any time is the right time

I love having breakfast, for dinner.
There, I've outed myself. I know there are millions of people like me, I know your out there.
It has nothing to do with the fact that I work nights. Rarely do I eat a breakfast type thing when I climb out of bed, to eventually head to work. I like my breakfast, for dinner on my days off.
I don't do it all that frequently, or it would be well, just dinner. And each time I do it, its usually a different breakfast food. Cerial for dinner is a wonderful thing. Pancakes, or waffles right off my waffle iron. I usually take my waffle iron to work, though, and we have 'waffle night' potluck.
The other night, I made myself bacon, eggs, and white toast. Fried eggs, even. I don't think I've had fried eggs in well over a year, I am usually a scrambled girl, and even then, I don't eat eggs very often. I had this the other night as a 'comfort food'. It had been an interesting day, starting with unpleasant news. (see, I do have this linky thing down.). But, I perservered. Then, my lovely mother, (Aunt Tuna) decided she needed to get herself on to Facebook. And she needed my help to do it. Over 60 frustrating minutes later, I was ready for breakfast, for dinner. And it was perfect.

another wee bit of the 'bodice ripper'.

*here is a different portion of our book, alltogether. After this bit, we are wary of putting more onto the internet, but would be happy to share in other ways that don't involve so many different 'prying eyes'. Be gentle, and keep in mind, this is still a work in progress!*
If you missed celtic rose's sneak peek, its right here

Finola had spent the morning with her mother, helping to sort tapestry yarn, a chore she detested. But, since her behavior in the hall a week past, Nola had been making an effort to treat everyone with kindness. Her heart was still sore from knowing she had caused pain to Quinn, and she was searching for a way to assuage that soreness until Quinn returned, and she could apologize.
Minna looked at her daughter and shook her head. The lass was making a strong effort, but she feared that she would not truly understand the way of things until she met with Quinn, face to face. Meanwhile, Minna was taking advantage of all the good deeds’s Nola was contributing to those of the keep.
“Nola, lass. Since ye are free for the remainder of the day, yer sisters would beg a boon of ye. Aileen, especially. She and Michael would dearly love an outing to the croft, aye? Having the two wee ones dinna make it easy for privacy. Being pregnant again does nae help, either. As well, Una and Eadon have it in mind for an afternoon er, picnic. Una will nae leave her bairn long, young Alastair is still breastfeeding, but ye will have Angus and Eden for the night. To make it less troublesome for the children, ye will watch them in Aileen and Michael’s rooms, aye? Children need their own surroundings. Mistress Beatie will send ye food for the bairns, and yerself. You need but serve it to Angus, and help wee Eden eat. I kent ye would agree, so be off wi’ ye.”
Nola looked at her mathair with a wee bit of panic in her eyes. “I dinna ken. . .”
“Now, Finola Sinclair” said Minna, tolerating no argument from the girl.
“Yes Mathair, I am going.”
Nola stopped in her rooms to collect Maisie, as two sets of eyes were better than one, and while she was at it, she changed her gown into an older, more comfortable cut. If she was going to spend the remainder of the day, and a night, with her niece and nephews, she intended to be comfortable. She made it quick, knowing if she dallied, Aileen would tell Minna. Approaching the doors that led into Aileen and Michael’s rooms, Nola crossed her fingers, and knocked.
“Tis aboot bloody time!” said Una, thrusting young Alastair into her arms. “My laddie just ate, and is content for the moment. Er, except his stink some nappy. The supplies for that are o’er in the corner, aye?” Giving her lad a kiss, she said “be good for Auntie Nola”, and was off like a shot. Aileen, on the other hand, was not in such a hurry, since she had all night to spare her husband. Grabbing Nola by the hand, she led her painstakingly through each room, explaining what, and when Nola was supposed to do certain things.
. . .”Wee Angus must have his meat cut just so, or he may choke on it. He is to have a bath this eve, and the supplies for that are in the corner, with the nappies. Now, Eden is almost trained to the garderobe, but she has her accidents. After dark, she is placed in her night rail, and nappy for the evening. She shouldnae eat too much fruits and greens, as they make her bowel’s move verra frequently. Once a day, and she has had them today. Yon pears are a wee treat for Angus. Take the nappy off her the minute she wakes, or she will shite in it, and between that and the fluid waste, it will all run down the leg, aye?” and on and on Aileen went, discussing bowel habits, food preferences, good clothing, and play clothing (all the play cloths are in the chest in my room) and what to do if there was an emergency. Nola was letting the information run in one ear, and out the other. She thought to herself “surely I can care for the two children? Well, three for a bit, but Angus is near to five, and should be able to help, right?” Becoming tired of it all, she finally managed to shove Aileen out of the door, and sighed with relief.
Looking about, she thought “This will be easy”. Two of the three children were asleep. Did Aileen say that Eden had nae had her lunch, and needed fruit? Looking around, Nola spied some fresh pears that were mashed, perfect for the child. “Wonderful, I will give her a wee snack when she awakens” she thought. Happily, she tossed young Alastair up into the air. He laughed happily, so she did it again, and again. On the third toss, she felt a splash of thick fluid hit her mid chest, and sink right into her cleavage. Looking at the baby, she was aghast to see a dribble of white coming from his mouth. “Bloody hell” she said, then clapped a hand over her mouth. She really must remember she was around children. At that moment, Alastair realized his nappy was still dirty, and began to wail.
“Och, no laddie, no no its ok” she crooned, holding him out and running to the corner for the supplies. Taking a soft cloth, she wiped her chest as best as she could quickly, then, giving up, laid the now screaming baby down and peeled back his nappy. Recoiling from the stench, she looked at the babe and asked
“What does my sister feed you?” Sighing, she caught his hand just as he was about to stick it into his pants.
“No ye dinna, lad, I will nae have that!” lifting his legs high in the air, she began to cleanse him with a soft cloth. In retaliation, a stream of urine arced high into the air, but Nola was able to dodge it.
“Ah, young Alastair, ‘tis a fine warrior ye will be. That was a good try, but your aim was off!” The babe, his good temper restored by having a clean bottom, chortled happily at her. Finishing up her task, she dumped the soiled clout into the bucket she assumed was for such things. Eden, who had been awakened by the babe’s screaming, shuffled over to see. Nola laughed, wondering how old a child had to be before they could walk a straight line. The young girl ambled like she would fall at any moment, then managed to correct her balance and stay afoot. Finally gaining her objective, Eden pointed into the direction of the mashed pears, not bothering to remove her thumb from her mouth. Picking young Alastair up, Nola said
“Sure, sweetheart, ye can have the pears. Your mathair left them for ye, aye? Rocking Alastair, she walked over to the table and put Eden in the seat made just for her. The small lass could reach the table well, so Nola gave her a spoon, and slid the whole dish to the girl, figuring, “as dainty as she is, she will nae eat much, and I will gi’ the rest to her at the evening meal.” Turning, Nola began to look for a chair to rock Alastair to sleep in. She did not see Eden carefully put the spoon down, and reach into the bowl of pears with both hands. . .
Waking up was never a happy moment for Angus. Sleepily, he rubbed his eyes as he wandered out of his small bedchamber. Rubbing his eyes harder, he looked again at the scene in front of him. His sister was painting the table with his special pears that Mathair had promised him, and his Auntie Nola was sitting in the corner, singing to smelly Alastair. The tune sounded like a cat was stuck in the mote, to his ears. Scanning the room, he did not see Aileen, his mathair. This was just too much. Chin quivering, his cry started out as a small hiccup, but escalated into a full, four year old roar of anguish. Nola looked up at the sound, young Alastair startled, and joined his cousin’s noise, and Nola caught site of Eden, happily playing in the pears. She started to cry along with the boys. Eden, ever wanting peace in her family, walked over, and patted her face with the hand that had most recently been painting with fruit. At the sticky touch, Finola cried harder. Eden, starting to look concerned, began to pat Nola’s head and back, trying her best to comfort her Auntie. Nola, could do naught but laugh. Standing, she patted Eden on the head
“Thank ye lass” she said, and went over to Angus, who, by now, was laying on the floor, pounding it with his fist. Glancing at Alastair, to get his opinion of how badly things were mucked up, she noted he was no longer wailing, but bearing down, red in the face, with significant effort. In a moment, the unpleasant smell he’d had before she’d changed his nappy returned. “I canna win” she sighed, and bent down to reason with Angus, and bribe him, if necessary.
Wee Angus was having none of it. Sobbing, he could only eek out certain words. “Mathair. . . sleep. . . my pears. . .Smelly Alastair. . .” and finally, “ye put his dirty cloutie in my froggie’s bucket!” Closing her eyes, Nola groaned. How was she to know that the bucket was for Angus’ pet froggie? “Where was the frog?”she thought, following that thought with “mayhap I should ha’ listened to Aileen.” then “nay I can still do this”. Looking around, she noted Eden was carefully out of the way, sitting on a carpet, playing with Maisie, who was now also covered in pear. “She is fine, for the moment” thought Nola. Mentally apologizing to ‘Smelly Alastair’, as she would now forever think of him, Nola laid the baby down on his stomach nearby. Pulling wee Angus into her lap, she eventually comforted the boy, by promising him chicken in the shape of stars, and more pears for the evening meal. She prayed Mistress Beatie knew how to make the chicken look like a star. . .
After some time, Nola felt like she once again had a hand on things. Not foolish enough to become complacent twice, she kept a tight eye on the children. Smelly Alastair was in his third fresh nappy, and since the froggie bucket was ruined anyhow, wee Angus had only charged her a small fortune to keep it. Eden had been cleaned up, and put into a fresh dress. The only one Nola could find was a wee bit fancy, with its bits of lace and ribbon, she thought, but Aileen always took pride in how her daughter looked, and did nae seem to have any simple clothing for the lass. The frog had been located in the water ewer in Aileen and Michael’s room, and Nola was content to leave the webbed foot creature there. She hated frogs. Looking out the window, she hoped that Una would return before Alastair needed yet another nappy change. At the moment, he was sound asleep, and looked peaceful as an angel. Angus and Eden were playing a boisterous game of tag, and Maisie was under the table, trying to get the pear out of her fur. Finola sat down with a sigh, and wondered if it would be ill advised to partake of ale whilst she was caring for the children. “Nae, I ha’ better not” she wisely concluded, more afraid that Minna would hear of her transgression.
A light knock on the door sounded, and Una entered. Taking one look at Nola, her pretty mouth began smiling, then outright laughing. Knowing she looked a sight, but not caring, Nola said
“I will give ye all I own if ye take wee Angus, and Eden back to yer chambers, with ye. I will even give ye Maisie, at this point”. Hearing this, Maisie gave her a reproachful ‘woof’, and sauntered out of the door, looking for someone who would appreciate her more.
“Nay, sister, no’ for all the money in the kingdom would I agree to that. Tis aboot time ye learned the care of wee bairns, and Angus and Eden are a good a start as any. Were I no’ still feeding my laddie, I would leave him here to enjoy your company, too.” With that, she picked up the still peaceful Alastair, and walked out after Maisie, laughing her head off. Finola ground her teeth, and wondered when she could send the children to bed.
Another knock on the door sounded, and in her delirium, Nola considered that it could be Una, having changed her mind. Or Maisie, for that matter. Throwing the door open she saw Hannu. Throwing her arms around him she said
“Och, annsa, my savior come to rescue me! Come in, and watch the bairns whilst I go take a long bath, aye?” Hannu, examining the pear, and what ever else his lass was covered in, took a step back and answered
“Sweet Fury, as much as I would love to stay and assist ye, I fear your Mathair has begged a boon of me, as well. Your Athair needs to ride out to check the outlying area’s for reavers, and Minna would have me go as well, to ensure his safety. I but came to wish you a good night, love.
Not quite giving up her hope for help, she looked at him and said
“And Tuula?”
“She has been charged with Fynn, and Ioan this night, and they are keeping your Mathair company. I am sorry, sweetheart, but it appears ye are on yer own, here. I will be back sometime late tomorrow morning, though, and perhaps we can steal some time to ourselves?”
Bowing to the inevitable, Nola nodded her head, and gave Hannu a tired kiss. He went away, making sure not to chuckle within her hearing. Smelling his sherte where she had hugged him, he detected an odor of roses, pears, and, dirty nappies. Stripping it off, he went to quickly change.
Finola returned to the room where she had left wee Angus, and Eden. Looking around, she could not find them anywhere. How had they gotten away, when she was standing at the door? Sick with horror, she realized there was another door, leading out from Aileen’s bedchambers. Running in, sure enough, the door was unbolted, and open to the corridor. Going out, she heard high pitched giggles coming from the garderobe. Hoping against hope that it was just Eden doing what came naturally, she approached the door. It was not latched. Quietly she pushed it open, only to find Eden holding froggie over the cesspit.
“Nay!” she gasped, and instinctively reached for the frog. Startled, Eden dropped the poor creature. The frog took exception to his surroundings, and swiftly leaped out, right onto Eden’s fancy dress, then out the door. Eden looked down at the frog prints tracking across her skirt, and spoke the first words of that day (indeed, the first full sentence of her life)
“Och, Bloody Hell, my dreth is ruined”.
“It seems Eden has a lisp” was Nola’s first thought, then her eyes snapped open, and she said
“What did ye just say, lass?”
“I sthaid, my dreth is ruined. Maithair isth going to sthpank me.”
Wee Angus goggled at his sisters first words, and Finola, shaking her head, lead them out of the garderobe, thinking “No, your Mathair is going to ‘sthpank’ me for this, and never let me babysit you again”.
Once back in the chamber, she stripped the now ruined dress off of Eden, who’s thumb had once again retreated to her mouth. Looking at her, Nola decided she could just stay in her chemise. She was not going to chance ruining another dress. Wee Angus was whining a bit about his frog, so Nola promised him that on the morrow, he could go frog hunting with Fynn and Ioan. (She would pay the two handsomely for occupying her nephew). Fortuitously, a knock at the door revealed one of the kitchen helpers with their evening meal. As Nola was hoping, Mistress Beatie had somehow created star shaped pieces of chicken, and all talk of the frog was forgotten. There was also another dish of pears, and a dish of peaches. Looking around, she was dismayed to see that there was no ‘adult’ dish for her, so she was also expected to eat star shaped chicken, and fruit for dinner. Worse, the beverage of choice was milk. “Is this what having children was like?” Finola wondered, now having much more admiration for both of her sisters, who seemed to manage their offspring fitly. After dinner, she cleaned the children up, and then they snuggled together in Michael and Aileen’s big bed. Nola joined them, and told stories until all three of them fell asleep. Right before dozing off, she thought “this part of the night is very pleasant”. Sometime later, she woke up in the dark, with a small hand patting her cheek. “I feel sthick” said Eden, and started to cry. Lifting the child, Finola noticed her last mistake of the day. Eden was not in a nappy, and had eaten way too much fruit. Sighing, she prepared herself for a very long night. .

don't get your knickers in a twist

Apparently, some russian tennis player decided that under her whites this year at Wimbledon, she was going to wear red undies.
And they stopped the match because of them. Eventually, it was decided that since they were, in fact UNDER her whites, she could keep them on. (Did they want her to take them off, right then and there, on the court, I wonder?). She won her match wearing the red underwear, and, undisturbed, wore red again Thursday for her next match. (here's hoping they weren't the same pair, yech). And the press, knowing what was the most important thing about Wimbledon, asked her "Can I ask about your knickers?"
She dignified them with an answer, and gets many bonus points from me
"They say that red is the color that proves that your strong and your confident so I am happy with my red knickers".

So, In honor of this russian player (Tatiana Golovin) I proclaim this 'red knicker day'. I'm going to go find my pair, and put them on, now! (but I refuse to wear them under white. . .)

* late edit. Yeah! I got stubborn, and finally figured out how to link! Look out!

aaargh, get it out! Get it OUT!

Ever watch a movie, where the person who picked the soundtrack should be beaten within an inch of their life?
I'm watching "North Country" with Charlize Theron. She is portraying a woman coal miner who sues a large asshat corporation in North Minnesota for discrimination against women.
My point? They let some fool get up there and karaoke the song "Lay Lady Lay". I apologise if this antagonises the many Bob Dylan fans that are out there in this world. But Please. Seriously.
And now, thats all I can freakin' hear going through my head. Which already aches anyhow, damn it!
I nomitate this song for the worst song ever recorded.

Fairy Tale, mielikki style

Once upn a time, a looooong time ago, this poor sailor was stationed in the republic of California. The Naval Air Station they sent him to was rather pitiful, and just no fun for this boy from Iowa. He found his way to a bar, to drink away his sorrow, and lo! and behold, he met a charming gentleman whom he began talking to. It turns out, this charming man liked to open the lovely home he and his beautiful wife had established to lonely servicemen. They could come, eat home cooked meals, and enjoy a "normal" life. All they had to do was help with a few chores around the house. So, lonely Iowa sailor went to visit this charming man's home, where he met charming man's daughter.



for inquiring minds, this is 'Aunt Tuna'

Pretty, wasn't she? However, she had a boyfriend. His name was Fritz, and he had webbed toes. (She told me so.).
Tragedy struck the beautiful girl, and she was in a car accident. She fell out of a moving church van, and hurt her back. The evil, webtoed Fritz did not come see her while she was in the hospital, making her sad. So, handsome sailor boy, hearing that she was sad, came to visit her instead. They talked, and, became friends. She dumped the evil Fritz and went on a date with Sailor boy. He tried to unbutton her sweater, and she slapped him. But then, she went out with him again, and again, and again.
Soon, the sailor boy's time in the Navy was up. Torn, and not knowing what to do, he went home to Iowa, where he could make a living with his brother, driving truck. But he could not forget about pretty girl. Before she knew it, he was back in California, and then, this happened:




Happy 43rd Wedding Anniversary Mom and Dad. Many, many more.

the flogging will continue until Moral improves

Having just had dinner with Celtic Rose, and dropping a few subtle hints (that could have hit the broad side of a barn) to blog! I have it on good authority that she is posting as I type. If this isn't the case, I invite all of you bombard her with requests for the rat story she told me at dinner time. It was pretty funny.

In another update that may interest a few of you, shy, geek boy would like another date this weekend. Of course, I agreed. And since he was sweet, and bought me a book, I am going to make him some chocolate chip cookies. I hope he isn't allergic or anything.

Oh, and my car and I are still invisible, just ask the pedestrians in the parking lot who were walking very slowly, right down the exit way. Or, the foolish man, out riding a bike after dark, with no lights, and a toddler in the kid seat behind him. GRRRRR

Wordless Wednesday

Newsflash!

Apparantly, I have a super-power I never knew I had!
Did you know, that when I am driving my bright red, SUV, that I am invisible? Just ask the little old lady who came within millimeters of crunching my passenger side in the grocery store parkinglot.
Or, you can ask the man in the red convertable at the stop sign.
Or, you can ask the TWO cars that turned into the narrow, one car at a time fits in it street I was driving up first.
Or, lastly, you can ask the jeep full of asshole's who were speeding through town, telling everyone they could "drive on top of them all", right before they damn near rear ended me.
They'll all tell you its true. I'm invisible.

spin a yarn

Overheard at mielikki's house, reported to mielikki by Jack, the troublemaking black cat.

"Shhh- she's sleeping. Don't be waking her up! She'll turn on the lights and ruin our fun!"
"Which yarn should we tangle up, and how much of a tangle should we give it? There is so much good yarn laying around here. Plus, she will blame one of those four legged creature's she calls 'cat'."
"Aye, she will that. More than likely that 'jack' fellow. She blames him for everything."
"Yeah, poor bugger. Too bad we can't liberate him, but she'd get really upset and stop buying us yarn to tangle."
"I vote we attack that nice, sticky blue yarn that she's been working with. That'll really get her! The tangle should be tight, at least a three hour job, don't you think?"
"Sounds like a plan. She's been watching too much television, anyhow."

Jack was unable to describe the wee yarn tanglers that strike in the dead of night, but sat and watched very concerned-like this morning while I took the time to sort out the mess that was left for me. . .

art withdrawl

I love going to museums. It was one of my favorite parts of my trip to NY and DC. Museums out here in the republic of California are few and far between, and most of them cover native american, and some mexican art. I can get into that, too, but what I really love, and want to see again and again and again, are the old world painters.
There is something about standing in front of a famous piece of art, looking at the brush strokes, finding the signature, noting the detail, and in the case of Picasso, wondering what the hell the painting is of, and what he was on when he painted it.
My favorite museums are the one where you can stand as close as you want to the painting, without touching it, of course. The Getty, in Los Angeles, lets you do that. The Louvre, surprisingly, lets you. So does the Metropolitan in NYC. I was in heaven at all those.
So far, one of my favorites is Degas. And not for the ballerina's, either. (Though they do have their charm.) He painted other subject matter, and did some sculpture, as well.
And I also love the sculptures. I was lucky enough to find the Rodin museum in Paris. Large sculptures in an outside park area, and yes, I could walk right up to them, even touch! though I didn't dare. I also saw quite a few of Rodin's work in the Metropolitan.
Now, if I could just get a major museum built into my hometown. Sigh. Maybe, when I marry the old millionaire with one foot in the grave. . .
(a girl can dream, can't she?)

Sunday

I just love Sunday's, usually. For me, this is the lazy day, the day to sleep in, ignore any outstanding chores, and do what I want.
I have one problem. No one I work with wants to work on Sundays. So, I have been. Working Sundays. All of them.
I would really like to end this trend, but, I haven't talked all the patients into going home on Sunday so that none of us would have to work. They just don't see it my way.
So, I continue to put myself down, for Sunday. Occasionally, I get rebellious, and DON'T. Sometimes, they even leave it alone, and I get an odd Sunday off. But not lately.
I miss Sunday. Its just not the same to me, anymore. Because I always have to go back to work Sunday night. It takes the fun right out of the day.
Maybe I should declare another day of the week Sunday. I've tried that, in my mind. It just didn't feel the same.
For now, I am going to live this way, with my Sunday's not being Sundays.
But when Football season starts, they better find a new Sunday patsy. Because, no one gets between me, and my football. (especially when I am doing the football pool with my family.)

baby blankets

My neice, princess, is pregnant. Never mind the fact that she is a 19 year old, addict (who states she has been clean since falling pregnant) and the father is an alcoholic with three other children. She's pregnant, and she's having this one. (don't ask).
We found out yesterday its a girl. No big surprise there, our family is female dominant, girls just tend to be what we have. How middle sister had three boys, I'll never figure out.
Its taken me a long time to deal with this issue without being angry, and, truthfully, a bit envious. I had kind of an epiphany a few weeks back though. Its a sad one, but I had it.
I've not seen my neice for over 2 years. We are not close. She has not had a high regard for family, and makes no effort to really talk to anyone, except middle sister, and my oldest nephew, Huey. The last time I saw her she was rail thin, morose, and sullen. It was at my middle nephew's (dewey's) first birthday party. Dewey is going to be four this July. Its been that long.
So, the odds are that I am really going to be a part of her babies life? Slim. It doesn't mean I won't love the baby, hope for the best for the baby, and even for my neice. I stand by my letter, which was sent to my neice when there was an Intervention done to try to get her off the Meth. I told her that I would never give her a gift she could sell for drugs, and on her birthdays, and holidays, I would donate to a charity of my choice instead of getting her anything. I told her she was not welcome in my home until she quit self medicating, and got some treatment for her addiction. She has stopped the drugs, according to other family members. But she has not had any rehab or therapy. What will happen after she has this baby, who is, for the moment, keeping her sober?
I digress. I cannot let myself consider all of that. It will put me into a funk again, and I can't do it. Back to my epiphany.
I should have no expectations, that way, I won't be dissapointed. I will, and am, going through the motions. I will not take my frustration out on an innocent child who had the bad luck to be conceived into her situation. When I see her, I will lavish love and attention on her. I've already started designing the baby blanket I am knitting for her. My great-neice. I hope, for her sake, that princess is capable of staying clean. I will not expect it, though. I hope, for her sake, her father doesn't turn out to be the ass that has been described to me. I will not expect it, though. And I hope, she gets to see her family, (my parents, me, my middle sister's family ect) frequently, so that we can ooh and ahh over her, love her, and make sure that she is safe, and well cared for. Sadly, I will not expect it.

Tiny bubbles. . .

In the sand. . .
Oh, wait. Thats something different all together. I am enjoying a different kind of tiny bubbles.
Prosecco, plus some Pomegranite juice. With a glass that has been living in the freezer.
Its a good friday night.

nature vs. nurture

Every Sunday, my Mom would put on ABBA and we would get down to housecleaning. I still can't hear ABBA without smelling Lemon Pledge. (dusting was my job.). I never liked ABBA, anyhow, and the older I got, the more painful this became. The advent of a walkman helped tremendously. As time went by, ABBA was still a frequent choice for her, along with Neil Diamond (just, eew) Celine Dion, and Kathie Lee Gifford. And, Barbara Streisand. I honestly cannot stand any of these people. She also went through a Bee Gee's faze. Seriously.
Dad, on the other hand, if he ever got to listen to what he liked, preferred 50's music, and old country. I can still hear him singing along to "Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man" by Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn. My Mom would even chime in, trying to sing the girl part. Hilarious. He also played an old time piano record by a lady named JoAnn Castle. All this, I could tolerate.
So, how, then, did I get the strange, and eclectic taste in music that I have? I looooove music. All kinds of it. I can put my hands on anything. Classical, bagpipe music, some punk, some oldies, country, eighties, classic rock, heavy metal, jazz, R&B, you name it, I know it, and odds are, I have it somewhere in my collection. (Except RAP, and some of the thrasher metal that I just didn't get.). Soft Rock (my mother's particular brand) is excluded as well, of course. The day I own a Neil Diamond cd will be the day someone checks me into a psych hospital. Hitting random play on my computer is like playing russian routlette with music. Just now? I went from a live version of Rebel Yell, by Billy Idol, to "Bulbous Bouffant", a song from a Dr. Demento CD.
So, are music preferences built into our DNA? How do we find the music that really turns us on, and makes us happy? Does what our parents subject us to in our early youth influence the direction we are going to go in?
In my case,I think not. Instead, it was a constant search through radio stations, and, falling into some music traps that my friends set. The search for me is constant. Music is playing almost constantly in my house, and car, even while I sleep. Some people don't listen to music at all, (I am so sad for them), and some, if its on, will even turn it off. (Not in my house!). I love discovering something new, even if its old. (that does make sense, if you think about it.).
And, if I spend any time visiting at my parents house, my Ipod? Sure does come in handy. . .

little shy girl

This is me, during, perhaps, my shyest period. I could not meet, and talk to someone new without blushing deep red, up to the top of my blonde head. And I would barely talk, and hide behind people I knew.For a long time, that flute you see was my best friend.
I worked hard to overcome my shyness, because it was even more embarrassing to be embarrased, if that makes any sense.
That little shy girl still lives in me, though. She will always be a part of me. I don't blush and hide anymore, but I do struggle. Especially when I am going on a first date.
Yep, thats where I was. Another first date. The last 'first date', that went so well? He's still a nice guy, still out there. He is just too busy to commit any time to anything. I want to be more than an 'afterthought', or a convienence.
Tonights first date was a long time in coming. This man is also computer generated, and I've been communicating with him for awhile. He is a self admitted introvert, and "geek boy". (His words, not mine.). We've e mailed, we've had phone conversations. He is very shy, and when he called me the first time, he asked for me by a wrong name. It was funny.
So, we met tonight, in the parking lot of a Target, in a town in between where we both live. (His town is about an hour from mine, in good traffic). My first impression? He looks like a younger version of my Uncle B. He really does. Dark hair, brown eyes, glasses. He dressed up, too. Slacks and sportscoat. I wore a dress, and was glad for it. He even brought me a gift, a book he had told me about that I must have expressed an interest in. It was packed in a gift bag, with at least 10 sheets of pink tissue paper. Sweet. He is very charming. We had a nice dinner, with good conversation. He's an engineer, and very smart, almost scary smart. (Hence, his refrencing himself as 'geek boy'.). I had a nice time. I think he did, too.
My little shy girl was with me, but she recognises a kindred spirit. She liked him, too, and let me talk to him without blushing, or hiding behind anyone. Now, we have to see if the shy boy in him agrees.

cheating, blog style

Its only 1 pm, but its one of those days. Too much to do, not enough time to do it in. Anyhow. I wrote something yesterday on the medical blog, over there, to your left . Where it says, First Do No Harm? Click that. yes, that one. And read what I had to say. Then, go find an advanced directive, and fill it out!

Later this evening, much later, I might have a story. Involving today. And who I am meeting at 7 pm. I just might. Until then, you'll survive, I'm sure.

Wordless Wednesday

My first trip to Disneyland

Reading CK's blog ( I am not going to attempt another failed link, darn it) stimulated a memory in my head of the first time I went to Disneyland.
My Dad had a sister, my Aunt Cleo. She lived in Costa Mesa, not to far away from 'the happiest place on earth'. My parents and sisters had actually gone to DL when I was a toddler, and left me with family. I didn't get to go. But I'm not bitter. Anyhow. So my parents told us where we were going. I kind of wish they'd kidnapped us like Cami's parents. That sounds cool. But we knew we were going. My Mom told us, and saved her pennies for a long time to be able to afford it for a family of 5. Plus, we could visit Aunt Cleo. I think I was ten or eleven.
Middle sister's birthday rolled around, at the end of April. She was having her friends come over, 3 of them, if I remember correctly. They came, we were having a grand time, and Mom got home from work, with Pizza for us all. But, older sister was no where to be found. We had just recently moved to the small town we lived in, and older sister hated it, and started hanging around with "the wrong crowd". To make a long story short, she'd run away. Left a note where no one would find it, in the garage. (For some reason, she thought I would find it there, because the cat's were frequently there.). Once my mom figured out she was gone, she tried to hide her anxiety from us, and called my Dad, he had to COME HOME FROM WORK. (that, was a no-no, we were not made of money). He leaves for home, and my mom, taking me with her, drives down to one of the neighbor houses who has a girl older sister hung out with (one of the "wrong crowd".) The woman tells us she isn't there. Now my mom is crying, scared. Her daughter, her teenage daughter whom has recently discovered drugs, in a small town, is gone. We get home, and she calls the police. Who tell her that older sister is safe. She was at the house WE JUST LEFT, five minutes ago. The woman had lied to us. But she was there, had been there the whole time. Now, everyone knew what was going on. Mom is mad, and crying harder, middle sisters friends are in a very awkward position, and try to help us comfort her. Dad gets home, and in the blink of an eye, rebellious older sister is home. I don't remember much more of that night, I went to my room to escape the drama. Middle sister and her birthday friends went to the downstairs bedroom to do the same.
Over the next week, older sister ranted and raved about everything she hated. And what she hated the most was sharing a room with middle sister. She demanded my parents make the garage into a bedroom for her. We were broke. The only money we had was the money my Mom had worked so hard to save to go to Disney Land.
One afternoon, she came to me, my Mom, and told me that they were thinking they'd have to spend that money on making a bedroom, and we couldn't go to DL. She wanted to know how I felt about that. I was angry, of course. I'd been waiting a long time to go there. I told her, in ten year old speak, that older sister could go suck eggs. I wanted to go to Disneyland. I was an angry,conflicted little girl for a long time after that conversation. I didn't even look at older sister.
Fast forward, a few months. Older sister never got her bedroom. We went to DL. We saw Aunt Cleo. We had a great time. Even pissed off older sister had fun. I'm really glad my parents made the decision they did. Older and middle sister shared their room and bathroom for a few more years, until older sister graduated, and left home for good. They fought a lot down there in that room. I'm sure it wasn't pleasant. But if you think about it, we got more than a trip to DL that summer. We got taught that my parents, indeed, ran the household, and were not going to pander to the demands of a temperamental teenager. It was a summer to remember.

Things my best friend does for me

Recently, Rachel, from A Comedienne's Sidekick (the link was supposed to be here but failed)

referenced a story about when her best friend, Funny Girl, gave her a foot massage. That really is going above the call of duty, and very sweet.
But last night, my friend, Celtic Rose, went waaaaay above the call of duty.
We were at work, and the intention of my blog is not to totally gross you out, so I will be kind.
Lets just say it involved
a small woman
a leaking bag
gloves
a mask
2.5 packets of bed bath wipes
fresh sheets
no sense of smell

What would I do without you, Celtic Rose?

I love my family, but. . .

A few times, here and there, I have indicated that if my family ever found my blog, I'd be horrified, and never, ever blog again. I'm sad to say, its true. I wouldn't. Or, at the very least, I'd have to change my blogging address, and tell them I quit blogging.
I guess, I should really explain why.
I love my family. I really do. We are pretty close, talking with each other during the week, getting together frequently. But, there are aspects of me that they just cannot seem to get. My humor is one of them. My Dad understands it, but the man has nothing to do with computers.I would let him read my blog daily if he wanted to.
My Mom, on the other hand, gets her feelings hurt easily. While we were in Washington, checking into the hotel, she was telling one of the clerks how to spell Nixon. (One of our last names, not mine, thank God). I snickered, and made the appropriate joke about telling someone in DC how to spell Nixon was like teaching a rocket scientist that 2+2 was 4. That did it. She got mad at me and said I made fun of her, IN PUBLIC. She just doesn't get it. It would be for sure, I would write something, sometime, that would set her off, and I'd be in the doghouse for weeks. Or, something would offend her, for some insane reason. It's just not worth it.
Older sister can't find this blog, because while we talk semi frequently, and get along better now, I don't really want her inside my head. She will manipulate information to use to her advantage. We've had our problems, and while she is my sister, I don't consider her a good friend. And that is sad. Plus, if she ever caught wind I wrote about her daughter (which I have) she'd come to my home and probably assault me. (I don not kid.)
I probably wouldn't mind middle sister reading what I blog. She and I are close. But, she has three boys under the age of 10, and idiot husband and his idiot family (she would agree with me) 3 dogs, 2 birds, and a full time nursing job. You do the math. Later, when her life is not a tornado, I may well introduce her to blogging. If she could find the time for it, I bet she'd have some great blogging material. Right now, I just have to make sure she comes up for air every now and then. But. She would probably spill to my mother, then, I'd be back to square one. So.
There you have it. The main reasons why I keep my family out of my blog. Maybe, someday, I'll change my mind, but I'm doubtful.

** 4 pm edit
Duh. Blame my brain death from working last night, and having an, er interesting shift. For any not in the know, CK is also my family, she is my cousin, and I love the fact that not only does she read my blog, she is the one who single handedly got me into blogging in the first place. And I am glad for it!

Now, its Sunday (barely)

Happy Father's Day to my charming, practical joke loving, football watching "white man food" devouring Dad. May we celebrate many, many more with you. (Not like he'll see this, the man doesn't even know how to turn a computer on, and my Mom doesn't know this blog exists [yes, Camikaos, you have power here. Take pity on me and NEVER tell her. I love my mom, but she doesn't need to be reading my stuff.])

And happy Father's day to everyone else out there, too. I hope its a nice Sunday for you all.

I'm blind!

No, I'm really not, if I was, this blog would be unreadable, right? I am actually seeing my screen through the blur of Celtic knot inspired designs, enlarged graph paper, and lines and spaces.
Sigh. Confused? I'm not, though by rights, I should be. This all started with a celtic cross design I saw, and I thought to myself that I could translate that into a knitting pattern, and make the pillow I've been wanting to make out of it. So I did. The pillow is almost done. Then, Celtic Rose got a few books with MORE designs in it, and, I got this bright idea. I made 2 blankets last year, neither of them for myself. I wanted to make myself one, anyhow. I fell in love with the colors I used for the pillow, (dark, ruby red, with black edging). I could design MY OWN blanket, with these new patterns. Sure, I can! No one will have a blanket like mine, because I made the patterns, not some person I don't know who sold a pattern book to millions of people. On top of it, I can make more pillows that will be given to certain people for Christmas. Sure, I can!
Fast forward to today. Its hot outside, so I am perfectly happy to lounge in the cooler inside. The pillow parts are drying in the sun after being blocked, and I am tired of looking at NY and DC pictures, and fixing them up. So, I've been at my table, tracing designs onto graph paper. And now, all I see are lines, and spaces and graph paper.
It better be worth it. It will be worth it. I just keep telling myself that. This winter, when I am snuggled under my new, beautiful blanket, my head resting on the pillow, (ok, near the pillow, I can't have it getting messed up) I will have forgotten the pain of today. But this blog will remind me, if I go back this far, and look, that is.

I know its not Sunday, but

I haven't done this in a while, and I am impulsive, so sue me. I am hiring more staff for my home, and today, well, today, I need a personal, home, DJ. And who do I pick?
Billie Jo Armstrong from Green Day.
Yes, I am totally serious.
Think about it. Anytime I wanted to hear Green Day, he could invite the rest of the band over.
Me, personally, I think he's worth having around. Nice to look at. When he smirks, it just does something for me. He's kind-of the Anti Elvis, if you will.
So, yes. Billie Jo Armstrong. My new DJ.
Just because.

The same boat

Blogging today has been an adventure. I wrote a post, three times, and either erased or deleted it each time, because it just didn't come out the way I wanted it to. It was about being the adult children of aging parents. And that is a very hard topic to really put out there. Suffice it to say, I know my parents are getting older, and while I am no longer of that magic age where I thought they would live forever, it disturbs me. It disturbs me that the little, skinny grey haired man is my father. It can't be, I think. My dad is the one with the black hair, and wicked sense of humor, and dancing, up to no good eyes who is chasing everyone around the yard with a water balloon. But, now, he is the grey haired man, still with the wicked sense of humor. And the up to no good eyes. He can still chase me around with a water balloon, but its a much shorter chase, and hasn't happened in a long time.
And my Mom. At first glance, she looks really good. No one would guess her age. But I know her well. Those hands, that sport the acrylic nails, and pretty rings. They are showing the age spots, and arthritic changes. She could never open jar's very well, but now? Its impossible for her. And everyone has begun to tell her recently that she looks like her mother, my grandmother. . .(that does NOT go over well, trust me.). Before we went on vacation, I was not worried at all about her stamina, and how well she'd keep up. She's always been a never ending fountain of energy, never seeming to wear out. While we were on vacation, she wore out. A lot. More than I liked. The never ending well finally ran out. And I'll admit. I was shocked.
I know, I know. All of us are in this same boat. Two of my friends are doing the cancer dance with their mothers right now. I remember it well, from when I did it with my Dad. And Celtic Rose and I have had many a conversation about her Mum and Da. Her Da has been a patient in our hospital far too many times, and she admits to feeling a shock each and every time she realizes her Mum is going to be 70 this year.
So, we are all the adult children of aging parents. It doesn't mean they are going anywhere, anytime soon. For me, what this means, is that I watch a little bit closer, hug them a little tighter, and hope that, no matter how many days left, 2 days, or 20 years, that they LIVE. And I hope the same for myself, for that matter.

Internet dating at its finest.

The wierd news stories find their way to me. I swear it. While I was innocently perusing what was going on in the world today, procrastinating all the other stuff I should be doing, like usual, I ran across this gem.
It seems some x-ray technician near Marsailles, France, got lonely. So, he went onto the world wide web to find himself a girl, or two (or three).
For six months, he talked to "Sweet Juliette", calling himself the Prince of Passion or some such merde. (Shit in french, another useful thing I learned in highschool). At some point in time, their talk even got 'racy'. (Imagine that!).
During this six months, he asked for a picture of his "Sweet Juliette". She sent one, and was gorgeous!
The time came, finally, that he asked her to meet him. He picked a beach near Marsailles, AFTER DARK. (What were they going to do, do you think?)
She was there, white shorts, pink tank top. Just like she said she would be. Thinking he was going to meet the girl of his dreams, the Prince, aka Daniel stepped forward eagerly, only to see Sweet Juliette was Nicole

HIS MOTHER!

Yes, this man cozied up to his mother for six months via the world wide web. They shared poetry, and dreams. And false pictures, obviously. To make matters even more fun, they were busted for being on the beach after dark, and, flustered, they told the policeman the whole story. Stupidity must run in the family. Why would you admit all this out loud?
Amused, the cop told this story, (over and over) and the next thing they knew, they were in the news. Which really pissed off Daniel's father, who is still married to the Sweet Juliette. It embarrassed him in front of his beer drinking crony's. He has since forbidden his wife to talking to anyone over the internet. C'est La Vie!

Wordless Wednesday

this, and that, before I go to sleep

An update of a post from oh so long ago. . .
Remember the escape artist calico kitten that I gave away to my co worker, P? I found out this morning that "Spicy" is knocked up. I don't think she is a year old yet, and it concerns me for her health, but P is thrilled, they are going to keep all the kittens. She already has names picked, Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme, of course! They do plan on getting her spayed after the babies are born, so that makes me feel a little better about the situation.
For the last two nights, I have been working on a different floor of the hospital, the telemetry floor where all the heart related conditions are treated. I've been their charge nurse, because they have a crop of newly minted nurses working up there. Thats where the puppy I fed to satan on is birthday works. He is still a puppy, btw. I worked with him the other night. Working up there has been kind of fun, but I have to admit I'm tired of being chased down by rookies and peppered with questions. I couldn't even take a lunch break last night without being found. But, that's what I was there for. Last night, for some reason, all the little old men loved me. I had one asking me if I could er, lotion up his sensitive bits for him (at 85 no less) and continue on to brag about what a LARGE foreskin he had. (Never been circumcised he says, with a smile.) OOOK. I put the cream in his hand and escaped, never to return. Then, another one, while I was fixing his IV took a look at me, and says "you have beautiful hair". "Oh, Thank You" I mutter, and quickly exit to stage right before I get another lotion invitation. After that, I avoided rooms with old men in them. But I still left, feeling oh, so dirty. Now, I have to go take a long shower, and wash of whatever it was that caught their attention. Because, odds are, I'll have to go back to that floor tonight. EEEW.

dumb, or dumber?

Last night, at work, my dear friend Kali was there with me. It was pretty nice, except she had to admit the patient from hell. (poor Kali).
Anyhow.
We were having this conversation about life, dating, men, the usual stuff. Just chattering as we were working. (We really were.) She made a very interesting comment that got me thinking, considering, mulling. Its been festering in my brain, as we speak.
As females, do we "dumb down" our intellect when we percieve a man we fancy can't keep up with us?
I think it's entirely possible. I think, that in those "glory days", long ago, it was so important for a woman to be married that if she had to dumb down, she certainly did.
I am not saying every woman who is married dumbed down. Please don't interpret this that way.
I'm just saying. I think many did. And perhaps, subconciously, they taught their daughters that, too. Who may have in turn taught their daughters.
Maybe, thats my problem. I refuse to dumb myself down. I just can't.I'm not saying I'm the smartest girl out in the parts. But I'm not stupid. And I have met a few men who don't have the brain cells I do. I even dated them. And when I think about those men, I remember the snide comments, or dumbfounded looks on their faces when I used words they did't understand. (and friends, they weren't difficult words, or medical terminology.).
I also had the memorable experience of dating a man who THOUGHT he was everyone's intellectual superior (but really was far from it.). He would challenge people with his wrong ideas all the time. Just ask Celtic Rose. I believe, to this day, if she ever sees him again he won't survive the viewing.
Anyhow. Women, dumbing down for men. Does that really still happen? Has it ever really happened? Another good question, for the sparse male readers of my very strange blog. Do men dumb down for women? I'd love to hear people's thoughts on this one.

Mielikki

I couldn't sleep last night, so I was at my computer, looking for ways to distract myself. I went on to the best website, ever, Wikipedia, and looked up Mielikki. Nothing too surprising, there. I chose that name, a long time ago, from an epic Finnish poem called The Kalevala. It was an oral poem handed down throughout the millenia, and someone finally got smart enough to put it into print. I have read it. It took me a long time, but I read it. Mielikki is the goddess of the forest in the poem. I liked that, because I love trees and forests and all that go with it. So Wiki had that down pretty well. They also had references to Dungeons and Dragons, where mielikki is a character. OK, I knew that, too.
Then, because I still couldn't sleep, I googled Mielikki. Oh, merciful heavens. There were over 40 pages, just in English! I laughed at some, because they were from my blog. One freaked me out, because there is another person blogging out there as mielikki, her name rhymes VERY closely with mine, and she is, for all intents and purposes, a witch. A follower of Wicca. Ok, I understand why she would pick the forest goddess, too.
There were multiple mentions of "The Church of Mielikki", or, followers of Mielikki and Tapio (her husband.) There are some dogs, Russian Borzoi's named Mielikki as well. There is even some girl writing a book about three of the Kalevala "gods" and a modern day woman who lives in Alaska. Of course, Mielikki is her goddess of choice.
It was interesting, to say the least, how many people had connections to my chosen name. I didn't pick it for any wiccan purposes. Some of the wiccans scare me, depending on their habits. I surely didn't pick it after some dogs. I just liked the name, and what she represented. Apparantly, I am not alone in that!

Saturday tree update

As evidenced by the pictures, all have made it to the top of 'Treebeard'. The boys seem to like sharing it, even if its not comfortable. At times, one or the other is allowed to have the top to himself, but not often.(Jack is a pain in the ass, and someday, Angus may well kill him). Audrey finally made it up to the top today, I think brushing all that hair off of her yesterday helped with her aerodynamics! The tree has yet to fall over and piss off my neighbor, so I'm thinking I won't have to weight the bottom. Angus was actually the very first one to take the top.
And me? I have finally recovered from the frozen Lumpia. Have a good Saturday, everyone.

Never buy the frozen Lumpia

I had hopes. Not high hopes. But some hope. I love Lumpia. For those of you who are wondering what the hell that is, its is a Phillipine style egg roll. Its closer to a spring roll than an egg roll, though. Nice, thin, crispy wrapper, with good veggies and meat in it, rolled into deliciousness.
But, I live in the whitest town in California. I challenge anyone else out there who thinks they do. These people here think GREEK food is spicy and unusual. (Well, it is, but you get my meaning.) I have not had Lumpia for a few years. So, when I saw a frozen version in the grocery store, I thought "Frozen Lumpia is better than no Lumpia", and I purchased it. Boy, was I wrong. Wrong times infinity. I couldn't even eat a whole one. And the sauce didn't even save it. I am still trying to wipe the taste of the foulness off my tongue. Beer, good beer, isn't even helping it. I've had to branch out and order a pizza to go with my beer to try and erase that foul excuse for lumpia. Pizza with bacon on it. I am that desperate to relieve my palate, people. If that's lumpia, than I am going to turn purple overnight and become a millionaire. False advertising. But I was foolish to believe someone could freeze Lumpia and sell it commercially. Just. So. Wrong.

powdered alcohol and Wee Wee

Once again, I have been reading the strange and unusual news pages. I swear, I could not dream this stuff up.
The dutch are at it, again. This time, some University students have invented powdered alcohol. Just add water. It turns into a lime flavored drink, (sounds gross to me.). Since the alcohol content is less than 3 %, they are allowed to sell it to kids. "We are aiming for the youth market" these university students admit. The drinking age in the Netherlands is 16, but this product can be sold to those younger than sixteen because of the low alcohol content. I have to admit, this amuses me, because I have a vision of all these kids thinking they are getting some great thing, this powdered alcohol. I wonder what happens if one of them snorts it? Or tries to smoke it? You know they'll try. And, I wonder if there are more flavors in store, rather than some strange, probably butt puckery lime flavor.
And, now, for Wee Wee. Wee Wee was a Canadian goose that lived in Marysville. It was a family pet, and some guy shot Wee Wee, out of season. So he was arrested, and is going to court on various counts, like hunting without a liscence, and shooting game out of season. The family is very distraught over Wee Wee's loss. They'd rescued him (her?) from a river near Sacramento. He lived in one of their rice ponds (paddies?). They even had a sign up requesting that no one shoot their pet goose. They found poor Wee Wee floating in the rice paddy. It seems Wee Wee went all the way home. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)
Obviously, my period of not being able to form a coherent thought is over. (Though, by the content of this post, that's debatable.). Oh well, there's always tomorrow!

Forget it

Due to my lack of brain cells, and inability to write about ANYTHING, even though I do have a few things I wanted to blog, I am postponing today. I just can't do it. I would looooove to postpone the whole day, work and all. Because, I seriously don't think I could think my way out of a paper bag. Maybe tomorrow, but not today. There is something in the air today preventing me from doing anything purposeful. I don't really like it, if you want to know the truth. But, every time I try to do something meaningful, it turns into a big, flaming, mess. So, I am going to just go, now, sit on my couch, and try not to think to hard about the cosmic message I am getting today.

Wordless Wednesday

Omaha Beach
href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtb7tFw1Yb5R6T98rkEULIivz3zY-TGKHOGy7FJimi_pDGfnxX806de5NAyu3ISUAa1TdE1iPhwBc26jCkQtFzHu3aERH932D3dXTkrgXLhVKF159Ix3My60IJH7fyb9cSB2m3-lfDlz0/s1600-h/American+Cemetary+in+Normandy+e.jpg">
Amecican Cemetary, Normandy France, right above Omaha Beach

MONSOON!!

Holy buckets of Hell, Batman!
I've not seen a summer storm like this one in years. Pouring, torrential rain, wind, lightning, thunder. Sky that dark metallic grey that does not bode well. Hail. I love it. When it started I fixed a nice glass of kahlua and milk, sat back, and watched the show. It seems to be over for the moment. I hope we get more.
And if anyone is keeping score. No one has breached the top of the cat tree yet. The storm hit and they all went running like the sissy la-la's they are.

a tree

So my printer is not a printer, and the tree is not a tree. . .
Today, my cheap, all in one printer fax copier machine thingy died a mechanical death. It was old, waaaay past its prime, and not worth defibrillating. It will get its proper burial, soon. A new, sleeker, more friendly one is taking its place.
The true story of the house that has everyone a twitter is a new, tree shaped, er, cat tree for the furries. Celtic Rose was with me, and it its just what they need. Its very nice, three spots to sleep on, shaped like a tree, brown and green. Of course, right now, they are all circling it like hungry sharks. Waiting to see who is going to be the first one up to the top. The two black furries are having a stare down at the base. Audrey will probably win, because she is lazy and can lay there and stare at Jack, forever. Jack has the attention span of a gnat. Angus, smart boy that he is, realized that this new attraction gave him free ticket to the food bowl, unmolested. See, Jack just gave up. Audrey is the winner. Lets see if she will hike her fat behind to the top, now. . . doubtful. Yet. I predict,in the middle of the night, she will try, and get carried away, and the tree will fall over, and wake up my downstairs neighbor. It is inevitable. Oh well.

Summer Vacation

Its already June. It has been six months since New Years, five months since my oft repeated 29th birthday, its June. Why, and how did we get here so damn quickly?
It seems like the older I get, the faster the years just kind of zip by. As a kid, I used to think it would NEVER be summer, the glorious stretch of time where I could sleep as I wanted to (most of the time) and not have people picking at my brain, trying to force usless information into it. June, in its brightness, was always the beginning of that stretch. We'd usually finish school the first week into it, and go back the last week of August. (Always on a Wednesday, for some odd reason.)
Part of me thinks time moves faster because, for me, there is really no such thing as summer vacation anymore. I don't get millions of days off to sleep the way I want to, and waste time. At the beginnings of summer vacation, as a kid, try as I might, I just could not stretch my mind out to touch the first day of school, again. I didn't have to!
Don't get me wrong, I actually was one of those freaks who liked school, even high school, though I'll admit my freshman year was dicey. But I loved summer's off.
Anyhow. I feel kind of at a loss today. Time is moving too quick, and I kind of miss the summer vacation. But the pesky, adult world, and my starving cats chime in, with RESPONSIBILTY! And, being a grown up, I will smile, continue forward, and sleep when I can. . .

and now, for the rest of the story

I'm really starting to get pissed off at the Dutch. Not all off them. Just a few particular ones.
It turns out, that whole reality TV show Kidney giving away stupid idea?
A hoax.
The woman with the "brain tumor" is a healthy actress. The presenters of the show were trying to pressure the government into reforming the donor laws. The three recepiants are actually in need of a kidney, still, but the presenters claim they were in on the joke.
This puts a whole new spin on it for me. I still think this is pretty trashy. Even worse, actually, because now its a total manipulation. If you want new donor laws, round up everyone in Holland who needs a transplant and have them show up at the capital, and sit there. Have them send postcards every day, have their families show up too. I don't know. But not this. It was a stupid stunt. I'm glad that this is not actually going to happen, but still, its smarmy.

Wish they had this while I was there

I just read this great article. For two weeks, they have installed an above the ground, heated pool, beneath the Eiffel Tower. They are giving Scuba lessons in it. You can dive in this pool, which is fairly shallow, and look up at the underside of the Eiffel tower. Of course, when I was there I stood beneath it and look up, but how cool would it have been to say I went scuba diving under it? The French are kind of crazy, but they do have some novel ideas. A few years ago, on the first level, they made an ice rink, too. I would have enjoyed that, as well. Oh well, maybe the next time I go to Europe, they will have thought of something better, like Jello wrestling in the middle of the Champs Elysee. . .

Curse the animal planet!

I should know better than to watch it. But, I needed background noise for while I was reading. Of course, I got distracted by the baby Hyena's named Homer and Marge. Marge, being the bitch she is, dominated Homer completely, and wouldn't let him drink milk from their Mommy, Uno. Meanwhile, another hyena was going to have a baby. She did, and Uno, the original bitch, killed it. I should have turned it off right there, but No, I had to keep watching. So, they take Homer out of the habitat, because Marge, being her mother's daughter would surely kill him. They hand raise him, and let him play with little lion cubs for fun (how's that for irony) and initially the little guy refuses to eat meat. Just as he catches on to the fact that meat is good, at six months old, Homer eats poison and dies! AAAAAAArgh sucky animal planet! Now, the hyena specialist is having trouble connecting to the other cubs, Bongo and Tika. Since he hasn't provided discipline, Bongo and Tika are bossing around the lion cubs. That won't last long. So, of course, this being the animal planet of happily ever after, the specialist takes the hyena cubs in hand, and introduces them to the "misfits" of the hyena clan, three older males that got picked on too much. So, Tika and Bongo find a new family, and all ends well. Except for poor Homer, that is.

Mistress Mayhem sends her greetings

Good Morrow to all of ye in Blog-land. Perchance, ye are wondering who I am, and what have I done with Mielikki? Do not worry overmuch, she is fyne. I am Mistress Mayhem, her Renaissance Faire alter ego.
I must first address the subject of the "meat dude". In Elizabethan times, (which, happenstance I live in), we are obligated, nay, forced to get our meat from stalls in the open air market. So, why you silly modern people are fussy about your meat, I shall never know. I have yet to convince Mielikki that this is a perfectly fyne idea. She is a bit stubborn.
I also wonder about those large, steel contraptions that ye fynd it so amusing to travel in. I have grown accustomed to them myself, since Mielikki, in her stubborn-ness, hath refused to ride a horse to the Renaissance Faire's. (Tis unfair, I tell you now! The girl is entirely TOO stubborn! Fie on her!). A good horse hath value. It needith not this 'gasoline' that I hear all you silly modern people bleat on and on about like sheep. Mayhap, ye like to spend your hard earned coin on useless fuel that destroyeth your atmosphere. In my day, the coin is better spent on spirits, ribbons, fyne clothing, and shoes!
Lastly, I implore you all to grow some hair! I cannot fathom how short ye silly, modern people let the butcher's cut it! Including the men! Mielikki is just as stubborn when it comes to this. While we are at the Renaissance Faire, I plan on telling people that she has had 'the fever', thus, we have shorn our locks. Mayhap, they will believe me.
And now, I shall bid thee fyne readers fare thee well, and leave ye with a few tips on visiting my era, should any of ye be planning on a visit to a Ren faire any time soon.
Ladies, if ye can breathe, the bodyce is not tight enough.
Privies are a priviledge. Unclean, yes, but still a priveledge. Try going out of doors, and see what kind of audience ye get.
Turkey legs make a good meal, and a good weapon.
Always have a blade hidden somewhere
Gentlemen, Do not 'cleavage dive' on your first visit to the shire. And if ye do, do not go about taking pictures of it. Tis foolish. Like as not, the fruit has been in her sweaty cleavage all the day, anyhow, and will taste foul.
If the fyne gentleman at the sword-fighting area offers you a wee taste from his flask, TAKE IT! For the sword-fighters are known for their excellent brews!
Grammarcy for thy attention, mayhap we shall meet again.
Mistress Mayhem