I USED TO BE.....NOW I'M ........ (prompt)

I used to be....now I'm...


I used to be afraid of having fun. Now I'm not (as much.)

There were four of us riding down the smooth, newly honned dirt road, one behind the other in a dark blue baby buggy with white stitching and white wall tires. All chrome. Very sweet. Riding down the road. Squealing with delight. "Faster! Faster!" we hollered to our 9 year old sister, our pilot. Tacoma held fast onto to the shiny chrome handles. We perched inside, arms spilling out as we flew. Meesha was three and in front, I was four and a half, Jemi was almost six. Asa was eight.

Sunny afternoon, mid July. Blue sky. Puffy white clouds. Perfect.

Until we hit the rock, the soft sand on the side, veered off into the double barbed wire fence. Electric. And it was on. Meesha flew out and into the field, Asa over our heads after her. Jemi and I were trapped under the pram.

I must have grabbed the fence because I have always had scars  on my hands. I definitely struggled. I remember shouting NO! shaking my head back and forth, ripping open my face.

Tacoma tried to make it right. The worst part was that because the buggy was mostly chrome, it was electrified. Every time Tacoma touched it, she got another jolt.  OW OW!
GET IT OFF HER! GET IF OFF THE FENCE! someone cried.

Finally I must have crawled out of it or Asa may have snagged it off....I don't know because all I could see was red. Blood in my eyes, coming from the top of my head, my forehead, cheek. My face had essentially been ripped off. The skin of my left cheek was flapping.

Screaming and screaming and crying and terrified, Jemi grabbed my hand and ran me down the road to the house. Our feet barely hitting the ground. In blood and shock.

By the time we got to the house, only 30 yards away, my little girl white T shirt was drenched in little girl blood. I remember blinking and seeing the blood running down my left arm and off my fingers.

We got to the old gray (at the time) farmhouse and to Mother and Dad. Later Daddy said he knew something was really wrong when he heard "you girls screaming like that." Mother washed me up and wrapped me in a white bed sheet fresh from the line, taped my face back on, rocked me back and forth. Stayed up all night to make sure my wounds didn't re-open. Let me sleep in my parents bed for nights thereafter. She never looked at me the same after that. Nobody did. When you're a little girl, about to start first grade and you have a scar across your face as big and red as that one was? Nobody looks at you the same as they look at other pretty little girls in your family.

I am fortunate, really, because a few inches lower and that fence would have gotten me in the neck---the corotid. Jugular. Blood would have squirted out with every beat of my little girl heart. A heart that earlier pounded with glee, replaced by adrenalin, kicked into survival mode....a heart that knew where home was. Even when she couldn't see.

It took years to get over the feeling that if I let myself go, really let go the way most people do on ferris wheels, even tree swings, on bicycles...something tragic would happen. Something horrible and bloody would come and spoil everything. Scar me for life. I used to be afraid to have fun. Now? Not as much...

Getting Organized--under a Blood Moon

It's not as if I am incapable of cleaning a room or moving through boxes of paperwork, dragging furniture around rearranging art work, storing things, throwing stuff out. It's just that I can always find better ways to spend my time. So I decided, during a conversation with my dear friend Patricia, that SHE was the person who could help me actually clean house. I have several sisters, one of whom would throw too much stuff out if I could ever get her to slow down long enough to come over and help me out, one who (and I mean this with love) is a hoarder, but who can tidy a room like nobody I have ever seen---when it's not her own...and another who means well, is really good at doing any size project, no matter how disgusting (more on that later) in record time, with zest and zeal and a "we are going to get this done today" attitude. Of course, one wouldn't, one couldn't and one really shouldn't since she has her own messes to clean up before the snow flies, including trying to fix up and sell two houses that were left to her by our dead brother.

So along comes Patricia, spends the night at my house in my (yes, clean) guest room-- unbeknowst to PJ, I had spent several "pre-organizer" hours cleaning up the house...you know, like when the maid is coming and everybody has to make their bed and pick up the toys? 

We decide to "go to town" after a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, English muffins, carrots and celery, veggie sausage, coffee and juice. Heavy on the coffee, light on the carrots and celery. We talked about what could be done (there is a LOT of that in reorganizing, as well as a tiny bit of lecturing, many explanations, and much acquiescence)..it's a real education. Patricia (I will henceforth refer to her as PJ, because a/ I'm lazy and b/ok, there is no b==I'm just lazy) had arrived the night before, which meant she hadn't surveyed the property. So after talking about all the possibilities ad nauseum, we cleaned up breakfast and ventured outside into the cool, autumn air and across the heavy dew of the lawn.

In a sentence I would call my house and property an "end of the street raised ranch built into an ant hill surrounded by woods, bushes and brush and a cedar hedge." The lawn is nice, large, and part of it is almost flat enough to pitch a tent, features a thrown-together field stone fire pit (in which I burn papers, cardboard and your occasional woolen blanket or pair of painter's pants.) We sat on a makeshift tent platform high on the hill surveying the scene. PJ started in. "You can pitch tents on this lawn! You could sell it as a place to have weddings! You could...." and so on...she is a woman full of ideas, many creative ones, many overly ambitious ones. (More on the actual organizing of the house here....)
alter, Japanese sake 
family pics

So, it was back inside for us to tackle the job before the blood moon showed up, and we had to stop. I live near a country club, a golf course. And although we could really have scrambled up there, dodging the hoards of skunks reported to frequent the 7th hole, we decided to use the brains our parents gave us and drive up there. In the heat of my car, peering out through the moon roof, we saw it. There that moon was, smiling down on us and there we were, Japanese sake in hand, two gray handle-less mugs flung from a potter's wheel already warmed up. Rearing to go. 

 PJ is a photographer, so she was having none of this, in-the-car stuff. She fled the vehicle as if her ass was afire. She was about to sit her carcass on the ground, when I got out and hauled a blanket I keep in my car for JUST these kinds of occasions, which come to find out, happen exactly every 18 years! We sat there under that moon, chilly and excited, a bit tipsy and poised to get wowed and get some award-winning shots of that crazy, magical lunar eclipse that was about to happen.

NOTHING IS BETTER

• winter sunsets
• the ocean at sunrise
• trees covered in snow
• spring flowers
• Friday afternoon commute
• Sunday morning brunch
• moss covered rocks
• paper birch trees
• maple sugaring time
• mountains in the distance
• Vermont foliage
• you

Life Savers--OCT 27, 2015

LIFE SAVERS

It isn't just people who save lives--there are the obvious people/occupations like EMTS, fire fighters, police officers, soldiers...and there are nurses, physicians, operating room staff. Teachers save lives, counselors, friends...everyday people who are brave and dare run into fires, run into traffic, dive into icy waters and onto railroad and subway tracks.

But places, organizations, institutions can also save lives...giving people hope to go on one more day, take one more step into the future. Right here in Burlington there is such a place called Hope House--it is a respite home for those undergoing cancer treatments at the nearby hospital. Their doors are open to even spouses, children, loved ones of the patients so they can stay close, not have the expenses of a hotel stay, the dread of an empty, stark room.

So why some idiots (and I'm guessing frat boys) would sneak up to the Ronald McDonald statue that was sitting peacefully on a park bench outside Hope House in the middle of the night? Saw his legs off, decapitate him and leave him there for the horror of children and the disgust of staff volunteers, wives, mothers of cancer patients? Is more than I can fathom.

I know that many of us fear clowns and some folks are even terrified of them with all the drama makeup and big red lips, baggy pants, surprise flower that sprays water, floppy shoes...and many of us even refuse to frequent McDonald's restaurants--a place that joyfully brags that they "serve billions daily" the greasy salty fries, hamburgers that came from god only knows what beef cows, and Coke, a product that is known to clean the gunk off your car battery better than anything...

But to mangle a mascot? The sign of joy and hope and love and light and symbol of the Hope House itself, seems unconsciencable. I hope those vandals are caught and I hope they learn a lesson about who and what not to eff with.

Emily Dickenson once wrote "hope is a thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all..."

Hope House perches on that college hill singing a tune without words, never stopping at all. Saving lives. One song at a time.


Yvette Mason,
MORY Writers' Group

Second thought for the day

Why do people, caught in lies, lie even more?

Please Stop Saying That?

List of what I can NOT STAND to hear one more time:

• Long time No see! (This is the worst, so I listed it first)
• No worries
• You'll have that
• Been there. Done that.
• No problem
• Yup, you'll have that
• Seen that 
• Same
• Ain't that something?
• Whassup?
• No Problem! No Worries, Mate!
• Where yuh been?
• What yuh been up tuh?
• Told you so
• Yup, I told you so
• Didn't I tell you so?
• I warned you (or any variation of this)
• It's been a while
• Yer shittin' me!
• Nope
• Yup
• Don't think so
• Hell no!

This list is by no means finished. Nope. Hell no. It ain't.

Sweater Weather--COME ON!

Summer is not some girl I don't like or some woman I've had a spat with. Summer is a season I spat with. A hot, humid, skin burning, cancer causing season...

No good comes of summer other than spending time IN cold water, not near it. And you can do that in your tub. And the only reason one would want to spend ANY time in a cold tub would be to cool off because of summer! Well, that's not entirely true. You can swim in a brook. Stay there all day, though, don't go home til way after dark.

HOT CHORES:  I hate mowing my lawn. It is always too hot to do it on weekends, for some odd reason, and it rains in Vermont almost every single week day evening! Every single one. We get that "lake effect" coming from Champlain, it blasts over the Greens and drops hard, cold rain on us in the Lamoille Valley. Almost every  after-noon or evening. Then when one tries to mow the lawn on the weekend? It's all mossy and thick with moisture, making it a nightmare to mow. And forget vacuuming. Just forget it. It's a sweaty, heart thumping job in the WINTER, say nothing about in 90% humidity.

Length of days mean nothing to me. I hate the long days and nights that go on forever. My sleep rhythms get all out of wack and I can't fall asleep until way after dark and oh yes, low and behold (BONUS) it's LIGHT OUT early too! 

And don't even get me started with the mosquitoes! Every single night you try. You try to go out on the porch. Maybe there's a full moon. Maybe even shooting stars. And seconds go by and Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Yup there they are. Coming for you. Coming to suck the life out of you.

I hate sticky clothes, having to wear clothes at ALL, when men (most of whom have no business doing so) parade around topless. I dread getting into a hot car and having to use the air conditioning. Keying into a locked (humid) house and having to use more air conditioning. Not ever being able to sleep without a fan. 

And it's damn bright out too! I hate having to wear sunglasses, squinting all the while because the only truly good sunglasses? Are ones that you end up smearing with SPF 500.  And I hate friends of mine who actually LOVE summer. Who are these people and why the Hell am I friends with them? I ask myself. 

Yup. Summer sucks and I am glad when it is almost over. 

My absolute favorite day of the year is the day (and it does happen one day every year) that it is about 7 degrees colder under any shade tree than in the sun around it. That day? Signals cool, calm breezes, the colors of autumn leaves, smoke curling out of chimneys, wood piles stacked high and dry. Yes, that day? Came four days ago and now we are sliding and gliding in fall. 

Summer be damned! We are now on our way to sweater weather!

A Crappy Toilet Seat--some clean reading

A Crappy Toilet Seat

As a new homeowner, and one who never had to change out an old toilet seat, I was pleasantly disgusted in finding that my pet rabbit, Dory, had successfully chewed the plastic off the top of the hinges that attach the seat to the...well...base. I mean, I have definitely carried dirty toilets OUT of houses, head literally inside the bowl at one bump in the road...but that is another story...

Now you might say "pleasantly disgusted" is an oxymoron. Well, hold on and and listen to this logic. If Dory hadn't chewed through and probably swallowed that white plastic covering that covered the white plastic screws?  I? Would never have had to clean that area and seen how gross and poopy it was! And I never would have seen the plastic "+" sign and thought, "Hey, wait a minute, I wonder if that thing can be screwed off with a Phillips head screw driver!"

So, while on "vacation" the other day, I went after that thing with a vengeance and low and behold yes, I could just turn the screwdriver in a clockwise motion (I know, normally it's righty tighty/lefty loosey) and the whole thing started loosening up! Well, my mind started getting really excited about this home improvement effort and soon I thought that I would get this thing off and go buy another one! Brand new toilet seat! Yipee! (yeah, I know how pathetic that sounds, even now...) 

And the thing was? That crappy toilet seat had come with the house AND it never fit the actual toilet to begin with. Now, I'm a germiphobe about only a couple of things: toilet seats and bathroom sinks. Nothing turns me off more than going to some guy's house and seeing a big poo stain in a toilet or pube hairs in the sink. OK, long hairs in showers gross me out, too, but not as much. I mean, if you think about it hairs in sinks OR showers must be relatively clean...but I digress.

That toilet seat that I was dealing with? That vacation toilet seat? Was a "round" one but the toilet? Is an oval one. And for whatever reason? Either the folks before me were unusually tall or used a step stool to mount the thing, but suffice it to say that this toilet was never a friend to me (e.g. I sit there like a child swinging my legs until they go numb each time I use it.) Family members may or may not have mentioned it and guests would never have dared, because it was abundantly clear to anyone who knew me that I? Was way in over my head with this house. All they had to do is look at the ever-growing list of "home issues" I had listed on the fridge, on the wall near the calendar, in my journals, on my ARM...and know that mentioning an obvious ill-fitting commode situation? Would send me right over the edge of my rain gutterless roof.

It never once occurred to me in three years of paying the mortgage on this "fixer upper" that I could a) change a toilet SEAT without having to change out the whole toilet or b) well, maybe there was just an "a" to this foolishness. I mean, I had SEEN toilet seats hanging around on hardware store walls! Why hadn't I put one and one together? And why in the HELL had I put up with that stupid sliding around, pinching my butt, nasty as- misfit of a toilet seat for three years?

So I took that thing off, threw it on the porch and because the germiphobe thing comes and goes? I briefly thought about carrying the old one with me to the hardware store!  I peered at it one last time and thought, "That thing has seen one too many derrieres and has probably soaked up a whole lot of stank in its time." So I took a quick pic of it, ran down my front steps without even locking my front door, drove to the hardware store and picked out a nice clean new one, paid for it and drove even faster back home. 

Now, if you know me you know that I didn't bother reading the instructions because I always have to do things twice. My way and the right way. I waste time, get myself whipped up into a horse lather and always regret it but it's a stuck-in-the-mud pattern, one that I would need therapy for but I don't have time for because of this kind of thing. Three/ok four stupid things happened:

• I put the wingnuts on upside down and had to re-do them
• dropped the screwdriver in the toilet--twice
• slammed the toilet seat on my knuckles and
• got the whole thing done in the reverse order and had to do it ALL OVER AGAIN.

Yup. That is me. I am that. But now I have a clean toilet seat, one that not only fits my commode, but my arse, the arses of those who will one day need to use it and now? All I have to do it saw it down a little or build up a little throne step.

That? Is next on the list.

I'm Such a Sap

I cry.
I do.
I would never admit this to anyone other than readers. But it is true. My sister, Prim, tells me about her son looking at colleges, and how he says things to his little (15 year old sister) like: "Simmi, there's a Chinese restaurant in that town and it's reported to be really good. I'm thinking you could come and see me sometime at college and we go there for dinner?"
That? Made me cry.

And when Hallmark makes yet another movie or movie series (they are so wholesome and Christian) and it's all about a family that is struggling and something miraculous and wonderful happens...and the people in the movie do not know or like one another until mid-movie? And the viewer can sort of see it coming, but we are lulled into a false sense of security and then BAM! it all falls apart because of a misunderstanding, an assumption or a lie that is yet to become undone...it breaks my temporary heart. And I am hooked and I am hopeful and I cannot stop watching this movie.

And, in my own life? When a man I once loved in college reaches me and we talk and email and text for months and then years? One day gets together with me and we end up spending a night together in a really nice hotel? Says he loves me and that he always did and always will? That makes me cry.



More to come...

No Lines. No Waiting.

No Lines. No Waiting.

There we were in that same cemetery we had been in to bury so many relatives. Again. It was a cremation and so it wasn't as hard watching the Vermont granite box with "Grammie Dot" etched into it being lowered into the small hole as it was Lucinda's wooden casket. But it was by no means easy, either.

I walked away and wandered around the head stones, decorated with American flags and plastic flowers, sat on one of the benches, read the markers...

At one point I looked up and saw my 1/2 cousin, Jeanne walk past her own departed husband's marker up to me. What possible words of wisdom does this one have? I thought.

"You know," she began, the way most people in my family begin sentences. I looked at her and frowned, the way most people in my family listen to sentences.

"When Ma died, somebody told me a story and it changed my perspective about death. Let me share this with you, if it's alright to do so. I know it's hard." 

What was I going to say to that? "Sure," I said, with trepidation. 

"Here we are," she began, "all upset because your mother is gone. We are heartsick and so upset, asking ourselves ' Where did she go?WHY WHY did she have to go?' "

Tears came to my eyes and Jeanne forged on.

"But all of your family, your dad, your grandparents, her brothers, your sister? All the ancestors...They are all up there running toward her clapping and laughing and saying, " Where is she? There she is! Here she is!"  

There are no lines in Heaven. No waiting to get in. I really believe Mother died when she did, after her own daughter and her own granddaughter so they could welcome her to eternity, clapping and shouting and dancing and laughing, and probably holding fists of wildflowers, just like they did when we were little.

Ladies? Learn to Dress the Body You Have!

When I was a kid, my mother dressed in shifts, lace trimmed black dinner wear, or in jeans (and those only for gardening and outdoor chores.) She dressed us girls in cute cotton and woolen dresses, and those hemlines were never more than 4 or so inches above the knee. As I grew up, I dressed myself, of course, in maxi skirts and midi skirts (between the ankle and knee). So the clothing styles of today that the girls are sporting? Not familiar. No likey. 

The newest thing is the short short dresses the girls today are wearing and this is nothing really new because in MY DAY or a few days before my day, meaning in my older sisters' day, teens wore what were called mini skirts. Today they are dresses, and I have to say they are VERY CUTE baby doll type affairs. You know, empire waist and just hang down like the ladies in the first season of Downton Abbey? Or they are Lucille Ball, Donna Reed types with the tight waist and the flair skirt. Cotton. One color. Blue. Red. Black. Sometimes they throw a cardi over it and sometimes wear heels, but usually pair the dresses with flats or strappy sandals. Very sweet. I do have fleeting thoughts that these co-eds look like 5 year old girls who just drank that Alice of Wonderland concoction and grew big fast, but their dresses stayed the same size. So at first glance you may smile and think of your own childhood Sunday school dresses, minutes later you may have to suffer the embarrassment of following them up the stairs of a Bed and Breakfast or stand down-under a ladder for one of these girls as she reaches for a vase at the bath store.

The tights masquerading as PANTS get me every time. Now, I don't mind yoga pants on anyone. Or sweats, pajama pants or those lounge pants the college kids roll out of bed in and wear to classes. Even if they are ridiculously baggy or tight. The "leggings" are really just thick tights and on ANYONE they leave me in jaw-dropping horror. Mostly because nobody looks good in them and one can see through them. Plus? I am pretty sure they were made to go WITH those shorty skirts instead of substituting for them. 

Another fashion faux pas is dresses that are just too tight over underwear that is also too tight. I don't want to see that and I'm relatively certain nobody else does, either. And let's blame it on spouses of these women. They may not dare say anything, but they really owe it to the rest of us to do so. When a woman dresses for the evening and comes out of the bedroom looking like she parachuted INTO the outfit she's wearing? Its time to say something. Steer her away from the outfit she "likes" and toward the one that actually holds in her ass.

Let's face it. A man in this society can wear a greasy, bloody, sleeveless T shirt and have his hairy chested gold chains hanging down past his navel while sporting black, way too tight Speedos and he will not get the crap a woman will get if she dares eat an actual bagel and show her "muffin top." And as unfair a statement as that is? You know it's true. Men don't judge women, either, on the way we look. It's other women. Women like me, I guess.

As we age we really need (like Stacey London says in TLC'S "What Not to Wear") to dress the body we have; not the one we want. It's really sound advice. And although diamonds may have been a girl's best friend back in Marilyn Monroe's time when women ate salads for lunch and martini olives as dinner...right now? A full length mirror is a girl's best friend. Get yourself one or get one for a friend and then she will see what we all see, and although it will make her shop/stay home more and take longer to get ready to go out into the world? It will all be well worth it when she gets compliments instead of gasps. Smiles instead of grimaces. It's really a win-win situation, if you ask me.

Senior Senior Prom-- MAC

 I'd heard about senior senior proms and, as a big fan of the sit-com, Hot in Cleveland, I had heard about the senior senior prom...but having not attended my junior nor senior prom as a kid, I took this as an opportunity to have a "once in a lifetime" experience. And I was not disappointed.

The plan was for me to get my things together and drive to Burlington to my girlfriend, Bonnie's house. In order to talk me into going BACK to the city after having spent a week working there, Bonnie offered her place as a resting place for the night. She is a hoot and a holler and we laugh at everything one another says, or as I like to put it--we are in the Mutual Admiration Club.. The MAC.

Now, I CAN dress up and HAVE dressed up? But what does one really pack to spend an evening with 70 and 80 year olds when the "theme" has been loosely dubbed "60's and 70's? I mean, I was raised in the '70's so even I can do that math! These high end of the Baby Boomers? Were raising kids in the 70's so really...were they supposed to don clothing that they had saved from when their kids were teens?

I do vaguely recall the '70s and remember Cyndi Loper and Madonna. Lots of short socks and heels. Lots of pink and black. Leather and lace and really everything in between. Cork platform shoes. Horizontal stripes. Most of the fabrics we wore were "non-breathable" aka synthetic. We used to sweat like crazy just doing the stairs at school. And the fabrics all factory made in China, made me scratch! The 70's to me were a hot, scratchy horizontal nightmare. We teetered around in high sandals, tightly wrapped in bright colors. I recall 1976 being a Bicentennial year and one where I found THE ONLY cotton shift in town. It was red, white and blue, had seems up the front and fit me perfectly.But that dress wouldn't do for the prom, even back then when "peasant dresses" were worn by brides and bridesmaids--we dressed as if we were all yearing for the by-gone days of slavery and mint julips... saying things like, "Daddy's horse had a bad fall," and "Oh, this humidity is makin' me so uncomfortable!" whilst fanning our pretty little noses with one gloved hand and holding a parasol with the other. We wore "body suits"--really they were short or long sleeved acrylic get ups that gymnasts wore to swing around on parallel bars and do flips on mats. But we all had them--mostly scooped necks and tight tight tight. Some snapped at the crotch, others did not, so urinating was always a tossup as to whether we would just pull it aside or disrobe completely...it usually came down to how much TIME we had to pee.

So, getting back to the prom. We arrived all dolled up in a rain storm that frizzed our hair and tried to ruin our makeup. We persevered. And we had a "couples" pic taken. To be fair, most of the "couples" were both women, not because VT is the gayest state around, but because most seniors above a certain age are widowed women. We danced all night to "Rock Lobster" and "Love Shack" (or is that the same song?) and we laughed and ate from styrofoam plates and drank punch from plastic cups. The food was catered and very fancy for a spread set up at a senior center. There were crab rolls and stuffed mushrooms that were rather delicious. Fresh fruit salad. Chocolate dipped fresh strawberries, the works.

We had so much fun dancing in lines following Donna Zeo, the dance instructor that at one point (sober as a judge) I said, "I just do not want this night to end." (Ok shouted it) and the folks there were very happy that we were all there, we multi-aged whipper snappers. The volunteers had genuine smiles. The lighting was dimmed. Festive atmosphere. So much fun.

Bonnie and her husband, David, and I left after the lights came up, the tables were nude and the garbage was hauled to the outside bin. We were raring to go, so Bonnie and I sat up most of the night mutually admiring one another's life stories, struggles and triumphs. It was a wonderful senior, senior prom, one the likes of which this AARP member? will probably never see again.

Tricky Man Friends

So, I've had my share of male friends, most of whom, over the years, have been married. What I mean is, most MEN over a certain age are married. So, it stands to reason that most of my male friends are, indeed, married.

It's tricky being friends with married men, even if they are married to other married men.

Their spouses always and forever, at some point, saunter up to us, give me the "hairy eyeball" and TOUCH the man with whom I am speaking, sometimes on the arm and other times on the chest. This is to signal "cut that out" and the man usually frowns, stops talking entirely and wanders off.

It's a real nuisance to me and I am both publicly annoyed by and amused by this typical, predictable behavior a lot. I can talk to a woman for hours, even if she has a girlfriend or female spouse. It's rare that women get jealous of me when I've got their "woman's " attention. But wives of men or husbands of men are relentless.

Why I even bother is a real question, but I continue to put up with them because really? In all honesty? In my life, there are very few men I can even tolerate. So when I find a good one, I do want to have some sort of relationship with him, even if it involves a constant a tug-of-war with his "beloved."

We are mammals and I really believe we are rarely monogamous, although everyone insists that we are and can't understand how anyone can "stray." I mean, wedding vows are often said by (let's face it) hung-over, desperate people with such cold feet they can rarely even get the words out without screwing them totally up. Watch a wedding video sometime. NOBODY gets them completely right, even when the pastor/priest/clergy is FEEDING THEM THE WORDS almost one-by-one!

I don't mean to say that folks should up and fool around with any old person. I don't condone that or encourage it. But people should UNDERSTAND how it could happen and be willing to overlook or at least try to get to the bottom of the "why," I think. Boredom is real in relationships. Contempt is dangerous. There are just so many times you can hear someone say the same thing, tell the same story with the same inflections before you at least shout inside your head, "THAT? is it!"

Other people do look good to us. I, personally, can't pay strict attention to anyone unless I am either doing something rote or concentrating on their very words. So, looking over a man's shoulder to look at another man? Doesn't happen. When I am with someone I am with them. Him. Not crazily, step in front of a bus, with him, but with him. And my mind doesn't wander. My heart doesn't yearn for another person. I have that much respect for a relationship. But when I'm done? I'm done. When he's done, I'm not always done. Therein? Lies the problem.

There was a really funny Seinfeld episode where Elaine broke up with a boyfriend and he? Wasn't done. So the boyfriend said, "No. We actually are not breaking up." Elaine said they were. He said they weren't and so on. The next shot was of them in bed. It took her all episode to ditch the guy because he wasn't ready to end it. And even then I don't think she followed through with it because it was "exhausting" being with him and even worse not being with him.

So suffice it to say that I? Am not done with this current man in my life. He's  not circling the drain. He's not turning his back entirely. OR? He could be doing the "Break Up Solution Number One" thing (there is a handbook) called "let her down easily" (code for she could be a crazy, conniving, retaliatory b--tch!) but I don't think so. I have stopped trying to read between the lines. I have read the cards--we're in this for the long haul....and at my age, frankly, that isn't long. And if he is done with me? He needs to more than saunter off brows creased, following the sound of someone else's voice. He needs to "man up" and say so and sit there and suffer the consequences...whatever they may be. 

It's tricky having men friends. It's trickier having the one man I do have in my life. Everything is temporary, I remind myself. Everything ends. But my love for this one particular fool? Is still running those rapids, still crashing into the rocks, still finding deep pools to cool off in on those hot summer days. This isn't new love. This is ancient. I wrote on the walls with charcoal with this guy. I tended the fire. I'm not going anywhere. I'm just not.

Quote of the Week

"There are lots of reasons why a girl might keep a fresh pair of undies in her purse. Some good. Some bad!"

Surviving Winter--It's about

As an outdoor educator, one who really does know a thing or two about gathering wood and starting fires, running wilderness programs, tying knots, building emergency shelters and sleeping in snow caves-I can say that really? Those skills matter very little when it comes to surviving a long winter in Vermont.

It's not about keeping the heat up, or even on. It's not about paying propane bills, purchasing yet another electric heater, finding and using a blow dryer to thaw out pipes, pouring hot water into all the sink drains, tubs and showers. It's not even about keeping a woolen Army blanket in your car, a lighter, a sleeping bag, food and extra water. Not about keeping your car as full of gas as possible, having new snow tires, but keeping your vehicle turned around in your driveway to face the South, scraping snow and ice from every glass surface before daring to get into a frozen vehicle.

 It's much more complicated than that; it's about mental survival.

It's about making yourself crawl out of a warm bed and being able to see your breath vapors...taking your showers in the evening because it's just too damned cold in the morning and not kidding yourself into thinking about turning up the heat on work-day mornings; you are just going to be at home one waking hour today, anyway.

It's about not allowing the defeatist weather channel and the two weather phone apps you follow to turn your frozen brain into mush. And if you know what's good for you, you had better not listen to your co-workers talk about the weather more than 15 or 20 times a day. Learning to spend hour upon hour alone in your little office, back turned to the window and the street. You need to learn to see every single teeny tiny speck of hope as a harbinger of spring--the sun that peeks through the gray haze one hour a month in December,  the temperature difference between night and day in January, the short and dark month of February with Valentines' Day smack dab in the middle of it.

Yes, dress in layers (lest you perish), but have a little style! A fluffy down street-length coat with a hood can be accented with a nice, jaunty cashmere scarf. And everything you OWN need not be black. Your mood need not be either. Some people grow plants over the winter, religiously watering them and talking to them as if they are pets. Others do "family game nights" and order out pizza. They make every day special...living in their own quiet hazes of reality, humming little tunes, imagining what their gardens will look like come spring. Some folks even get together with friends in writing groups, book clubs or bowling leagues...anything to stave off the dread of yet another short day of sub-zero terror.

Surviving winter in Vermont is really only partially about not freezing to death.

Quitter or Survivor?

"Finish what you start" is my middle name. I don't always get it right or follow through with things at the PACE I should and generally speaking I am a procrastinator, but I do get things done. And my whole history on earth proves that. So instead of ticking off one after the other accomplishments in my life, suffice it to say I am no quitter.

Or am I?

I mean, I never quit relationships when they're done. That makes me STUPID, but no quitter. I never leave a JOB when they are done with me; instead I fight to the very bitter end, tents drawn up, horses packed, side walks dusted, train whistles blowing, planes roaring overhead...and there I am, looking around asking, "What? What's going on? Where's everybody going in such a hurry?" Clueless I am but a quitter? I am not.

So when I (a public servant) decided --admittedly on a whim-- that I wasn't doing enough working fulltime (40+ hours a week) for the parks and recreation department, commuting 10 hours a week, volunteering for my hometown planning/zoning AND recreation committees, as well as just having started a "writer's group"--something that became an instant "hit". I decided to become an EMT!

Now, I had gone through many similar courses: backcountry first aid and advanced first aid, First Responder, not to mention a myriad of other like annual courses that I took due to the nature of my public service WORK. So when this "crisis of great magnitude" came up in my social community on-line bulletin board known as FRONT PAGE FORUM, I just HAD to respond.

Red flags pop up in life and in this case early. I told my sisters about my plan and they texted back "cool" and "nice"-- my sisters are NOT sisters of few words. I briefly thought "wait just a minute" and then ignored my intuition..something I KNOW never to do, and proceeded to run right up to the squad room and "sign up". I was vetted by the "board" and did some paperwork (W-9, letting them photocopy my passport, etc. and I think I may have signed a document promising to do something or other, but I'm not entirely certain.) I picked up the 9 pound book and off I went two nights per week from 6-9 pm and all-day Saturdays until (it seemed) practically the end of time.

Now, I couldn't see anything wrong with it except that I started being quizzed and tested, got 65, 65, 87 and 70 on those tests and the thought "Would you want a doctor who got a 70 on his surgery test taking out your appendix?" popped into my head several times over the following weeks.  I needed to be sure but I was already IN it. Knee deep. I was trepidatious all the while. But did I quit? NO Not for some time. Instead I made a list inside my head of reasons I signed up in the first place. Or the reason.

As I said before, I am a public servant. I'm paid to be one, but still...I work for the good of the public. And my volunteer jobs speak highly of the time I am willing to waste...sitting on boards being told by members of my own community that I have no power. Funny, I always think, I'm on THIS side of the table and YOU? Are not. One man one vote and all, but I can sway a room if I say absolutely nothing for about an hour whilst concocting a REALLY good statement about why everyone should vote my way. It usually works. Well, if usually means always, it usually works.

But convincing myself of anything is a bit different. Doesn't always work. It's like Jerry Seinfeld's joke about ending any relationship being like knocking down a Coke machine, "It doesn't always go over with the first push. You gotta rock it back and forth a few times!" So my getting rid of them before they got rid of me was a tough one. Guilt plagued me. Second and third thoughts made me uneasy. After all, hadn't I SAID I was doing this to "give back" to my community? How can someone undo a statement like that?..Did I really do that? Did I quit something in order to survive? If so, it is singly the FIRST time I have ever done it! So congratulations are, indeed, in order.

(more to come)...

Surviving an Out of Control Ski Program

It wasn't as if I wanted to do it; in fact I did protest. And got into trouble for it from my supervisor AND HIS AND HERS. And none of them particularly liked or trusted me from the get-go. Mostly, it was that he (I will call him "Harry") didn't want to do it himself. So he had no choice but to put me (at least on paper) in charge. I did notice early on that when Harry sent emails to parents, he signed them with his name. When I sent out emails, I signed both of our names. I also noticed that although the plan was to keep me "in the loop"? Old Harry only managed to do that about half of the time. The other times I just found out about things like cancellations and important matters like that the usual way---in the hallway or bathroom--or from a parent text with a question I couldn't answer because HARRY had sent the information without cc'ing me.

So when the first night of the ski program, a 12 year old girl got "clothes lined" (sent spread eagle, rope across her chest, arms outstretched like she was hanging FROM a clothes line) off the slopes and into the woods, it was actually good that someone (me) with some experience was actually there to deal with it...after having her put "in the basket" and checked out by Ski Patrol, written the accident report and followed up with her (not impressed) mother, I felt kind of as if my physical presence== although 12 Friday nights ping phew! going to the wind-- might be warranted.

A few weeks later, a boy broke an ankle snowboarding into or not into something (since there was nothing there) and I had the lovely job of hauling him in the back of my Subaru to the ER  in a blinding snowstorm after an hour of Ski Patrol communications and decision-making phone calls, texts to Harry who was snug as a bug at home. The ride to the ER is normally 30 minutes and it took at least an hour. Not to mention the kid's parents didn't bother to show up for 1/2 hour although he shouted at them in Vietnamese quite a bit more than once to "get there." That night I got home at 10:45 and heard Harry's laughter in my sleep, "Better you than me, sucker. Better you than me.!"

 The next time we went up, a third kid was snowboarding just before we were to pack them all on the busses, CRACK! Broken wrist.Three major issues in 9 nights. Even I could do that math: one third of all the times we went up? Something went down. At one point I thought, if the KIDS can't even survive this ski program, how the hell can I?

So our superintendent, whose name is not but I will call Marta, decided that we need to go back to our good old plan and get the little kids skiing again. Teach them young so when they are 'tweens and teens they might be more careful. And this was something I agreed to. Now, when she said this, none of us knew she was right about to retire. And her successor is none other than Harry.

Snow conditions in New England are iffy, at best, and are not improving as global warming seethes in our midst. These past two winters--ones during which yours truly spent EVERY FRIDAY NIGHT up on that mountain, were horrendous featuring 44 days in succession where the temperature did not go above freezing. This isn't that unusual in Vermont if you spend your whole life here. Every 20 years or so we get rain on Christmas or snow in June. So you never know. But what I do know is that if I am going to be "in charge" of this out of control ski program and survive it, there are going to be some changes. I want to make the decisions. At least then? if it all goes clothes lined? I will have nobody else to blame.

Surviving a Staycation Spare Room Spring Cleaning

Now, it wasn't as if I wanted the thing around and to be honest I already had one AND it wasn't mine. So giving away that giant nativity scene was no big deal. My roommate, Bella, kept saying, "When we have our lawn sale I am SOOOO selling that nativity set." Of course, it was months until "lawn sale season" and I, for one, could wait no longer.

I was on vacation or "staycation" (where you just stay around the area and spend your money locally instead of giving it to some resort, say) as many others do, since the Great Recession. Nobody goes anywhere anymore. And if they do, they don't post pics on Facebook so, really? It's as if they don't vacation at all--(much like in the world or emergency services: if you don't write it down, it didn't happen.)

It took me two days of  this Staycation to muster up the courage, but on Day Three I did, indeed, dare open the spare bedroom door and enter. Or, try to. It was full to the brim with boxes and tubs and winter clothing, snowshoes, broken umbrellas and old doors... scrap wood, paint cans and Venetian blinds that might or might not fit one of the 18 windows of this house someone unloaded on me. Usually I drink beer when I clean, (you know, to get through it) but it was 10 am and mid week...so I sucked down coffee and water and told myself I would "begin this project" --not that I would clean this room...even I know myself well enough to know that saying anything definitive about that room would end up with me slamming the door, grabbing car keys and driving at least 10 miles down the road. And if I even thought about looking back, it would be in the rear view mirror.

So I did what I always do when faced with doom: I took three deep breaths and asked myself this: How am I going to survive this staycation spare room spring cleaning? Treat it like an adventure!

I did find, not one but TWO Christmas tree stands; one in a box and one just on the floor with pieces of freshly broken glass all over it. I found two large counter tops (one I have absolutely no recollection of ever putting in there) many boxes of paperwork from as far back as high school English classes and almost nothing of any value. Cleaning makes me hot and frustrated...I hate the mess and half way through inevitably start swearing and feeling melancholy and defeatist all at the same time. So I was almost to the closed and locked window cursing myself and God for the SHIT in this room and the MESS I was in and at one point I did scream ( at least one time) "SOME FUCKING VACATION!"  Ok, I may have said that more than once. Then I got the brilliant idea of opening the window, ripping off the screen, tossing the screen out the window and tossing anything burnable out...the plan wasn't to toss things ONTO the screen, but of course that happened, too, in my urgency and heated up state.

Now, you'd THINK that I would have put on shoes for this venture, right? Oh, no, not I! I tiptoed around that broken glass (getting only two pieces actually pierced into my right foot) until I found the floor and a space large enough to vacuum.

Now, when you share a vacuum cleaner with a legally blind person, guess who has to empty out the vacuum cleaner? Yup. So after the thing "calved" as we say in Vermont, I dragged it outside and emptied all the cat dander and organic corn cat litter (yes, I am allergic) into a plastic garbage bag that just happened to be half full and residing on the porch--which then commenced my sneezing attack. Oh, did I mention that it was 80 degrees F and humid? This was coming along so very nicely, I had to continue.

I went back into the room, lugging the dusty excuse for a vacuum and swearing under my breath this time because we have neighborhood kids and many of them. I am a lot of things but a drunken sailor on leave I am not. Heat rash developing on both inner arms, and hunger pangs stripping me of strength (hadn't any time to eat), I persevered dragging two single mattresses from the room and throwing them with all the gusto I could muster out the bedroom door and onto the kitchen island with yet another crash. "First rule of moving something is clear a path!" I reminded myself a bit too late. When I got to the very large box that was taped with blue painters' tape (just about as good an adhesive as a 3-M sticker), masking tape (called that because it masks actually being tape) and Scotch tape (smells good, does nothing to hold overflowing boxes together), I decided to throw the thing out the window. Decided isn't accurate. It was more like: THROW AT the window hoping it would miraculously exit the building and NOT land on the screen window. Which it did. With a crash and some tinkles. I thought, "Cress Crash" and then "SHIT I probably just killed the baby Jesus. And I'm pretty sure you go straight to Hell for something like that."

Eventually I left the house and dragged myself into the steaming noon heat. Checked on my rabbit, Dory, in her hutch who was panting and about to drop dead. Shit. Sidetracked. Not good. Moved the table umbrella--heavy and really long--to shade her hutch--or tried to. CRAP. I checked on her minutes later after a water break and couldn't leave her there so I brought Dory--who ALWAYS gives me a hard time about picking her up even when she's on her last pant--into the shade and cool, clean white Heaven of the bathroom tiles.

It was way past lunch time by the time I finished vacuuming and put the two mattresses on the clean floor by the window. I found clean sheets and pillows and made the bed in time for my 7 year old niece to come over, put on a cape I had made her with her very own name on it and FLY onto the bed saying, "This is comfy!" with a crazy smile because her upper two milk teeth stick straight out. "She's seven," is my sister's answer when asked about those bucky beavers. She won't let any of us pull them so they just hang there looking very much like Dory's. So, it was all worth it until my roommate eventually did open the box. Jesus was still ok, but the angel's hand had been severed, as had Mary's and Joseph's. AND the head of the "little drummer boy", who was always my favorite character in the story. Oddly, the swan was ok (who knew swans were part of the Jesus story) a sleeping dog (again, who knew?) and the ox and the ass. Well, one of them. I, the other ass--and one for whom in hindsight I'm guessing God is gunning for right now, turned out ok. Survived the staycation spare room spring cleaning, anyway!

Quote of the Day

"I see dumb people....they're everywhere. They walk around like everyone else. They don't even know that they're dumb."

Polly and the Watch House

Polly and the Watch House


They were definitely Merry Janes--you know, little girl party shoes with straps that go across the top of the foot. And they were pink. The best part was even though they were really tiny, you could take them off Polly's feet. And to a 6 year old native Vermont girl who didn't even own a pair of party shoes, life just didn't get any better.

Polly lived in a little plastic round case attached to a wide bright pink watch band. I called it "Polly's watch house." I would look at her and smile as if I knew how to tell time. She had blonde shiny hair, a pink and white polka dotty sundress and a tiny pink hair band that matched those rubber take off/put back on shoes. Sometimes I would flip open the case and take her out for some fresh air, take off her shoes and put them back on...the way little kids do. Taking care. Showing concern. I'd talk to her, too, but inside my head so other kids wouldn't laugh at me. Polly Pocket was, after all, the first doll I ever had and I just loved her. I'd wear her on my left hand so she wouldn't get jostled as I ate dinner or wrote on papers at school. She was a happy clean little thing and she filled my young heart with joy.

Mother told us over and over, "Don't eat those little green apples! They are full of seeds and the seeds are full of arsenic. Arsenic is rat poison!" But did we listen? What did I do? What did we all do? We shimmied up the knotted, snake of an apple tree that looked like it started to grow toward the house, but must have heard MOTHER, and curved itself out and up away from the kitchen window to the garden.  It was a crab apple tree and crabs, even back then, had very bad reputations as if they had exoskeletons and creeped sideways, skittled away from you into a dark hole somewhere...So I didn't call them crab apples I called them "baby greens" and popped them into my mouth like gum drops. I would think, "These are not poison. Mother just doesn't want us to spoil our dinner."

Well, it was one of these times that I had shimmed up that snake of a tree like a lumber jack and was eating those apples, and dropping about every other one into Mother's cast off black leather purse when the dinner bell rang. "OH NO!" I cried out and started to position myself to slide down the back side of tree so as not to be noticed. The watch band got caught on the craggy bark and it and Polly fell to the ground. I threw the purse full of apples down and reverse climbed jumping the last feet into the grassy ground. I grabbed Polly, threw her in the purse and took off.

My sisters were in the nearby woods and I had to beat them to the house, but first I had to get rid of the apples or I would be in trouble. I had to think fast so I ran through the garden, into the woods then back down the dusty road, stopping just long enough to unload my hoard by the stone wall. I ran breathless to the house to wash up for dinner.

When I looked at--or for--Polly, my heart stopped beating. "Where is Polly?" I checked the purse I had dropped at my feet. No Polly. Not only was she gone, her watch house was gone too! I couldn't tell anyone so I just ate my dinner in silence waiting to be excused. When I was able to, I ran back up the road and jumped into the waving fiddle heads where I was certain to find Polly and the watch house. Those little greens were everywhere among the field stones, tree bark and sticks. A chipmunk scolded me from a maple tree branch just above my head. No Polly. I searched that evening and the next and many times but never found little Polly. Even after I learned in high school that it takes about a million years for plastic to break down in the environment? I would be walking up the road on one of my daily walks and glance down at that spot. A few times, I even searched around.

I still think about Polly sometimes and her little pink rubber shoes. And I know that she was just one of the many sacrifices of my childhood--not listening to Mother, going against the wishes of the omniscient one. I should have known even back then...nobody gets away with having anything to do with a snake-like tree and eating forbidden apples. I guess I wasn't given the nickname EVE for nothing.

There's a highway to hell and a stairway to Heaven. What does THAT mean?

A String of Pearls to Hold

When I was a child we were very poor and most of the time, especially during the summer times, we really didn't know it. It's strange how you don't know what you don't have until other folks make an issue of it. We were ridiculed on the school bus and other kids made fun of the way we dressed in hand-me-downs and hand-made clothes...that sort of thing.

I, for one, was proud that my mother knew how to sew and loved helping her make wool blankets for all of our beds out of old coats and skirts, lumberjack shirts and caps. Mother read stories and books to us nightly (we had no television) and when she read the whole Laura Ingalls Wilder series to us, I pretended to be a pioneer girl, just like Laura. When she read Little Women, I was Jo. I was Heidi and I was Anne of Green Gables. I reveled in their struggles. I admired their spunk. They were all poor and almost proud of it= they were growing up and developing their character. I didn't care what other kids said any more than they did. But some of my siblings did care what other kids said and were embarrassed about the way we lived and where we lived.

What I knew that only probably the more sneaky of my siblings knew, was that we might have been poor but our mother certainly wasn't. Upstairs in Lorette's closet, there were three plastic garment bags full of furs and lovely black shoes. And in among the slips and nylons of Mother's stocking drawer, she had a beautiful ruby ring with matching necklace and screw-on earrings. We played "tea party" with real china and dug in the mud with silver spoons with a "B" monogrammed on them for Brown.  And I knew where everything was hidden. So when I was sent to my parents' room for my daily naps, many times I would slide off their double bed and sneak over to my mother's oak bureau with crystal knobs and I would pull pull pull until the bottom sticky drawer gave way, use that drawer as my step and pull the slip drawer open just enough to squeeze my tiny hand in. Then I would take out the navy blue white trimmed boxes, sit on the floor, open them up and pretend that the ruby jewelry trimmed in gold was mine. I would sing a little song to myself "ruby and gold, ruby and gold, I'm young now, but when I'm old, ruby and gold, ruby and gold" and when I heard someone outside my parents' bedroom door, I'd come back to reality and put away the boxes, or if I didn't have time, slide them under the bed until I had a chance to put them back properly.

Once my sister, Jerri, caught me with the boxes and said, "We aren't allowed to look through Mother's things. I'm telling!" and I said I knew that but I couldn't help myself because they were so pretty. Ruby was our Mother's birthstone, or so we thought. This meant a lot to us that we somehow held her special jewelry in our hands. It was the color of our hearts, we told ourselves.  Maybe Dad had given those jewels to her when they got married. Maybe it was our Grammie Brown's jewelry and Mother stole it from her or maybe she was keeping it for her because their house on the Stagecoach Road might get robbed by a stagecoach bandit...

Once when we were digging around in our mother's drawer, we found the usual, silk stockings, hair pins, baby diaper pins, lone guarder clips, a few lovely scarves, a black velvet hat with a black fishnet veil attached, slips and tops, we felt something bigger and thinner than the boxes that held the jewelry. Jerri took it out and opened it up. "Ahhhhh!" we both said in a hush. It was an off-white string of pearls with an unusual double latch in the back. It was attached to the interior of the velvety blue box  on two sides, so it remained as if it was actually always sitting around someone's neck.  This piece of jewelry was the best thing we ever uncovered in the whole house! We didn't dare take it out of the box. We just stared at it until we finally had to snap the box shut and pretend to nap.

So, after that, anytime someone on the school bus or in the school yard would taunt us or call out names to us, Jerri and I used our secret code. We would look at each other and say, "ruby and gold, string of pearls to hold" and laugh that laugh of children who know that childhood is made up of crazy moments as well as magical ones. Mean kids as well as fun kids...and childhood only lasts a short while but adulthood? Oh, adulthood lasts forever!

My Mouse Diary-Catch and Release

I am holding a field mouse captive in my house. This is a fact that bothers me. He's in a "Have a Heart" cage and it's roomy enough for him, so I'm not hurting him in any way, I feel. He (or she) crawled in there of his/her its own volition. I did not chase it down, throw a net over it and wrestle it to the ground or anything...the problem ? This is Vermont and this is Winter in Vermont.

Day One--yesterday AM-- it was hovering right at 0 degrees F with a wind  chill factor of the NORTH POLE when I noticed that the trap had been sprung. I couldn't get myself to toss it out into that weather (or 3 miles down the road, as is my typical modus operendi) so I gave it some sun flower seeds and went to work.

Day One PM- I got home and it was even colder! Again, I couldn't do it. So I found a small plastic container, filled it with water and put it in the cage along with "dinner"--meaning more small black sun flower seeds and one big almond. At night, I put a towel over the poor guy's cage so he wouldn't be cold.

Day TWO- AM-- Minus 8 degrees below zero when I woke up and checked on him through the bars of the cage. He appeared dead, but the poor guy was only sleeping. I checked his water, noted that he had eaten many of the seeds and had slid the seed pods out of the cage  (hey, he's tidying up, I thought). I put more seeds in the cage and a little dried up omelet section (I figured he needed some protein) and covered him back up for the day. He seemed pleased.

Day Two --PM--Still cold. Couldn't do it.Gave him more water and food. Covered him up for the night.

Day Three--AM Checked on Mr. Mouse. Told him tonight I was going to let him go "at a barn"

Day Three--PM--Went home. Turned up the heat. Took the little bugger outside, put him in my warm car and drove him 2 or so miles away up to a horse barn with tons of hay and two very nice horses. There was a "spot light" there for the horses to see, apparently, so Mr. Mouse could see what was what when I opened the cage. He looked SSOOOOO tiny text to the horses and barn, out in the open like that. So tiny and helpless. And he looked over his shoulder at me on his way to the barn as if to say, "You? Can go to H E Double Hockey Sticks!"

I'm Vegan on Men

I just love watching movies and there is a lovely movie out there called "Decoy Bride" about a couple who runs off to Scotland to attempt to escape the media-crazed photographers chasing after the celebrity bride-to-be. They end up at an island named "Hegg" and, as it happens, a writer from the island has just returned home after being dumped by her would-be husband and meets the about-to-be writer husband of said celebrity. The female writer is eventually convinced that she needs to act as the "decoy bride"--Now, what could go wrong with a plan like that? you may ask.

Well, of course it all becomes something ridiculous, as all lies do eventually become--you know, she ends up accidentally marrying the groom for real, dresses/disguises  him like her estranged 1970's rocker father, and .....well, I don't want to give it away.  Of course, prior to this, she has told a fellow who is in love with her and who, himself, is recently wed, an islander, "I'm off men. I've become man vegan."

I have considered becoming vegan--not a huge far cry from vegetarianism--but still. And therefore, this statement has locked onto my conscious mind and made me think. I think about my own life and how ridiculous my experiences have been. If I think about it, it has been at least a year since I've even kissed a man and even then it was only for a little while. The minute we decided that "it wasn't going to happen" it seemed as if it really never had and all was forgiven. And, before that, it had been at least four or more years since I'd smacked lips with anyone else. And that, I am thinking, probably officially DOES make me Men Vegan. And the meal vegan thing? is just gonna have to wait.

New Year's Resolutions- measurable and achievable

A life list (some call it a "bucket list"--as in things one wants to do before s/he kicks the bucket) is taped to my bedroom wall and each New Year's Day I untape it and have a look at it. Now, writing a list such as mine is done by millions of people all over the world and good for them. Good for us. But New Years' Resolutions are most often, short-lived dreams. I don't know how many diets begin on January 1 of every year, but I'll bet there are zillions. And I know for a fact that most gym memberships begin (and then end) in January. Some people do end up losing and gaining that same 15 pounds every year...but at what expense, really?

The problem with goals set for the sake of setting them, is they aren't real and they only end up making us feel worse about ourselves for NOT achieving them. What makes my list special is not its contents--things like "trip to Ireland" and "ride a train to NYC and ice skate in Rockefeller Center"-- it's that I actually DO them. They aren't pie in-the-sky aspirations like jumping from an airplane or discovering the cure for cancer...they are, instead, practical, and achievable. Some might say "wholesome." And they aren't related to losing weight or getting more exercise or eating better, they also contain some character-building ones such as "forgive people who wrong me" and "extend the olive branch" that sort of thing and frankly, much harder for many of us to actually achieve than shedding those few pounds or taking a trip.

Of course, as the year goes on, I do check off the ones I accomplish so its a never-ending sort of list. But as god-awful a thing as a"never-ending list" sounds, it really is good to have goals in life...ones that are attainable...you know SMART ones and I really can't remember what most of the letters stand for, but  M stands for measurable and A is for achievable and, by the gods, measurable and achievable are good enough for me. I can do something with them. As can you.