Grumbly-Mumbly

Man, I'm tired. Why is the night before I have to get up early the night when nothing will let me sleep? It wasn't that I couldn't sleep, because I had no trouble falling into it. It's all the noises that got to me, waking me up after 10 or 15 minutes. Well, and the damned cat. I seriously wanted to stick my foot up her arse.

I'm at Ville's today. She's still asleep and I'm working on my second big-ass bullet of coffee (see profile pic in the sidebar). I'm also sitting in her big-assed chair-chaise thingy because it appears that she's spending her days on the sofa now.

That's it. I don't have the energy for any more than that.

Minor Irritations

Minor Irritation #1:
Have you ever wondered why microwave ovens, range hood lights and coffeemakers have to "beep" with every button-push? What does it accomplish? Is there any rational explanation for putting that feature on every button in the kitchen? Setting the clocks is especially irritating because every press of the button is accompanied by that constant beep-beep-beep-beep. Why is it there? I KNOW that I'm setting the clock, damn it -- does everyone in the house need to know? The same applies to setting the microwave timer, taking the hood fan through its different settings, setting the oven temperature and timer, and turning the hood light to medium, high and off. Why? What purpose does it serve?

Minor Irritation #2:
I'm walking through the aisles of the supermarket and I need to get laundry stuff. "Mountain Rain". "Spring Meadow". "Tropical Passion". I just want to wash my freakin' clothes, I don't want to smell like some chemical analyst's pseudo-nature fragrance. And why do I have to pay more money for detergent that has no chemical perfumes? Isn't that paying for something they DIDN'T include in the mix? I'm paying more for less! Then there's the fabric softeners, not to mention deodorant, shampoo, soap, room freshener... how do plain old natural scents stand a chance against these competing smells? Instead of "Apple Pie Fragrance", just freakin' by a Sarah Lee and stick it in the oven! At least you get something good to eat out of it.

During last week's grocery excursion, Micah and I mused on this and started coming up alternate labels:

New Gain South Sea Sailor Scent!

Glade Mountain Moose Pie Frangrance!

Dial Man Cave Aroma!

Why does everything have to smell like something else? Why can't soap smell like soap? I use Ivory because I have sensitive skin that reacts badly with chemical perfumes and, personally, I like the clean smell of good old-fashioned soap and water. The only scent I really like in the case of personal products is Crabtree & Evelyn's Goat Milk soap, but it's kind of expensive for family use. In my single days, I bought it as well as the shampoo, which they no longer make, but even then I ran the risk of smelling like a Swiss milkmaid, I guess.

Armchair Circumnavigator: Remote Places

Here's your mission, should you decide to accept it:

You have elected to spend one year in a remote place of your choosing. The only condition is that you will be alone. The only time you'll have contact with someone will be when supplies are delivered once a month. You can have a computer, but there is no internet connection. There is no TV. If you choose the last remote location (see below), you will have all the human contact you want, but only with the people in your "neighborhood". Here are your options. Which one do you choose, and why?

Station in Antarctica

Satellite in orbit

Fire outlook in the mountains

Tent in Death Valley

Beach hut on a volcanic island

Third world shanty

The Secrets of Aging

Judging from some blog entries this week, a couple of other people (here and here) have getting old on their minds. I can empathize. Getting old is no fun until you learn the secret, which I'm going to reveal in the course of this entry.

I spent the better part--no, all--of the past ten years obsessed with figuring out out how I might escape this thing called age. Guess what I came up with... I can't. The truth is, we're aging from the moment we're conceived--that's not news--but I think the fear of aging isn't about age, exactly, but a fear of becoming obsolete and of not accomplishing the dreams and goals we set for ourselves when we were young. But let's face it, dreams don't always come true and while we're wallowing in regret, we're not accomplishing anything!

We live in a society that denegrates and maligns age, which doesn't help. After (hopefully) overcoming the need to be popular and liked when we're kids, we're later forced into becoming invisible and reviled after only a few short years of feeling like we've "arrived". Who can look forward to that, especially in a society where being old is associated with being useless, invalid, and a load on family and community? Added to this are the glorified images of youth as the only way to be beautiful, active, productive, or sexy--in short, the ideal example of humanity. Not that those qualities aren't good, they just present a one-deminsional picture of us as a species. Personally, I'd never go back to my teens or twenties. Emotionally, those were difficult years as I struggled to understand myself and my purpose in life.

"A woman my age is not supposed to be attractive or sexually appealing.

I just get kinda tired of that."

Kathleen Turner

She's right. After the biological imperative to procreate faded, it was a great relief to me not to constantly be hounded by the need to be attractive. I'm not saying that we should let ourselves go, I mean that the instinctual drive to be attractive is a huge burden and I'm glad that stage of life is over.

Billions of dollars are poured into the pockets of manufacturers and surgeons who want us to believe that we can win the battle against aging, which sends the message that aging is something to be avoided at all costs. What if we had been taught that we get better as we get older, that we will learn more about ourselves and life, and that the second half of life provides us with opportunities to really come into ourselves and to accomplish the goals that were postponed by raising a family? What if age was something we were taught to look forward to? What if our elderly were valued and their experience was considered vital information?

Earlier, I Googled "getting old" and I found a link that stated, "I don't want to get old and boring." Why does one automatically include the other? I've encountered plenty of boring young people. What the young woman should have said was, "I don't want to stay young and boring" because I suspect that those people who are boring when they're old were probably boring when they were young. If all we do when we're young is sit in front of the TV, how can we expect to become suddenly vital when we're older?

And that's part of the secret:

Prepare for old age today by living the way you want to live later on.

Another part is realizing that covering our eyes and ears and shouting, "La-la-la-la!" isn't going to make aging go away. It's coming. Face it. The Golden Rule is key in accepting the inevitable. If you treat the elderly with disdain, how on earth can you demand to be treated well when it's your turn? So another element of the secret is:

Do unto others.

Simple, huh? But I'm not talking about karma and payback here, I'm talking about planting attitude seeds. If you harbor loathing and fear, you're only saving that up so that you can turn it on yourself later. You have to learn that you are what you think and that feelings of disrespect and hatred don't hurt the one you're focusing on, it hurts you. Try a little kindness, try patience and curiosity. Talk to people who are older. Realize that they might be able to give you some pointers about facing the fact that you are aging that will be valuable to you later on. So the next part is:

Conquer your fear and look aging in the face.

Grow up. It happens, and it will happen to you, regardless of anything you might try or buy. Cosmetic surgery only addresses the outer appearance; your body will still get old and you will one day die. There's nothing you can do about it, and that brings me to the most important part of getting over the fear of aging:

Embrace life in all its fullness. Yes, even death.

Celebrate the phases of life, make the most out of each one and never, never lose your sense of humor. Age spots are just age spots, they're not spots on your soul and they don't represent your failure to stay young, beautiful and sexy. Gray hair is just gray hair and wrinkles are just wrinkles. Yesterday, The Pink Cowboy wrote:

"I hope I get lots of wrinkles. Seriously. You see, I love maps and I would like to wear one in my face. Imagine a continent full of bays and peninsulas drawn in your forehead. Just gorgeous."

I remember when I was in my teens and twenties, I thought that when I got old I'd somehow be someone else, that the person looking out from my eyes wouldn't be me. Seeing myself as an old person seemed foreign and disconnected from who I was, which is as it should be. When we're young we're not really supposed to be thinking about old age. That usually comes along as we near the 40 year mark. Now that I'm nearly 60, I realize that it's still just me. I've grown and deepened, but I'm still the girl who sat on her bedroom floor playing Beatle songs on her guitar (although getting up from the floor is getting progressively harder to do). In retrospect, I see that I had nothing to worry about and that the me that I am today is an just improved version of what I was when I was young. Improved version.

Many years ago I learned that the best antidote to depression is to help someone else, to get one's mind off of oneself. Likewise, the best antidote to aging is the same: stop indulging negativity. Of course, we have to express our fears and sorrows--I'm not advocating supressing these things--but too many people get stuck there and they waste precious time fearing that which they cannnot change. And this brings me to the Secret Of Life:

There are only two emotions.

Let me repeat that:

THERE ARE ONLY TWO EMOTIONS.

Fear

and

Love

All other emotions are merely symptoms of those two. Anger is a symptom of fear, worry is a symptom of fear, futility is a symptom of fear. Patience is a symptom of love, respect is a symptom of love, humor is a symptom of love. How we regard aging reveals precisely what emotion we're functioning from in regard to ourself. Do we love ourself, or are we in fear of ourself? Do we love life, or do we fear it? We are what we think and what we think about aging is the reality we're creating for our future.

Lastly, have role models. Most of us have role models when we're young, but why can't we have some when we're older? I've always admired Katharine Hepburn and Jessica Tandy, and when I was in my thirties I used to say, "When I'm old, I want to be a salty broad like Ruth Gordon." Although that's not my personality type, I think it's still a worthy aspiration. Yeah, I'm kind of a Maude type (as in Harold and Maude).

So what, really, is the secret of aging? Love. Love for oneself, mainly. That will cover more than any concealer or makeup ever can.

I'm NOT Going Extinct!

I have naturally red hair. In the wide spectrum of color that is red hair, mine in now a light auburn. I say now, because red hair changes its shade throughout the course of a lifetime. When I was a child, it was fiery orange-blonde, then it changed to just light orange, then dark strawberry, and now it has darkened to what it is.

This is to be expected. Our red hair color changes through the years and we don't turn gray. It turns sandy and then white. We also lose our red later in life than people with other hair colors, which is fine with me. I look forward to having white hair. I think I'll grow it out and have it styled like some cool Amadeus wig, which might look weird on an old fart, but hey, why not? When you're that age, it's not about being sexy any more. The biological imperative is over and you can relax and be what you want.

I've never colored my hair, except that one time that in the 80s when my hairdresser asked me to model at a hair show in LA. She put an Annie Lennox orange cellophane on me and I hated it. Fortunately, it faded quickly. Oh yeah, and there was that one summer when I was stupid enough to use the Summer Blonde spray shit. That was awful. In my gardening ball cap and sunglasses, I was often mistaken for Penny Marshall.

While Googling red hair, I came up with a few interesting facts and myths about those of us who were born with it:

No matter how rare natural red hair is, and how beautiful it can be too, men and women who possess this hair color have often been ridiculed down through the ages.

This is true. I blame most of the abuse I received from other kids on my hair. I was called every name in the book that pertains to red hair: "Carrot Top", "Freckle Face", "Tampon Head", "Rusty", "Pinky", "Witch", "Red" ... and more.

When redheaded Queen Elizabeth I reigned over England in the late 1590s, poet Edmund Spenser wrote "The Faerie Queene" in honor of her. After that, the Southwestern English began to believe in fairies. However, they were depicted as being malevolent. As a result, fairies were said to have red hair.

It didn't help that I was petite and pixie-like in appearance, either. One of the good things that came out of it though, was that I snagged the role of Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream in high school.

In early Germany, natural red hair was considered to be a sure sign that a woman was a witch. The Greeks believed that redheads became vampires when they died and, according to a Russian adage, "There was never a saint with red hair". Red hair has long been associated with flaming tempers, peculiarity, and promiscuity.

As someone who is a little more laid-back, some of this was hard to take. Some guy was always trying to pick me up, using lines about my red hair. YAWN! And my temper? It has always taken a lot to get it worked up; seldom have I ever just flared up into a seething fit without good warning.

Natural redheads generally have less hair on their heads than blondes or brunettes. Adult blondes have approximately 140,000 hairs, brunettes have 110,000, and redheads only grow about 90,000 hairs on their heads.

Yeah, but what I had was really, really thick. I say "was" because it has gotten considerably thinner with the Hashimoto's disease. I hope it comes back, now that I'm in remission.

The first human redheads walked this earth about 50,000 years ago in Africa and then spread throughout Northern Europe.

And I'll bet we were the outcasts then, too. One thing that few people know about is the bigotry redheads face. Here are a few facts:

The Egyptians regarded the color as so unlucky that they had a ceremony in which they burned redheaded girls alive to wipe out the color.

Why only girls?

An Irish judge in 2001 fined a man for disorderly conduct stating “I am a firm believer that hair coloring has an effect on temper and your coloring suggests you have a temper.”

Dumb ass.

Red haired children have been historically branded as offspring of “unclean” sex.

Right...

In Corsica, if you pass a redhead in the street, you are to spit and turn around.

I'll remember never to visit Corsica.

During the Spanish Inquisition red hair was evidence that its owner had stolen the fire of hell and had to be burned as a witch.

They were all women, of course. But here are a couple of good things I didn't know:

In Denmark it is an honor to have a redheaded child.

Then why did all those Danish kids in Solvang make my life such a living hell all those years?

In Poland, if you pass three redheads you'll win the state lottery.

Does that mean in the hall mirror as well? If so, I'm moving to Poland. On a so-so note:

Studies have shown that people with red hair are more sensitive to pain and may require higher doses of pain medication than do their dark and blonde haired counterparts.

This is true. Please pass the Demerol.

A report of redhead extinction has gone around the internet, most recently in 2005, with articles citing the Oxford Hair Foundation as a source. These articles work on the mistaken assumption that recessive genes -- like the one for red hair -- can die out. In truth, recessive genes can become rare, but they don't disappear entirely, unless everyone carrying that gene dies, or fails to reproduce. So while red hair may remain rare, enough of us carry the gene that, barring global catastrophe, we should be around for some time.

All-in-all, just as my mother said I would, I've grown to appreciate my hair color. It makes me different, and what might have been otherwise ordinary looks were made "striking" because of my hair color. I'm always amused at people who try every means in the hair dye arsenal to get a natural look. It will never happen because being a natural redhead isn't just about hair color. It's also about skin tone, eye color, eyebrow and eyelash color, and most of all, attitude! You can't get that in a bottle.

At Ville's Today

I'm now at Ville's house, only about three miles from home. She's still asleep and I'm on the couch in the living room. Before he left for work, Beau told me that Ville usually comes out here when she wakes up.

Wow! Last night we had a series of nasty thunderstorms roll through. At one point the wind was so fierce that it woke us up and I turned on the news to make sure we weren't in the midst of a tornado. In my semi-comatose state, it didn't occur to me that the sirens weren't sounding. Earlier, the hail was so loud that it sounded like boulders were falling from the sky. We survived though, and today it's sunny and the birds are singing. Go figure.

As I did last Friday, if I have any new observations or ideas today, I'll add them to this entry.

11:58 am: I finally got Ville to sit the fook down. From the moment she got out of bed to just now (about 1.5 hours), she has been walking around, pacing, showering, walking--she's basically restless. Ville is a Gemini, you see, and isn't one for sitting around. She's finally in her big-ass chaise-chair thingy, playing on her Nintendo DS. For how long, I don't know. I'll be making her lunch in about an hour, so if I can keep her down that long, it'll be a feat!

2:31 pm: Here's Ville in her big-ass chaise-chair thingy. (Click pix to embiggify)









An accidental photo.









Buddy, the best cat in the world. His nickname is Bud Face, but I call him Butt Face.







Nettl stopped by, bringing Mickey-D!

Tomorrow's Gameplan

Tomorrow I will be at Ville's. Nettl will drop me off on her way to work and pick me up on her way home. I'm looking forward to spending the day over there; of course, I'll take my laptop. I would expect more of "the weirds", if I were you. It's what we do best. What are those things in the picture, anyway? Boxes of wine?

Tagged

Six unimportant things about me, as requested by Little P. Bear with me, I'm not really awake yet (I don't know why I'm sleeping so hard and so long, lately -- not that I'm complaining, understand), and I haven't had my coffee.

But first, the rules:

1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Include the rules.
3) List 6 things or habits of no real importance about yourself.


1. When I was a baby, I teethed on green onions (scallions). My mother told me I loved them. I still love them. Hot and sour soup isn't complete without them.

2. I have small feet. Until about 2001, I wore a size 5 with an AAAA width. Now I wear a 6.5, with an AA width. I ginherited my feet from my Irish Grandmother who, at 4'9" tall and 95 lbs., wore a size 3. I swear she was of the Faery folk.

3. Have I ever mentioned that I hate wind... Well, as much as I hate wind, I love rain or snow. I love weather that other people think of as depressing, unless I've planned a back yard party or a picnic! I especially love thunder storms, as long as we're not in a tornado watch!

4. I lived in Brighton, England for a while in the late 70s and I loved it. I miss my old pub, the Newmarket Arms, and walking everywhere. I loved it there. Wish I could locate my old friend, Liz.

5. I really enjoy accounting and I keep meticulous records of my clients' accounts in Quick Books. I love setting up sales journals and GL codes... all that. Must come from the 20 years I spent in the accounting departments of various companies and corporations. I hated the corporate world, but I loved my work.

6. When I compose, I don't use a computer until the piece is done and I want to convert it to midi so that I can hear it. I prefer to sit at the piano with all of my Black Wing pencils and Marvy felt tip pens, rulers, and manuscript. I enjoy the craft of writing all of those notes and stems. I don't like scoring the paper, though. I wish I had someone to do it for me, but I like the pages to look uniform, entirely in my own hand.

If you want to use this on your blog, feel free!

What a Night!

Last Night I dreamed that I was on stage with Art Garfunkel. We started our concert with "April, Come She Will" and it was incredible listening to our two voices harmonize with each other. I'll never forget it.

I must remember to eat BBQ potato chips before going to bed more often...

P.S. Has anyone seen John Denver? I'd like to sing with him next.

Saturday Rituals

I claim the right to have my coffee in bed on Saturday morning. This is an indulgence I look forward to all week. Sure, I could do this every morning of my life if I wanted to, but I reserve it for days when it's too cold to get out of bed immediately upon waking and for Saturday. Today it's both and until I warm up and wake up, here is where I stay.

Have a good Saturday!

DeVille is Ill

In a few hours Ville will be undergoing major surgery. I'll be at the hospital all morning and possibly through most of the afternoon. If the place is set up for wifi, I'll be online at least part of the time. Because she's like a kid sister to me, I just have to be there. Otherwise, I'll just sit here biting my nails and waiting for her husband to call me.

8:34 am: Lynette and I went through the Starbucks drive-thru on the way to her office and now here I am at the hospital. Beau (Ville's husband) called before I left the house to say that she's in surgery now and that he had an errand to run. He'll be here soon. Meanwhile, I'll be doing my thing online, just as I do at home. Between the coffee at home and the cappuccino grande, I should be buzzing right along soon.

9:39 am: Beau got here about thirty minutes ago and sat in the chair across from me (I'm by the wall outlet). He's on his laptop, too. Nothing happening; people talking, news on the TV, sun's trying to come out. I did some work for a client and am waiting to hear back from him before I can do any more. Meantime, we wait. That's why they call it a waiting room. If it were moving, we'd be on a jet. I told the nurse that I'm Ville's sister. Like we look anything alike! LOL.

That reminds me of a night many years ago in California, when Ville and I went into a bar for some beers. After a little while, two dudes came over and tried to pick us up, asking if we were related. We said that we were sisters, with different fathers. The other dude said, "I really see the family resemblance," and Ville laughed, "You're so full of crap! We look nothing alike!"

Ville can get away with that kind of thing and get a laugh out of her "victim". I'd just be called a bitch if I tried it. Not that I would.

9:55 am: I just wrote a limerick:

There once was a girl named Ville,
Who suddenly got very ill;
She went to the doc,
Who gave her a smock,
Saying, "Bend over and I'll give you the bill."

10:00 am: Just heard word. Everything's going well!

10:50 am: Beau just spoke with the doctor. Ville's out of surgery and is doing well. Beau showed me a photo of Ville's guts (I love surgical things). That fibroid she had was the size of a football--no exaggeration! Ville will be very proud of the photo, she loves things like that. The doctor said we won't be able to see her for 45 minutes to an hour. Nettl and I are meeting for lunch at noon and Beau wants to go home and nap after Ville's in her room, so after lunch, I'll come back here and sit with her while she sleeps. Poor Beau's been popping Rolaids; now he's making the phone calls to family members.

11:12 am: Of course, there's a "she-who-will-not-stop-talking" here. I swear, she hasn't inserted a comma or a period in her monologue for the past hour and a half. And of course, she's the loudest person in the room.

1:30 pm: I'm now in Ville's room (#310). Beau left and I'm standing--or sitting--vigil. I just read all of your comments to her and she was really happy that you are thinking of her. When I first got here I had to sit on the "potty chair" in the corner, but now I'm in the hospital version of a Laz-E-Boy (you know the ones). She's really very alert, for someone who's on morphine...

Nettl and I went to Panera, where we had French onion soup and a baguette.

Looks like Ville will be here until Sunday afternoon. She's complaining about all of the tubes and monitors, and says she feels like a Borg. Yeah, she's just fine.

Flashing a peace sign

Me: "Eat your Jell-o, Ville."
Ville: "What flavor is it?"
Me: "Red."

5:51 pm: Okay, I'm home now and about to go down to the kitchen to make dinner. Then I'm taking a siesta. It was good to see Ville feeling so well. I'll say one thing about her: she's not a baby!

Have a good night, oh Villacious One, and get
some sleep (if those nurses will let you!).
Heather and I will see you tomorrow afternoon.
P.S. If there's anything you want me to bring
you, let me know.

I Took a Walk Today!

While that might not sound like a big deal, it was out of the ordinary for me.

I realized that if I have to spend any time at all getting ready to go out for a walk, I won't. I don't want to have to make sure my hair is right, or that I'm wearing the right clothes for walking, or that I'm garbed up with all the walking entertainment paraphernalia. I just want to put on my Crocs and go. So that's what I did. I also took the camera, and while I will never consider myself anything but a snapshot-taker, I think some of these turned out pretty well. To see more, go here. These pictures will enlarge when you click them.

Standing sentry over the mailboxes

First bulbs

One of the strangest trees I've ever seen.

Pond through Redbud

A pleasant spot

Student pilot - a common sight here

First wildflowers

Eye of the pond spirit

Sit a spell

Two Farewells

Sad news this morning of the death of actress Natasha Richardson, who suffered traumatic head injuries in a skiing accident in Canada on Monday.

My heartfelt sympathies are extended to her husband, Liam Neeson, and their two sons, and her mother, Vanessa Redgrave.

Source


And I can't imagine how the death of Folk great Odetta got past me! As an old folkie from the '60s, I was always inspired by her. She died on Tuesday at the age of 77. All my love and best energies to her family and friends.

Source



Update:
Sorry for the confusion about Odetta. She died at the end of last year, but I forgot. Well, this entry will serve as my remembrance. Damned Hashimoto's got my memory again. Do you know, I still can't remember how to make the coffee? Instead of relying on what I've always known, I refer to what Nettl told me a couple of months ago when my coffee braincell died.

Theta Pond

If I had a way to get there, I'd spend some time today at Theta Pond, at the university. It's a beautiful day!

In the near decade that we've been here, Lynette and I have a couple of favorite places where we go to get away from everything, our favorite being Theta Pond. It was created by students in 1895 as a reservoir to solve an on-campus water shortage. Today, it's a popular spot for photographers and bird watchers.












Our favorite ducks are the Cresteds. When we first moved here we named them after 18th century composers because of their "powdered wigs". I think Vienna needs to get some of these for the Stadpark.











There are trees with unusual root formations. A couple of turtles (there could be more for all I know) hide amongst the roots on the little island in the center of the pond. The ducks and swans sleep on the island at night.
















I love these tree roots, some of which are at least two feet tall. On moonlit nights they look like little nature spirits standing sentry over the pond.

We almost always sit on that bench (on the left) on the pond's shore, feeding the ducks. In fact, we keep all of our bread heels in a bag in the freezer and take some with us every time we go to the pond. Well, sometimes we forget. If the fowl see you carrying a bread wrapper, they'll crowd all around you, honking and quacking, as you walk toward the pond.

Theta Pond is a great place.








Photos by:
Amy Wenzel (1&4)
RWK Photos (2)
Rick (3)

Oldie, Coldie Me

I know it's unflattering, but tough. Here I am in my hammock. I have a really crappy cold, which the wind isn't helping, but again, tough. Don't bug my bliss, mate.







4:20 pm: Well, of course. The management company decided this was the perfect afternoon to fire up not one, but two of their blasted generators. I've got on my big humongous earphones, but I can still hear them. Plus, I decided (while I was up getting the headphones) to put the beaded curtain on the patio door. That took about half an hour because it was all tangled. And now, the sun has reached a point where it's blinding my right eye. Fortunately, by the time I've posted this, the sun will have slipped behind the neighbor's house. Glad I have another beer.

4:35 pm: Ah, the generators have been turned off, the sun is no longer staring me in the face, and I am once again in a state of bliss. The wind may drive me indoors though. But, hey, I think the Bass Ale has helped my cold. I actually feel better!

5:00 pm: Well, the wind finally won out and drove me back indoors. I'll be so glad to be back in Cali. Sure, we have the Santa Anas out there, but they don't blow all damned year, nearly every damned day. I see that the temp is now 87 degrees. What a waste, and after such a cold winter! I'm "a-feared" that this cold is settling in my left ear. God knows I don't want to go through what I did 9 years ago when I had triple infections in each ear and was totally deaf for about four weeks. So far, there's no pain, so that's good.

I hate being inside when it's so beautiful out. Damn, damn, damn.

Pre-Summer Boogaloo

I figure the perfect outdoor temperature, for me, is between 80 and 85 degrees. Today, it's supposed to be about 84 and tomorrow, 81.

You know what that means...

First one to the hammock gets to have a Bass Ale for lunch!

The Irish Seven-Course Meal

Photo by Jough Dempsey

The Small Things

I knew something was up last night when I couldn't stop sneezing. Then I couldn't sleep because my nose kept running. And the allergy tabs didn't do anything but turn my tinnitus up to 11 ("Yeh, but it goes to eleven..."). I have a cold, and a really nasty one at that. And after such a great weekend, too.

Saturday night Joel, Heather and I went to Ville's, where we just sat around talking and laughing, playing with my new laptop webcam and watching her silly cats. That was easy and effortless and we had a really nice time.

Yesterday I served up an old-fashioned English pork roast dinner, complete with potatoes and carrots, Brussels sprouts, dinner rolls and Bisto gravy. We all sat at the table, enjoying being together (Lauren is home for a few days during Spring Break).

At one point last evening, as I sat digesting, a feeling of total contentment and belonging washed over me. Our family was under one roof again. The girls were in their bedroom, from where I could hear the slight sound of their laughter. The guys were at their computers, Nettl was working on her book and I was in my chair feeling very homespun and at one. It dawned on me that this is it. This is the family I always dreamed of having. This is the homelife I always craved, and that othing at that moment, not money, not success, not anything could have made it one hair's bredth better. I was totally in the moment and in a state of bliss. It's the small things that matter. I have all I need; what can a cold do to me? Nothing.

Ah-choo!

Pop! Goes the Weasel

When I was a kid, the song, Pop! Goes the Weasel terrified me. I didn't like Jack-in-the-Boxes either and even today I can't bear to open a biscuit can. Tuning the 6th string on my 12-string guitar can give me a heart attack because being an E and having to be cranked up to G often results in it breaking. I'm skittish that way.

Added to this is the fact that in my mind I've always mixed up Three Blind Mice with the Weasel song, leaving me with mental images of a monkey with a carving knife, and that would terrify anyone. Poor weasel, popping open and spurting blood everywhere... No wonder I had nightmares of it as a child.

Yesterday, I decided to look up the history of the song and I of course have to share with you what I discovered.

Pop! Goes the Weasel is, musically speaking, a jig that's usually thought if as a nursery rhyme. It probably dates back to 17th century England. The song is also associated with Jack-in-the-Boxes; when the song gets to "Pop!" the Jack pops up, which can either delight or terrify a kid the first time it happens. Here is the basic melody:

The most common (English) version:

Half a pound of tuppenny rice,
Half a pound of treacle;
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop! goes the weasel.

Here are some alternative verses:

All around the Mulberry Bush,
The monkey chased the weasel;
The monkey stopped to pull up his sock, (or The monkey stopped to scratch his nose)
Pop! goes the weasel.

All around the Mulberry Bush,
The Worthog chased the weasel;
The Worthog pulled out his elephant gun,
Pop goes the Weasel.

That's a good one.

Half a pound of tuppenny rice,
Half a pound of treacle;
Mix it up and make it nice,
Pop! goes the weasel.

Up and down the City Road, (or Up and down the King's Highway)
In and out The Eagle;
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop! goes the weasel.

For you may try to sew and sew,
But you'll never make anything regal;
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop! goes the weasel.

The monkey and the weasel fought,
The weasel's really feeble;
The monkey punched him in the face,
Pop! goes the weasel.

I like that one, too.

Every time when I come home,
The monkey's on the table;
Cracking nuts and eating spice (or Take a stick and knock it off)
Pop! goes the weasel.

Versions in the United States include:

A penny for a spool of thread,
A penny for a needle;
That's the way the money goes,
Pop! goes the weasel.

All around the vinegar jug,
The monkey chased the weasel;
The monkey pulled the stopper out,
Pop! goes the weasel.

I've never heard any of those though. The one I grew up with was:

All around the cobbler's bench, (or the mulberry bush)
The monkey chased the weasel;
The monkey thought twas all in good sport, (or all in good fun)
Pop! goes the weasel.

Why the hell did that scare me? Had to be the mix up with Three Blind Mice.

The Weasel Unveiled
One interpretation of this song is that it is about silk weavers working with their shuttles or bobbins, called "weasands" or "weasels". Another interpretation derives from the need for the poor working class of England to have to "pop" their coats ("weasels and stoats" in Cockney rhyming slang), that is, taking them to a pawnbroker to obtain money for drinking. Another possibility is that "weasel" is a corruption of "whistle" and means "suit" (in this case being derived from the Cockney "whistle and flute"). In either interpretation, the rhyme describes the pawning of the worker's only valuable items — the "Sunday best" clothing — after exhausting the week's wages on the food items such as rice and treacle, which, though cheap, were and are fundamentally useless to anyone if the buyer is poor and has nothing to eat them with. It is thought, however, that early quack doctors would have prescribed treacle as a sort of medicine, and gullible workers that were prone to illness would have spent their money on trying to maintain the health of themselves and their families.

The Eagle Located
It's possible that the eagle mentioned in the song's third verse refers to The Eagle pub along Shepherdess Walk in London, which was established as a music hall in 1825 and later rebuilt as a pub in 1901. This pub bears a plaque with an interpretation of the nursery rhyme and the pub's history. Shepherdess Walk is just off the City Road mentioned in the same verse: Up and down the City Road, in and out The Eagle.

While the rhyme certainly originated in England, the meaning of the terms in the first verse with which people are familiar in the U.S. is well established. In the late 19th century, the technology for weaving on large rack looms was brought to the United States from England. Along with it came a traditional work song. The verse mentioning weasels and monkeys might be about the children that were employed to sit inside these huge industrial looms and chase the loom shuttle around, unsticking it when it went awry and correcting any mis-weaves that resulted. Thus the children hopped around like monkeys chasing the shuttle which reminded workers of a weasel as it threaded its way in and out of the narrow passages between the rack levels. The pop sound may refer to the sharp noise made as the large shuttle paddles at each side of the loom slapped the shuttle back and forth each time the racks reversed position.

That Effin' Monkey
"Monkey" is believed to be a 19th century term for a pub drinking vessel. A "stick" is a shot of alcohol, while "knock it off" is to drink it. If this is what the song means, then it had to have come through 200 years in tact.

As in the case of London Bridge is Falling Down, which is about the Great Fire of London, and Ring Around the Rosie, a song about the Plague, Pop! Goes the Weasel has hidden meanings. At least there's no carving knife mentioned.


Information was harvested from Wikipedia.

My Horny Little Mouse

I don't think I told you last weekend that we figured out the issue with my new cordless mouse. It only acts up when Nettl and I are doing our individual computer stuff sitting together on the bed.

We have the same make o' mouse, you see, and if they can see each other, mine goes all schitzo and starts running around in circles with his tail up. We've thus decided that mine is a boy mouse and hers is a girl and as long as we don't let them know the other is nearby, mine behaves quite well.

Good Morning, Good MORning!*

*To be sung in your best Ethel Merman voice.

Judging from the past week, I think it's safe to say that I haven't really slept in about seventeen years. All of a sudden, I'm sleeping well and deeply, without waking up every hour on the hour. I'm waking up feeling refreshed and recharged and those awful upon-waking panic attacks are gone. The feeling of waking up without a sense of impending dread and gloom is wonderful!

Of course, you know the title of this blog is kind of a misnomer, don't you? I'm not really an insomniac, I'm really just a night owl. I love being up at night when everyone is asleep. It's a cozy feeling, knowing that the family is sleeping safe and warm while I do my thing, whether I'm online, working, or sitting in the living room listening to music in the candle light. Still, the term "night owl" conjures up all kinds of trite and precious owl clip art. I wasn't about to add to the cute teddy bear overload that's on the web, so "insomniac" won out. This poster is about as cutesy as I'm comfortable with.

Next Friday morning Ville will be going into the hospital for surgery, so she's having an impromptu get together at her house tonight. Until then, I have some laundry to do and some plants to water, but presently I'm still in bed with my coffee.

I'm Outta Here

Okay, in the past 39.75 hours I've gotten only 1.5 hours of sleep. It's time.

Not Again

Looks like Powweb's down again. This hasn't happened in a long time though, so I'll be patient, although my banner isn't appearing...

Here's part of the systems message they posted:

Tonight's maintenance will begin at 11:00pm EDT and extend until 7:00am EDT tomorrow morning, Saturday, March 14. During this time, you may not be able to consistently connect to our Exchange services via your Outlook, Entourage, WebMail or mobile devices. Your Web site will not be impacted by this maintenance.

Yeah, right... I went into the Powweb forums and everyone's sites are down.

Meantime, I'm spending my evening in the chat room of Monthy's Friday Night Live radio show on MPYR. Join in if you have nothing to do!

Pear Blossom Time

Bradford Pear trees sure are pretty, aren't they? Yeah. And this town is full of them. For about two weeks every Spring, they blossom and put on quite a show. And Kleenex sales shoot up, as well as the sale of various and diverse allergy medications.

Poor Lynette is having a hell of a time this year because the pollen not only affects her allergies, it also plays dangerously with her asthma. She stayed home yesterday and today she's still too sick to go to work, but she has to. I really worry about her since that night several years ago when I nearly took her to the hospital. I would have, but she wouldn't let me. Anyway, I get scared when she can't breathe. Silly me.

I'm lucky. I've never been allergic to anything until about three years ago when the winds finally got to me, but what I go through is nothing compared to what Nettl goes through. It snowed yesterday, so maybe the blossoms froze and the pollen won't spread around. The next trees to bloom will be the Redbuds, but they don't affect her as much, and they're just as pretty in their way.

I can't believe how fast this week went. It just zipped right past me. I'm looking forward to a lazy quiet weekend during which I plan to take a number of naps. I can't seem to get enough sleep lately. I don't mean that I'm tired, or sleepy. I'm actually sleeping like I used to before the Hashimoto's nailed me, and now that I'm sleeping, I'm sleeping long and soundly. Nettl says that I'm probably healing and that takes a lot of energy, as well as the fact that I'm finally catching up on my sleep deficit. Sounds good to me. Guess I'd better go put some of that into practice. I just looked at the clock...

UPDATE - Sunday, March 15:
I didn't realize that I used the same photo that Lynette did in her blog entry, The Dreaded Bradford Pear Tree. Sorry.

A Night in Dad's Heaven

This entry won't be very interesting to those who don't believe in afterlife, but I have to write about it. I spent most of last night with my dad in his "heaven". Or maybe it's just one of his places, I don't know.

At first I thought it was just a dream, but then I saw him sitting in a lawn chair at the water's edge, fishing. By my calculations, he looked as he did when he was around 30 as he called me over to join him. I sat down on the sand with my feet in the ripples of waves--there were no crashing waves as I recall, more like the kind you see on one of the Great Lakes. The locale was tropical, with soft, white sand, pale blue water, palm trees and foliage, some boasting a profusion of blossoms and flowers. Behind us was a calm lagoon and between us and it was a road. There also was a green butte that ran along the road and on a flat area at the butte's base, slightly elevated, were some small houses in that quasi-French style that was popular in the States in the 1930s, with the wrought iron railings, paned windows and white trim. We spoke little, just enjoyed being together, but I did comment on how warm and pleasant the water was.

Later, we went for a walk along the road and I saw a woman coming out of her house and I waved at her. I knew her, but I can't tell you from where or when. The place was very familiar to me and I asked Dad if we could go to that one cafe we used to like so much; was it still there? He said that it was and we went to where it sat on the beach. He spoke to a few people as they passed and everyone was peaceful and quietly happy and gentle.

Time passed in that nebulous way that it does in these astral states and it appeared that sunset was approaching, although I hadn't been conscious of any physical sun. We headed back up the road and in the nearing distance I saw a big bonfire glowing on the beach. People were coming out of their houses to go to where it was and Dad told me that it was time for me to go back. He then reached into his pants pocket and brought out a large denomination bill (I couldn't make out what it was, but it was at least $1000) and said he was going to give it to me "as a reminder." He pulled out his old Zippo lighter and began to burn it, although the flame didn't consume it. "This is to remind you what to do with this," he said, smiling, and he handed the bill to me. He left then and I tried to follow, but a young man met me with a huge smile on his face, saying that I couldn't go any further and that it was time for me to return.

When I woke up, I knew that Dad is in a wonderful place, enjoying himself and that one day I'll meet him there again. Today it's snowing--so different from where I spent the night. I'm feeling a wonderful sense of peace, something I haven't felt in a very long time.