on the market, I just KNEW she had time to take stock of my shoes, my hair, my air of desperate downtroddenness, and my trembling need for a big fix of Advil. Which, by the way, was all I could do to keep from whipping that bottle open right there and gnawing through the plastic in order to down a couple of them.

It's a shame, but I felt ashamed at my absolutely demented appearance. And why didn't I have my cell phone with me? What good does it do me at home when I'm out and about?

Nevertheless, I was not about to be thwarted in my quest to be a hero, so I stood my ground while she dithered about the phone. She finally decided to call the church administrator and see what he thought. I decided to handle it myself, quickly ran upstairs and called 911. I told the dispatcher that it might not be an emergency but it might be a sizzling smokin' hot 400 million volts of blue steel molten electricity just waiting for the hapless victim to come along and touch it, but it was her call whether to send out an officer or not.

Then I returned to my car hoping the cop was cute and single and over 75 otherwise he'd not be attracted to me unless he had full blown cataracts; firmly determined to have saved at least a dozen citizens from being reduced to charred ash heaps.

Alas, the cop was about 5 foot 1 inches tall, 23 years old soaking wet, totally oblivious to my flashers or my peepers, who calmly pulled up, got out of his vehicle and proceeded to roll the wire up and toss it out of the way.

Well, REALLY!

Its the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

No, Not Christmas, although that's also the Most Wonderful Time of the year. And not Easter, although that, too, is the Most Wonderful Time of the Year...

SEPTEMBER!!!! Almost AUTUMN!

When summer is gone and it's oh, so mellow! When August is about half over I start to get that longing for the changing season. When you get that certain tang in the air like the bittersweet is about to start popping out in the hedgerows and the leaves are going to turn the most glorious shades of fall. When you start to think of decorating in fall colors, and buying pumpkins and gourds and Indian Corn.

In Sacramento, however, the days still evoke this: Bright White light pouring through the window on a warm breeze.

Even so, I couldn't help myself. I had to go ahead and change the table decor into an autumn theme.And if you don't just adore that crow perched on the shoulder of that scarecrow...well, you are just not from this galaxy, is all I have to say.

Happy September everybody!

It Don't Mean a Thang!

Well, this has not been the most pleasant of weeks as far as work goes. I truly love my job but, like all jobs, it has it's down days.

But with the elderly you never know what's going to hit you! It's not like when the french-fryer goes on the fritz and the customers start walking out on you. Which is why I'm seriously thinking nostalgically about going to work in some truck stop somewhere. I know how to sling hash! I don't always know how to care for my clients.

This week one of my ladies had a melt-down temper tantrum on the sidewalk outside her dentist's office. She refused to use her cane and wanted to hang off my arm like a monkey. I told her to take her cane and start walking and she grabbed my arm and dug her hand into my flesh with all her might and screamed at me that I was MEAN! I was being MEAN to her. Like that will look good on my criminal record rap sheet. Elder abuse or in this case, caregiver abuse!

The other lady insisted that I was using someone else's broom vac and that there was squash in the fridge and I had better cook it for her. She insisted that the smoke alarm went off for 2 days in a row and nobody would help her. (She's never without care so that's just not possible.) Then she asked me if I had ever gotten a new tenant and when I told her I owned no rental property she got a little huffy with me. Because I'm, like, hiding my assets or something.

The worst part was when my third clients daughter called and asked me what happened to the bag of marshmallows that were in the cupboard? I had thrown them out. They were congealed, had melted and then solidified into a solid mass. Not the healthiest of snacks in my opinion. But noooo...I was told in no uncertain terms that if her mother wanted stale marshmallows I was not to interfere. It was her house and her rules. "If mom wants to leave an open can of cat food on the counter covered in ants, that's her prerogative."

After that phone call I wanted to crawl under the bed and hide my shame. What was I thinking to presume I could throw away bad or rotten food?

So it is just a little glimpse of happy to think about when my other lady tells me this story:

It was WWII and there was gasoline rationing, so my lady had to ride her bike 2 miles each day to prepare a little house she and her husband had purchased for her bonkers mother to live in. She had one sibling, Flora Jean, who lived far away so she was not able to help in this endeavor.

I say her mother was bonkers because she threw herself into the ocean and several other suicidal feats. In today's world we'd say she was manic depressive schizophrenic but back then she was referred to as 'a tad touched'.

Anyway, my lady prepared this little house with paint, wallpaper, soap and beeswax polish and on the day she took her mother to present her with this amazing gift of a home of her own...her mother walked in the front door, glanced around and said, "It doesn't mean a thing without Flora Jean."

And although it was meant to be a very pathetic story, it cracks me up every time she tells it.

I want to change the grammar around a little bit and make it into a country western song.

"It don't mean a thing without Flora Jean

not my pickup my dog or my gun...

Since Flora Jean went on the run..."

The Secret Life of Paper

Okay, I guess if I can bare my soul and confess I'm a glutton I may as well confess something else...

I'm a USER. Yes, I use them. I use them ALL. And when they are done for, I throw away their empty shell and start over on different ones.

Magnetic Notepads.

Can there ever be enough of them? Can I ever have enough of their efficient, pretty, handy, delightful presence in my life and on my fridge?

It's not like it's a REAL addiction. I can stop anytime I want to. It doesn't affect my job performance. My relationships are not suffering because of it...Okay, my bank account is, just a little bit, but I don't binge on buying them. I can buy just a few at a time or even just one and nurse it while I listen to the band.

There is nothing obsessive, compulsive or hoardish about it, either. I have it under control.

But wait, there's more of them:


I know what you are thinking. One of these days I'll hit rock bottom. There will be no more options for me; no space for my little habit, and then I'll have a meltdown. You are thinking maybe you should plan an intervention for me. Like maybe a Tupperware party to confront me with my need and try to get me to diversify a little bit.

You are thinking, "Can't she just stick with refrigerator magnets like the rest of us? Why does she have to be so out there with this excessive indulgence?

But I won't hit rock bottom. I have a contingency plan.

I'm already planning where to put a second refrigerator.

You Decide

As always, my pictures are viewed best when clicked on and enlarged. (Because, frankly, the batteries in this camera are almost totally dead, which makes the photos bland.) Is this for me? Really?Sniff
Chomp
****

Last night at work as I was cutting a muskmelon, my lady and I were talking about eating habits and food. She is a voracious eater, but in little amounts.

I on the other hand am a 'stuff it in and reach for more and as soon as a meal is finished, start looking for something to peck on until the next mealtime' type.

I told her I was afraid I suffered from the Deadly Sin of Gluttony.

She thought about this for a bit and said, "Oh, that's nothing. You could be an alcoholic. You could be a drug peddler."

Well, when you look at it like that... it puts a new spin on it. I should start thinking about it in a new way.

Obese Glutton or Chubby Nibbler? You Decide

The Blair Recipe Project

Having lost my pancake recipe 5 times in a row because it was just tucked into my recipe book any which way, I decided it was time to tackle the Dreaded Recipe Book Organization Project... You all know what I mean. Recipes jotted onto scraps of paper, on index cards neatly typed but ancient with flour dust and spilled liquid spots, torn out of magazines, downloaded from cooksdotcom on full-size sheets that have to be folded up and therefore never get used.

We have every intention of getting them into some kind of binder, neatly typed and readily accessible by category if not downright alphabetized.

Once upon a time, I had taken one of those pretty blank diary type notebooks that everyone has but nobody uses, and had painstakingly copied out about 20 of my 2,000 recipes in pretty markers, color-coordinating the types of recipe...cakes, cookies, breads, cookies, meat dishes, cookies.

And then my hand wore out. So that project never got finished. Over time those pages became indecipherable because the ink bled all over the place and was eventually blotted out entirely.

Since Idle Hands are the Devil's Workshop, I decided I had nothing better to do than get that recipe book into shape once and for all. That meant NO cheating such as gluing the old recipe onto a new page.

Of course I decided to document this awesome task because nobody would believe me if I didn't.
Except the pictures kept turning out blurry. And dark. And gloomy. Are there darker forces at work? Trying to keep me from being the only person on the green Earth --except for possibly Martha Stewart-- who has her ducks all in a row and her recipes neat, tidy and organized?

I want to tell those petty Gods of Clutter and Mayhem that they need not fear me. I've already glued several long drawn out recipes right onto the pages, and I've even gone ahead and simply hole-punched the existing old recipes and stuck them in the binder.

In fact that may be what I'll do! Just hole punch everything, as is, ink blots, globs of dried cookie dough and all!

P.S: A friend suggested that I get those nice plastic page protectors that fit the ring binder and you slide the recipe down into a pocket. Neat idea! Except those only come in full-ring size binders! But next time! For sure!

Don't It Make My Brown Eggs Blue

How do you designate which eggs in your fridge are boiled and which are raw?

It seems that everybody does this differently. For instance I know people tend to keep them in different compartments. Or the raw ones in the egg holders built into the fridge door and the boiled ones in a bowl or the original egg carton. Or vice versa I don't know which.

Cousin Pearl Baker-Snell-Forbes-Jackson-Rowe-Tackett (she's been married 5 times) peels them all, which to me seems to defeat the entire purpose of boiled eggs which is to make them last forever in your fridge without spoiling.

When I was growing up my best friend Eliza's mother put a big black X on the boiled ones. I still think a black X is repetitious and depressing.

So I always make my boiled eggs blue. Always.

And since I keep all my eggs in one basket, I think that makes perfect sense.

Maiden of the Corn

Well, it's been a while since I ran into any nutcases out there in the universe, but maybe it was because the God of Nuts was on vacation? Or saving up for a big whammy?

Last night, as I was cruising the produce department at the local Save-Away, I heard this frantic shredding and tearing sound. I turned around and saw a seemingly normal young Japanese woman in medical assistant scrubs shredding the heck out of about a dozen ears of corn. She had a bag of cleaned corn in her cart and was tearing, shredding, peeling away like a madwoman. I was so puzzled I was almost stunned.

She was throwing the shucks back into the bin with the other ears of corn, making a huge and to my way of thinking rude and inconsiderate mess of the corn she was leaving behind.

I wanted to say something SO badly. I circled the melon kiosk trying to get my courage up enough to approach her and say, "Is that how your mother taught you to shop for corn?" Or I wanted to say, "Can't you do that at home?" Or further, "Does the hovel you live in not have a garbage receptacle?" Or "Are you terrified of corn silk and wish to leave it all in the store rather than risk taking it home with you?"

I started to get actually pissed off about it, after pushing my cart around the potato bin a few times. I searched for the usually ubiquitous produce clerk to lodge a complaint but none was to be found.

I even tried to imagine that she was just checking to see if the ears were good. Of course, the rest of us just peel back a little corner of the top, but maybe her culture is different? Like maybe they don't have corn on the planet Slorgon? But no, she wasn't checking anything. She was furiously, frantically and downright viciously stripping and processing that corn right there in the produce aisle.

As I glared at her and swooped my cart around the peach and nectarine cases I was muttering pithy and devastating remarks to her under my breath. "What the Eff is wrong with you, Jap Bitch?" was probably the low point of my tirade.

It was then, steeped in a fugue of fume, that I noticed a nice young Soccer Mommy with her wee tot in her cart, staring at me with fear and trepidation. It was clear to me that she thought I was the nut! She thought I was the Crazy Lady in the Plaza de Produce!

I raced to the middle of the store and buried myself in the frozen food locker, counting on the frosted-up glass to cool me down and hide my shame.

I don't know why it is I didn't just run and tattle on her. I also don't know why I didn't say something pithy or even snarky right to her face. What do I care? I could take that little chick in a brawl. But noooo! I have to be all polite and scared and reserved. With the unfortunate upshot that I fret about it and fume for all to see.

Next time? Should I ever be so lucky as to see some fool peeling corn in the store and leaving a mess? I'm going to walk right up to her and say..."Shuck Off, Lady."

Sea Meth

Last night my subconscious, while I was sleeping, revealed to me the reason all those skiers, jet-skiers, motor-boaters and surfers are so amped up all the time. It's because of the Sea Meth.

Yes, it's a naturally occurring methamphetamine found in saltine sea water, which enters the body through the nasal passages every time you fall in and get a snortful.

In my dream, I was handed a pamphlet while at the beach with the words SEA METH emblazoned on the front in shiny red letters, warning of the hazards of inhaling too much salt water while partaking of aquatic diversions at the seashore.

So I had to tell everybody. Some folk might want to rush right down there and dive in, but some might want to sell their snorkels and swim fins on eBay and take up a less drug-laced form of recreation.

This public service announcement has been brought to you by the Dream State of Miss Pink Ponsonby.

I'll Be the Xylophone Waiting for YOU

It's August, and a new month means a new table-top decor. It's one of my personal pleasures to arrange my table with a few of my likable things so it's the first thing I see when I walk into my kitchen each morning that puts a smile on my face. The fridge is the next thing, with the coffee pot or tea kettle being next.

Inside the pitcher is my collection of old wooden shoe trees for women. Some of them have little cloth covers on the tree part. I rarely see these anymore but for the most part I bought them for a quarter apiece. My antique stoneware gravy boat doubles as the butterscotch disk holder.

The book I am rereading for the umpteenth time is "An Hour Before Daylight" by our President Jimmy Carter. He is an amazing writer and this book reminisces all about his childhood days growing up in Georgia. It is funny and sweet and takes me back to the days when I, too, peed in outhouses, chamber pots, or back behind the barn when necessary.
When I'm sitting at my table having breakfast and reading, I can see this view. It's my favorite collection of the Wade Figurines. This is the Nursery Rhyme set and I don't have all of them but I keep looking. I want the gingerbread man, but he must have run pretty far away because you can't find him anywhere. Those old nursery rhymes were weird but they are a part of our cherished past, as well, aren't they?
And then I ran across this little family portrait from the olden days and had to put it up here. You won't know it if you are a 'yung-in' but this couple were the height of fashion and all that was glorious and most desirable, back in the day. Some of my cousin's still wear their hair this way.

The world needs it's fashion time warps.

And the world always needs another mis-heard lyric. I was bopping down the road the other day singing to my heart's content to an old song on the radio...

Why dont you build me a buttercup Baby
Just to let me down (Let me down)
And mess me around
And then worst of all (Worst of all)
You never call baby When you say you will
But I love you still...
And I'll make you happy
I'll be home
I'll be the Xylophone Waiting for you.

A Sorrowful Mystery

When I was trying to act Catholic a few decades ago I learned all about the Rosary: The Joyful Mysteries and the Glorious Mysteries and the Sorrowful Mysteries.

And then I promptly forgot what they all were except for one. I know for certain sure what one of the Sorrowful Mysteries is, was, and always will be:

The Death of a Good Red Shoe.
Even Mackie looks sad and somewhat at a loss.
I don't know how I shall find the strength to go on. To be without Red Shoes is to be without a soul in Russia. It is to be without Light and Rainbows and Comfortable yet Stunning Feet.

Goodbye, my Beloved LizFlex shoes.

Time to Die.

How To Spend Your Morning Making Maple Fudge

This is a great way to use up extra ingredients and kill half a morning! Make Maple Fudge!

Start by printing out a recipe: Any old maple fudge recipe will do because the end product will be exactly the same no matter what. It helps if you have a trusty assistant who will be vigilant in making sure the printer doesn't attack anything or make any sudden moves.Line an 8x8 square pan with expensive aluminum foil and then spray the heck out of it so it cannot be used for anything else in the unlikely event of a fudge failure. Mix up all the ingredients the way you are supposed to according to your chosen recipe. Be sure and use up the last of the Mapeline so that you can't make a second batch if this one doesn't turn out.

A candy thermometer is an absolute must. You want to follow the instructions perfectly and they are going to say something like "cook to 348 degrees" and you want to steam your face really well when hanging over the pot trying to count those teensy little lines on the thermometer.

But just to make sure, use the 'softball' method, too. That entails a saucer of cold water and lots of runny globs of the mixture respirating in limp depression, semi-floating in the water, their lifespan prematurely ended because they never rose to the task of forming a soft ball in all that cold water.

Fast forward to the part where you scorch the entire batch and have to throw it down the drain and open up all the doors and windows to get the chemical smell of burned sugar out of the air.

Spend the rest of your time scraping the burned stuff from the pan.

That's a Morning Well Spent! Happy Cooking!

Gravitate to the Beer and Soothe your Shrapnel

I had to run to the Dollar Tree this morning and squander my money on cheap plastic items that only cost .9 cents to manufacture and disintegrate upon contact once you get them home. When I was paying for my purchases (a powder compact for my purse which I just discovered will not stay shut because the clasp is missing; a round styling brush that I just discovered tears my hair out by the roots because the little prongs are jagged and probably dipped in poison; one of those puffy fluffy powder brushes that I just discovered feels like dragging straw across my face and is so uneven that it smears the powder in little clumps; a small sized mixing bowl so I can whisk my eggs in the morning that I just discovered once I removed the store label and saw what was underneath, has enough lead in it to kill entire colonies of marmots living on the edges of the old Killhope Lead Mines in North England and thus renders it useless for beating eggs) I was struck with one of those killer, jabbing, sudden frontal lobe headaches.

I said OUCH and the check-out clerk said in sympathy, "Oh, is it one of those sinus headaches?"

Without thinking I responded, "Shrapnel. From 'Nam. Pressing on my brain tumor."

She fell out laughing and said I made her day and that those shrapnel wounds were just fine except for the side effects and we both went on with our day in better moods than before.

People all around me are starting to be as funny as I am. It's a real joy!

On Sunday there was a gentleman walking down the alley on his way to the church next door as I was getting into my car. We exchanged the usual friendly greetings about what a nice day it was since the air was blowing that awful toxic smoke away from all the wildfires at last. I said, "It's so nice to have a little oxygen in the air again!" and he replied "Yes, and we don't have to chew it!"

Then Miss Biddy got her vocabulary a little jumbled while we were having tea and a chat, saying, "My brother is so nice he never lacked in girlfriends. He's just so friendly that is why everyone gyrates to him."

I've gyrated to a man or two in my life so I knew just what she meant!

And then the ever-scrambled Miss Kitty told me this long, meandering pointless story all about Pearl and Earl, a mother and son who go up to the Spill-Booze Lounge every single day.

"Earl lives with Pearl because she is old and needs the help plus he doesn't have a job anyway. Pearl has a beard. Nobody says anything. Everyday they go up to the Spill-Booze and she sits there with her beard. Nobody bothers her or says anything. They leave her alone with her beard."

I was appalled! "Oh, NO Miss Kitty! She shouldn't have a beard! Her son needs to look into having that taken care of! They have hormones now and all kinds of epilation options. Just typical of a man not to take care of something like that which can be so easily fixed!"

Miss Kitty said, "Well, it's okay! Her son doesn't care! It's just one beard! Nobody says anything to her about it!"

And then of course, the old shrapnel must have shifted and comprehension dawned:

"Miss Kitty, do you mean she has a BEER?"

And that about sums up my week in humor!

More things I am loving right now.

Good Things come from Dumpsters

I love dumpster diving! Or at least, dumpster perimeter scouting! I don't actually dive into dumpsters, that would be unsanitary. But fully 3/4 of my furniture comes from junk I've gleaned from alleys and side-streets and had that lovely word "FREE" taped to its body!

For instance this really ratty old cabinet. It was perched outside my own apartment building in the alley near where I park. I saw it and thought it looked like a filing cabinet but that perhaps it had potential. I liked the brass handles so I determined if it was still there when I came home from running errands I'd take a look at it.

It was there and I decided upon inspection that it was worth salvaging, and so I hoisted it up my stairs and onto the plastic for a make-over. Not wanting to invest a bunch of money I don't have in paint or stain, I just used the Cherry Chocolate I had left over from my pie safe re-do.

This is what the finished thing looked like in this morning's light. As always, you can click on the picture to get a higher resolution, better-lit look at it. I can't decide whether I really like it or will have to get rid of it at the first opportunity but for now it is the perfect home for all my table cloths and linens.

And another good thing?

DAIRY PRODUCTS. Why do they get such a bad rap?

BIG Ken

Yesterday was my regular shopping day with Miss Kitty. As usual she had a list for all the things she needs and on a separate piece of paper, an item that had been recommended to her by her sister in law as something she might like to try.

Why she doesn't put that sort of thing on the existing list I do not know.

It happened to be some Ken's Light Balsamic Soy Ginger Dressing, which I knew was going to be trouble.

Miss Kitty doesn't like change. She doesn't like to try new things, she doesn't like odd brands.

Her favorite phrase is "I know him/her/that/those." I call it Land Park Snobbism. They are so proud of their little elite neighborhood and how friendly they are. Friendly like a nest of snakes. If you are ALSO a Landparker, then you are treated with such sweet kindness. If you are not 'known' then you are condescendingly smiled at. No overtures of true friendliness are made.

Miss Kitty's poor downtrodden pharmacist is retiring, and there is a lot of hoopla about where she will pick up her medicines now. I've told her that the Safeway Pharmacy is quite competent and it would make it so easy to be able to pick up her meds there when we are doing her regular shopping. She could even put them on their own list.

But, no, she has to go to some out of the way little pharmacy because, "I know him."

"How do you know him, Miss Kitty?" I ask.

"Well, I don't, but his Dad knew my Mother."

Of course, that makes him a very, very competent pharmacist so end of discussion. In Land Park you only need to be known by someone and your career is assured.

I only bring this up because my nose is out of joint. Miss Kitty's next door neighbor, the one who was so astonished to learn I was clever, always waves like mad at my car until she sees that I am not carrying Miss Kitty as my passenger and then she turns her back on me. I'm just the hired help, and nobody knows me.

So, there we were, facing a daunting wall of salad dressings, marinades and vinaigrette's, looking for Ken's Light Balsamic Soy Dressing. I could feel the agitation and tribal-fear growing in Miss Kitty as she was about to leave her compound of familiarity and step out amongst the hoi polloi to shop for something new and uncharted.

Ken's is not a major name brand like Kraft or Hidden Valley, but it has been around for a while and does seem to have about 15 varieties on hand. I'm not afraid of Ken. But Miss Kitty was muttering under her breath, "I don't know Ken. Is he Big? How BIG is Ken? I don't know him."

I soothed her as much as possible by showing her that she could actually get the Kraft Brand of Light Balsamic Soy Dressing instead. This put her into further agitation because it meant she wouldn't be getting the same, known kind that her sister-in-law had recommended in the first place.

It was all too much for her, I guess, because she decided that she didn't eat tomatoes anyway so why buy dressing to put on them?

As I was putting the bottles back on the shelf I heard her Loud Bray of Derision echoeing down the halls of Safeway Market...

"WHO the HELL is KEN?"

Poor Ken. If he had just been from Land Park, he could have been a contender!

Things I'm Loving Right Now

The air is really bad right now in Sacramento, due to all the wildfires. So bad that it always looks like sundown on a foggy day. Looking at it through the windshield of my car as I drive to work, I am always reminded of the dust in the air at the fairgrounds, when the whole world smells like diesel from the carnie rides and livestock odors and John Deere Tractors all shiny and new in their green paint.

The fibromyalgia is in full force right now and it leaves me wondering: How much tiredness can a person sustain? How much muscle pain and how much brain fog? Before it all just melts into a puddle of goo and I'm nothing more than a gob of rot on the floor with a forlorn pair of reading glasses on a chain sticking out of the top of it?

So I have to find things I love. I have to find things I like to look at and think about. Things that brighten all and everything for as long as they need to look brighter to take me to the next moment and the next, unglobbed..

Things like this bow tie quilt in the loveliest teals and sky blues.

Things like snow white linen napkins (of which, like champagne, I've never had enough!)

Things like "A New Earth" by Eckhart Tolle.

Things like a Robin's Egg blue Sadler teapot and matching creamer right next to a Bauer pot in the same shade of heaven.

And my homemade crepes.

What are you loving right now?

Handy Hotpad: Official Tutorial for the Crochetically Savvy

Start with a wash cloth that you like. I like white and that's all I have so that's what I used.

So now you are going to do a tricky kind of fold. And good luck with that because giving you a step by step photographic journey for the fold was beyond my skills and capabilities.

Actually I just got bored with that part because I wanted to crochet. So here is part of the fold.

Bwa-LA! Here is the completed fold. See how easy that was? For those of you who are not rocket scientists and may be spatially challenged like me, you can find info on the net for Origami and just look up how to make a Crane Base. That is all this is, a crane base cloth.Okay, then you are going to carefully cast on to the edges of the cloth with a slip stitch. When you do this at home, it won't be blurry. Unless you are drunk. But do not drink and crochet, please. Many, many crochet fatalities go unrecorded each year and why end up as a statistic? How sad for your family to have to shake their heads and whisper through their tear soaked hankies, " She died in a terrible crochet accident. It was horrible. Bloody. Senseless. We told her not to drink and crochet. We should have taken away her hook."Quite sozzled by now, you can still make out the detail on which direction you will put your slip stitch. It will look like this at some point in the procedure. When you get to the end of the cloth with your slip-stitching, you will turn around, chain up a couple stitches and go back the way you came, doing a shell stitch all the way. Okay, this tutorial is NOT for beginners. A shell stitch is easy but I'd have to actually THINK about how many double crochet to put in each hole and how many single crochet in between and then try to write that all out for you when probably it will all be for nothing because you are going to say, "What the heck do I want with a hot pad made out of washrags anyway?" So I'm just saving myself some stress because math makes me tired.

Here is one side finished, and completely in focus for a change.

Because I am a left handed crocheter, you may be completely confused by now. If you want to make these hot pads BACKWARDS you just go right ahead.

Okay! Isn't it looking kind of cool, now? Like it has turned a new leaf, and is ready to join the ranks of the Big Guys who handle hot pots and casserole dishes fresh from the oven.

I like how jaunty and pretty it looks while sitting up. But it just needs one more thing. A little handle. You just chain onto the top point of the hot pad and make a small chain about 20 stitches and then single crochet around them until it looks sturdy enough to hang on a nail. You figure it out.

Pretty as a Daisy Bloom and no bigger than a tessy wren, my wee little moppet with a handle!

And here we have the finished thing, waiting in the wings for it's chance in the Pot-light. No photography is allowed during the actual performance, as the insurance underwriters feel it would be much too dangerous considering the mess that was made of the pre-production stills.

July, July, July do ya Love Me?

Just thought I should post something for you to look at besides my hives!

Happy Fourth of July!