And How Have You

been spending your free time this afternoon, Mrs. Kelley?

Well, I have been wasting an inordinate amount of time chasing these creatures away from my bird feeder by taking on the persona of one of these figures. My outfit for the afternoon actually comes close to the fashions posted here.
I do not like thee Mr. Jay.
Please fly away to someone else's feeder.
Your porcine manners enrage me.
Your rude and aggressive ways give me a pain, and
Your loud, obnoxious voice grates on my ears.
You truly may be one of God's little creatures, but so are flies, maggots and viruses.
Forgive me, but I have little use for you.

p.s. I think this is my 100th post and although it's filled with drivel, I thank each of you who come to visit. Your stopping by means a lot to me. Thanks and.....

Best!

Practice What You Want To Become

...and you will become that. Did I make up this axiom? Probably not, but I am going to "Practice Practicing" and see what happens. I will be training and conditioning myself in the Habits of Happy Housekeeping. Why, you ask? Because I am determined to become one of those people who find joy in organizing, who experience Zen-like states as they employ their sponges, brooms, dusters and toilet bowl brushes. I want to clap my little hands in glee when I look at the calm and peaceful surfaces that surround me. I hope to find inspiration and Nirvana. I want to experience Enlightenment in bathroom mirrors whose toothpaste freckles are a memory, in toilet seats that are not decorated in Newfoundland dog hair, in ceilings, nooks and lampshades that are bereft of spider webs, and in refrigerators that house no molding remembrances of last week's soup.
If I had wanted this to be easy, I would never have gotten married, or at the very most I would have married an anal man. I did not marry a perfectionist. I chose a lovely, relaxed man who supports all of my tactics and diversions that prevent me from being a paradigm of organization and neatness. I would have chosen to remain childless. I did not. Although my children are long gone from this house, their ghosts linger. I would have lived in the city with its paved streets, sidewalks and orderliness. Instead, I live in the country. There are no sidewalks, no paved driveways and citified order. I would have lived in a part of the country where there is no mud nine months of the year. I would not live where my family has to wear rain pants, boots and slickers while they work....and where those accouterments have a proper place. They would not be hanging at the end of the day on the railing by the wood stove. (In fact, I would not have that railing at all as it justs shouts, "Hang anything and everything on me! I want your wet socks, your jackets and rain pants. I can hold the dog blankets and wet laundry too!"
I am going to begin today. I shall put on my serene and dreamy countenance. I shall commence by gathering all of my equipment in an organized fashion. Perhaps we'll have a little group hug, my vacuum, sponge, Swiffer and me.
Oh, hold on a second. I seem to be experiencing a cold sensation in my feet. I am beginning to think this is all akin to a Do It Yourself Lobotomy. That could have dangerous consequences. I am going to leave you with this poem I love, and then I am going to rethink some of these utterances.

Cleaning House

There's something wicked that empowers poets cleaning their houses
Poetry loves a fresh floor, a spotless toilet, even under the rim.

There are a thousand ways to get grout white again.
A thousand ways to shine tile, to polish a sink new.

Poetry lives between the bristles of a used toothbrush,
Metaphors choke when the poet touches the feather duster:

poetry loves grime. It's tired of living like an old washcloth,
wiping away staleness like lime from a spigot.

The garbage must be dumped, the dog washed, books alphabetized.
Help me, whatever it is that makes poems.

Whatever divine synapse clicks invisibly like a dust mote
in the darkness, gathering word upon word,

balling phrases under the bed where only the broom's
eyelashes touch; help me whatever thing drives the scouring pad,

the dish cloth, the mop, each hand latex-gloved, dumb and callous,
the pen dormant in its shell, but clean. Sloth saves poets

the way the sea saves painters: each wave decorating a new landscape
to love, every handful of sand, original, capricious.

I know each coffee stain on the sofa is a stanza waiting to set in,
that glass-ring on the nightstand an unending orb waiting for its tenor.

I'll just tidy up a little while poetry dies inside my sponge.
I live here among the dog hair, the mildew, the rust.
Nikki Moustaki


(apologies to the author, I don't know how to fix the breaks in the lines where they should not appear.)

Best

The Impossibleness of I

This little letter I is causing me a bit of Indecision and Irritation. I am not Inspired. I'm going to go with some "I am's" and some "I am nots"..

I am not particularly Industrious

I am Interested in many things

I am Imaginative

I am Inventive

I am way too Introspective

I am an Idiot when it comes to math..just try to get me involved with numbers and I become Immobile and will go to great lengths to make myself Invisible.

I am somewhat of an Idealist

I am not Impulsive

I am sometimes Impatient

I am done now.


Best!

D=Daddy and The Dear Diary of a Demented Domestic Diva

I can't talk about Domesticity without mentioning some of my Daddy's Disastrous and Deviant Doings. (You may want to have a rest before you read this...it may be long and Dumb)
We used to have a refrigerator like this. It was a behemoth, weighed a ton and couldn't be budged. We lived in a huge old house, the kitchen was immense. My mother wanted the refrigerator moved from one side of the kitchen to the other side. She kept threatening to call a moving company to do so. One day when I was very little we all went somewhere, leaving Daddy to his own Devices. When we came home several hours later, the refrigerator stood exactly where my mother had wanted it. Nothing in it had been removed: the milk bottles were still in the same place, the leftovers undisturbed. My father had attached a pulley and rope to the frig, had gone out to the garage and found a big can of axle grease. He greased the floor and slid the refrigerator across with the rope and pulley. It worked like a charm, except for the fact that it took my mother several days to remove the axle grease.
On another occasion when left alone, my father decided that our yard needed some fertilizer. He had some chicken manure on hand and an old pump. He somehow reversed the motor on the pump and blew the manure all over the yard. This also worked brilliantly except for the fact that he had neglected to close all of the windows in the house. We arrived home to find manure in every nook and cranny and the not so Delicate scent of chicken manure wafting through the rooms.
Now being the Daughter of such a man, you can imagine that now and then, I can indulge in Doubtful and Dodgey Domestic habits.
I have been known to wash chard in my washing machine (no spin cycle) when I had picked so much of it to freeze. I was going nuts rinsing it off in the kitchen sink. The little light bulb went off above my head! Ta Da..it did work.
I've used my handy dandy shop vac to suck up all manner of dried vegetable matter that has been hiding in my refrigerator. That worked too!
I also shop vac one of my Newfoundland dogs. She loves it. That also works well.
This I do not recommend: the Drying of bread crumbs with your hair dryer. It's not a pretty sight when you're done.
I leave you with a poem that's really not about housecleaning, Domestic Doings or brooms, but it's lovely. Emily Dickinson wrote this:

She sweeps with many-colored Brooms--
And leaves the Shreds behind--
Oh Housewife in the Evening West--
Come back, and dust the Pond!

You dropped the Purple Ravelling in--
You dropped the Amber thread--
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of Emerald!

And still, she plies her spotted Brooms,
And still the Aprons fly,
Till Brooms fade softly into stars-
And then I come away--

Best!

Post Op Report

You may be interested in the fate of Coats and Clark All Purpose, Dual Duty Art.210 XC 161. Surgery was performed at 10:15 a.m. PST. The patient has survived, although she is still in recovery. No anesthetic was administered (note vituperative attitude of Surgeon) and, other than a hand washing, no antibiotics were employed. The Surgeon did note a bit of discomfort on the part of the patient when the initial cut was made, also when sanding devices were utilized, but this is not the Good Samaritan of Sewing Hospital, nor is it Our Lady of Perpetual Concern when it comes to recalcitrant, mean spirited spools. You reap what you sew here, and since the Surgeon in charge could not sew, a large reap (weep for her if you wish) was called for. Coats and Clark is now in ICU (oh, look, someone sent her flowers!) and it is hoped that her time there will be spent in quiet contemplation and in a determined state of atonement.
Note to any reader: Did you realize that emery boards come with a warning label.."Keep Out of Reach of Children". Now honestly, I raised two children and never felt the need to keep my emery boards locked away in a cupboard. Call me irresponsible, call me unfit, call Children's Services...I ask, what is it about an emery board that posts a problem? I did try to cut myself with one, slit my throat, injure the dogs, but nothing happened. Perhaps if I take two out into the sunshine and rub them together I'll be able to start a fire.

Best!

A Short Note

Dear Coats and Clark....specifically All Purpose, Dual Duty, ART.210 XC 161,
May I take this opportunity to tell you to what extent you have ruined my afternoon of sewing. I would prefer to swear here with gusto and conviction, but I have all ready done that, right before I turned off the machine, the lights, closed the door and stomped down the hallway in a proverbial huff!
I was blaming my poor innocent sewing machine and my stupidity, only to realize that after six attempts to fill the bobbin, and one attempt at a long seam, that it is entirely your fault. If this were winter, I would throw you in the wood stove in an instant, and with great glee. You are brand new, pregnant with thread, but refuse to cooperate because: that damned doohicky notch on you catches the thread every time. I have tried to "sand" that slot down with a finger nail file. It hasn't worked. I hate that groove anyway. It takes an act of God to find it in the first place, and then another miracle to release the end of the thread from said groove.
The obvious solution would be to turn you around so that the slot is on the opposite side of the thread as it's released...but that doesn't work on my machine. It has to feed one way and one way only. I am unsure at this point what awaits you, but at this juncture, it feels as if you may be facing a violent death...and one which I may prolong, just to torture you as much as I possibly can.
I am going to play in the sprinkler. Don't you dare move from that spot, don't even think about it for an instant. You are in Time Out!
No sincerely, no love, no solicitations,
Ellen

Adieu, Adieu

Say farewell to Miss Mousie for a short while. She's off to perform in the famous opera, Die Fledermouse by Johann Strauss. You may not be aware that she is a girl of many talents. As well as being an accomplished stitcher and bowler, she has had quite a career in opera. She truly is an accomplished Diva and I hate to add, a very petulant and demanding one at that. Miss Mousie has had her panties in a twist for days over this latest engagement. She hates to leave home, that's part of it, but if truth be told, it's really because she has to give up her bowling shoes. They simply refuse to let her wear them during her performances. It's been an uphill battle! She is off, despite dramatic protestations, and won't return until early fall.
I am not privy to her exact schedule, but I know that she and "company" will be performing in Milan, Mannheim, Moscow, Melbourne, Manila, Miami and Milwaukee. Apparently they are hitting all of the M's this season.
I did receive a brief call from her this morning. She was taking a short break from a long and frustrating rehearsal of the scene in which she is required to swoon. In this part of Die Fledermouse, Alfred sings to her and as he hits a high A, her character, Rosalinde, melts upon hearing this. The problem for Miss Mousie as Rosalinde, is not that she can't perform this "melt", it's that she melts too soon. Miss M. declared in a disgusted whisper on the phone, "It's his breath! He eats too much Limburger Cheese, his teeth are yellow and he sweats! He would stop a wharf rat in its tracks!" Oh, my.
Well, I am off to restock the larder with peas. Miss M. will have a month or so of rest in the fall when she returns.....just long enough to recoup and get ready for the winter rehearsals of the Mice Capades.

Best!

Computer Housekeeping

I realized this morning that I hadn't deleted the Spam from my computer in about a week.It's a good thing I checked. If I had waited much longer poor Chance would probably have asphyxiated within twenty four hours. I don't understand how all these people have so much time on their hands. Surely, there are more pressing issues than taking care of me. I guess that they are just concerned about my well being and want to make sure that, should I require anything, should I want anything, they are right here, Johnny on the Spot to help me out.
I didn't open up any of my messages. It would have taken me way too long and, after all, I do have things that need to be done. I did a quick scan of all 548 of them, and let me tell you, some of those messages have me a little concerned. For instance, there appears to be an abundance, and I mean a staggering abundance, of young women who are either tired or bored. They all admit to being twenty five. I am truly worried about the women of our country who are twenty five. Is there something going on here that I don't know about? It must be a virus, but then why is it attacking only twenty five year old women? I wonder if the CDC knows about this? I would count this as a national crisis. To be that tired and/or bored at twenty five is a mystery to me. Think about it for a minute. You go to bed the night before your twenty fifth birthday. At twenty four you are fully functional. You wake up on your birthday morning and are a completely different person...for an entire year you are dragged down with exhaustion and ennui. Poor souls!
I have also received many, many messages about getting the size I've always wanted, mega sizing my unit, and getting a bigger instrument. You know, my kids are gone and our house is quite big enough for the two of us. I'd love a bigger piano, but the instrument that I have now hardly fits in our tiny living room. As far as obtaining a bigger flute, I don't even play the recorder I have, and aren't flutes supposed to be tiny? Further more, what is it that is supposed to help you grown four inches in six months? Have they considered the ramifications? That would be eight inches in one year alone. By my calculations, I'd be well over six feet tall before I could say, "Jack Robinson!" I'd have to keep buying new clothes. I'd have to duck to get through doorways. I wouldn't fit on a plane....and besides all of that, I've exceeded the age to try out for the NBA.
One final comment and this is my only criticism. I also received a message from an educational institution offering degrees without the necessity of taking exams or studying. I find that downright unconscionable. In my day a person was required to study and to work hard for a degree. I don't like the tone of that message. I'm concerned as well that this institution offers Dlpomas. For heaven's sake, would you enroll in a school that offered one of those?

p.s. to the twenty five year old women...try some crafting, quilting, sewing, knitting. Create a blog...all of this will help with your boredom and will relieve stress that causes your exhaustion. My final word of advice is to change your name. What in the world were your parents thinking when they named their daughters Deon Bullock, Peter Pecker, Hardy Plank, Ben Dover or Rooster Peckher?? Change your names. Much of your problem may be related to the underlying anger you carry because of the names bestowed upon you. Anger leads to depression and depression leads to feelings of helplessness and fatigue. I do hope you take these suggestions to heart. Try them, but don't bother to write me in the morning.

Best!

Yipee!

Out of thirty nine throws, only thirty six were gutter peas. I'm improving! I just know I'll do better next time. I'm thinking hockey may be in my future, as soon as I perfect my bowling skills. I'm thinking split peas will do the trick.

A Curious Find

This little "Find", as I call it, occurred just a few minutes ago. This will not make blogging history, nor will it be noted by any as interesting, intriguing, or noteworthy. But I am filled with curiosity, laughter and a sense of wonder. Wonder as in, "I wonder where this little snippet came from?"
I just opened up one of my favorite books and there inside the front cover was a little note I'd scribbled. The note includes a rude drawing of a mouse. The note says, and I quote, "bowling with peas, stealing from the larder". That's it..totally.
I have even googled the words and haven't come up with anything. I just love that phrase so much...it provides me with such amusement and I can see that mouse so clearly in my head. I can hear those little peas hitting the pins!
I know, I ride the little yellow bus, I have Velcro fasteners on my shoes because tying a bow is above me. "Small things amuse small minds." You may all call me Simple. I don't mind. These little discoveries bring me glee!
I'm off to find my high performance shoes, the Brunswick peas and my team shirt. I'll be lobbing those peas in the larder tonight and having a heck of a time!

Life Stages As Food

If you read my blog, you will know that my mind (convoluted and wandering) often takes me to very strange places. I need to say this up front so that you will be able to get a clue as to how I end up where I end up (that's certainly clearly stated, Ellen).
The other morning after my shower, I was applying a little blush, just a touch, because at sixty five one certainly has to be careful and tasteful with one's makeup. I thought to myself, "I believe I've heard that you are to apply blush to the Apples of your Cheeks."
I leaned closer to the mirror and tried to find the Apples of my Cheeks. For the life of me, I couldn't locate them. I believe that they simply dropped, faded or just left town when I wasn't looking. That led me to ruminating on the stages of my life and how they might be described as, or compared to food. I'm pretty sure that the following come close to representing my journey.

In Utero: Toad in a Hole

Infant/Babyhood: Bubble and Squeak, Flummery

Early Childhood: Peach Crisp, Jelly Tot, or Snickerdoodle

Adolescence/Early Adulthood: This stage escapes me. I would have liked to have been a Bombe, but alas, I didn't have the equipment.

Adulthood/Middle Aged: I've been a Nut Bar, a Fool, now and then a Crab Apple, On rare occasions, Stewed, Toasted or Deviled. When pregnant, I've been a Pudding and a Jelly Roll.

Mature Adult (euphemism for old): Again I'm not sure, but I suspect that one of these mornings when I'm leaning close to the mirror I'll realize that I've become an Apple Pan Dowdy, a Crumble, or God forbid, a prune.

(thank goodness that I have been the wrong gender to become a Spotted Dick!)

Best!

Well, For Goodness Sake!

In my effort to improve myself and to pay more than lip service to My Good Intentions, (see entry The Road to Hell), I neglected to make a notation about my bad language. I do tend to swear...a lot. Of course, I only do this in the comfort of my own home. When in public I swear with reckless abandon, but solely in my head. I know there are those who believe that thoughts are actually as bad as deeds. I am not sure, but I will err on the side of caution and declare that my "mental" cussing has got to stop as well. I have to say a large thank you to the good angel who now and then visits that I never once, in all my years of teaching, swore out loud. Now this doesn't mean that I didn't want to scream obscenities at times, but praise be, it never happened. It's a damned (oops!) miracle.
I believe that if you give up a habit you will need to find another to replace that which you are abandoning. Of course the new habit needs to be a good one. My job is to identify new and acceptable words to use in the place of the often four letter, monosyllabic motes I throw out when vexed. I've come up with a few that I am going to practice using. Wish me luck. Somehow they just don't seem to have the same impact and verve of my old standbys, but that's probably because they are new and foreign to me. I'll be more comfortable with them in a few weeks. Practice makes perfect!
Based on past disasters, I present alternatives to my usual expletives.

"Oh, for mercy sake! I just lacerated my knuckles on the grater and there's blood in the cabbage."

"Well, my stars, would you look at that? Silly me! I stepped in a dog turd and managed to get it in the carpet. I'll just clean that up in a jiff!"

"I know I bought blueberries and cantaloupe, but they're not here with everything else. Gee whiz, I'll just hop in the car and go back to the grocery store. It'll only take fifty five minutes out of my afternoon."

"Heavens to Betsy! I didn't notice that little tear in the vacuum cleaner bag. Land 'o Goshen, that dust and dog hair sure can fly all over."

"Oh, pshaw, I don't mind typing my blog entry all over again for the fourth time."

"Well, I declare, if that old dryer isn't eating our clothes again."

"Oops. Wow, that hurts. I guess I shouldn't have tried to step over the electric fence. For pity sakes! That's a real crotch zapper!"

"Goodness gracious! I've been on hold for thirty five minutes. Mercy me, I just can't seem to connect with a real human being."

"Well, I swan! I didn't see that plastic wrap on the ham when I put it in the oven."


Best!

An SOS to HRH

Hey you, Prince Charming, where in the Sam Hill are you? I've been waiting, but honestly, I can't wait much longer. I don't have a hundred years to give to sleep. What's with you anyway? Just because I live in the middle of a nursery doesn't mean that people actually "Keep the Grounds" or "Keep the Hounds at Bay." Are you just too busy with your allemandes, courtly picnics, lawn bowling and general frou-frou nonsense? What's up with this ignoring me? You know the plan. You're supposed to ride up on your white horse and save me. Get off your royal bum and fulfill your purpose. Pull up your hose, throw on that cape and get a move on. If you're too lazy or otherwise occupied, at least send the Palace Guard. Make sure they are armed with sacateurs, machetes, blow torches and Round Up. A backhoe would be a nice touch. I'm not exaggerating, these blackberries are deadly serious. They are not timid creatures. You know that along with flies, cockroaches and certain unmentionable diseases they will inherit the earth. I just don't want it to be my little patch of earth. I'm trying to be patient, but honestly I'm desperate. I give them two weeks and they'll be strangling the life out of me.
Your truly,
Briar Rose.

If the Road to Hell

is paved with good intentions, then I'll be there in record time. My road is no super highway with interchanges, clover leafs (leaves?), on-ramps and definitely no off-ramps. There are no potholes, no caution signs, no curves and no stop lights. It is Green to Go all the way. My road's straight as an arrow. It lacks rest stops, school crossings, zebra crossings and round abouts. There are no scenic byways, no signs indicating points of interest or historic places, no battlefields, or commemorative plaques. No one has left one bit of history along my road. Famous generals, explorers or pilgrims have never been within shouting distance. No bridges exist and certainly no warning signs for moose, elk, deer or the occasional duck or armadillo x-ing. There is nothing sentimental about my road. It's no Route 66. There are no kicks. It's all business.
I present an abbreviated notation of my Good Intentions:

Hunt down all of my magazines, organize them or donate them to the library
Do some harvesting in the frig.
Re-wash the load of clothes I left in the washer two days ago
Organize my work room (oh, that'll take about a week)
Hide my husband's beer cans that are taking over the carport
Put some of my books in the bookshelf (now there's a new concept)
Make the bed before 4:00p.m.
Wipe the dog hair off of the toilet seats
Actually employ the Swiffer Duster
Take the pile of new fabric off of the piano bench and put it somewhere (?)
Find the vacuum cleaner

Should you at any time, on any given day, hear the break of the sound barrier or suddenly feel all of the oxygen being sucked out of the air around you, do not be alarmed. Try to stay calm and know that before you can even wave, it's merely me at Mach speed, all Hypersonic,tearing ass down my Road to Hell.
Best!

It's Too Late to Close the Barn Door

.....the horse has already escaped!
That's what I thought about this morning after I took my shower and was putting on my lotion. I finally noticed that this lotion claims to have anti-aging properties. Who could tell? I examined another product that promotes itself as Age Defying...promising to reduce fine lines, to rejuvenate tired skin. I realized why these wonderful products have no relevance or use in my personal skin care regime. It's too darned late! You can't prevent what's already happened.
That led me to the greatest epiphany I've experienced in a long time...The understanding finally, as to why I never developed much more than a weeny set of breasts. I'll let you in on my discovery: It's because I never had a training bra! If you don't train something, how can you ever expect it to grow and bloom, or to reach its full potential. It was a forehead slapping moment of discovery! And that's why I say it's too late to close the barn door!
Best.

A CHANCE for Chance

Last weekend I sent Chance off with fingers crossed. You ask (or may not ask, or be interested) "Who is Chance?"
Chance is my computer...the guy I have a love/hate/I'm intimidated relationship with. Chance had been behaving badly. He was exhibiting episodes of unwellness. Chance was disappearing when I needed him. He was clearly "unwell." Chance was experiencing spasmodic occurrences
of fainting, dropsy, miasma...and just plain uncooperativeness. Our inability to work together, which at best is tenuous, was becoming untenable.
I promised him that I would send him to someplace pleasant, a spot where he would be tenderly taken care of, a sort of Computer Spa. I promised that he would experience healing touch, that he would have a space and place to unwind, that any free radicals, metabolism imbalances, and/or cardio problems would be addressed.
I also promised that there would be no:

1. juice fasting
2. seaweed or mud packs
3. seated meditation
4. Pilates
5. exfoliation
6. Asanas
7. enemas or colonics
8. chanting or group hugs

Chance came back...no complaints. He seems to have enjoyed his respite. He has been cooperative, energetic and healthy. I am so glad to have him back whole and well. I hope that he knows how much I appreciate his help.


p.s. this morning when I came in to say good morning to Chance I found a little note from him:
I've scheduled your appointment at The Affiliation of Computers Who Are Owned by Bungling Idiots Who Try to Do Things Online.