Unfinished Object
Quote of The Day
Navigation
Home |
Where I Play
Categories
Read
Lurk
Inspire
Green
Diversions
Photos
Monthly Archives
- July 2008
- June 2008
- May 2008
- April 2008
- March 2008
- February 2008
- January 2008
- December 2007
- November 2007
- October 2007
- September 2007
- August 2007
- July 2007
- June 2007
- May 2007
- April 2007
- March 2007
- February 2007
- January 2007
- December 2006
- November 2006
- October 2006
- September 2006
- August 2006
- July 2006
- June 2006
- May 2006
- April 2006
- March 2006
- February 2006
- January 2006
Site Credits
Powered by:
ExpressionEngine
Design by:
BlogMoxie
It was a great weekend. D & I had an impromptu date Friday night that was packed with good Italian food, and great company and conversation. Before D got up Saturday I did my taxes (I still need to proof them) and then D helped me wash the windows inside and out, and the screens. Then I knocked out three little ‘unfinished projects’ before going to my mom’s to collect things she wants me to have before she moves. On the way home I visited Target and the grocery store. Sunday D helped clean* the house and then went to a friend’s to help her with a computer conundrum, while I shampooed the carpet. By 2 the house was looking great and I decided to park myself on the lanai and finish my book. By 2:30 I was feeling cold, but it was quite breezy so I didn’t think much of it and moved into the house. By dinner time I was sneezing and snorting, and by bed time I was feeling pretty miserable. I didn’t sleep well, I think I’d feel better now if I had. I’m flirting with the idea of heading home and going back to bed, but there are only two other people in the office right now as there are others are out sick. I have a little fever (101.4)and I’m hoping my aspirin will kick in soon. I can function sniffing and snorting, but fevers make my brain skip, there’s no sense making critical mistakes just because I’m being stubborn.
*Straighten really, we a doing so good on our resolve to pick up, put up and clean up. Even the closet looks as nice as it did when I cleaned it out....yeah, we’re patting ourselves on the back.
Ladies, despite what they tell you men do know how to ‘do windows’.
Men, D claims he was framed!
A few days ago Almost Lucid posted an entry about the music that has permeated his life. Everything from show tunes to Tool. That entry has had me thinking about my tastes in music, but I must admit I hesitated posting because it is at times embarrassing (Barry Nannanose anyone?). The fact is that music has always been there, even when I wasn’t big enough to be making my own selections.
My father was, once upon a time, the member of a folk group that got as far as almost signing a record deal. On the eve of the trip to finalize everything two of the members dropped out and the group fell apart, but I still have the demo record, stamped in uber-thick vinyl and the song “In the Pines” is branded in my brain. Both of my parents played guitar, as did my uncle and some family friends. It was not unusual for us to be at a friends’s house late on a weekend night, the adults deep into a bottle (or two) of Annie Greensprings, singing and playing while the kids, wore out from ‘roughhousing’ slept wherever they fell. My mother always sang “One Tin Soldier” and I bet I still could.
Our summers were filled with trips to the lake and my uncle’s ski boat, carefully fitted with an eight-track player. In those days it was Jim Croce, The Kingston Trio and Neil Diamond blasting across the water. At home we had a reel to reel, a record player and a stereo and speakers that my dad built from an electronics kit. At least we did, until while vacationing, we were robbed. “The Day The Music Died” indeed. One Christmas Santa brought a Fisher Price record player and it came with records; two 45’s, Cheese Burger in Paradise, All By Myself, and one album, The Jungle Book soundtrack. I also had my dad’s old records, which I adored; Big Bad John, PeeWee the Kiwi Bird, Ruby Red to name a few. I can still tell you what color the paper rings were; Ruby Red’s was purple.
When we moved to Tennessee I was in the third grade and my world had been rocked. We lived in a small town outside of Nashville and I attended a freshly desegregated school. There had been very few black people in my life up to that point and the school came as a shock as blacks were the majority. I was ruthlessly picked upon for my highwater jeans and short hair and glasses; one boy even stopping me in the hall demanding to know if I were a boy or a girl. I couldn’t understand his Southern drawl and he decided to answer the question for himself by grabbing my crotch. I was, understandably, not in love with school but my music appreciation was growing. I recall a class that was not quite chorus, we sang very little, listened a lot, and played the recorder. The teacher shared songs like “Elenor Rigby”, and “Morning Has Broken”. I remember that she did so with a certain disdain; the curriculum probably demanded it, though her personal choice was very different. It is my child’s image of Elenor’s face in a jar that leaps at me when I hear that song, not the understanding that they referred to makeup.
I did take chorus but only because it was a requirement to join band. By fifth grade it was forgotten and the clarinet discovered. Every year we played “Rocky Top” as we marched through town for the rodeo parade. But in class we began to broaden our classical horizons. In Junior High we played pep rallies and Christmas concerts, I braved one solo with the Jazz Band, and attended ‘All State’ twice. Willy and Waylon rang through the house, which I tried to drown out with “Afternoon Delight”. Ever the naive one I thought it was some fabulous after school dessert, which I suppose it was for some.
My family moved again, this time to Georgia and I stayed in band. Concert band, marching band, and ensemble. My first year we were breaking in a new band director after some scandal forced the old one to resign and we sucked. By my senior year we were winning awards and were well known until that director ran off with one of the majorettes. Each year my interest tapered off a little more, and I practiced less and moved one painful seat down at a time until I regularly flirted with last chair. I’m sure I couldn’t blast out more that a few notes today, but being in band did a fine job of peppering my music collection with classical, new age and more than a few acoustical soundtracks; The Man From Snowy River, Legend, Labyrinth to name a few.
I owned my own stereo by then and vast collection of cassettes. Most were homemade, ripped from the ‘Top Forty Countdown’. To my parent’s dismay my brother and I engaged in the battle of the bands; Cindi Lauper and Prince screaming from my room, Butthole Surfers and Psychedelic Furs from his. I’m sure there is still a small hole from a martial arts throwing star in my bedroom door, launched in disgust at my music choice. College followed a few years after and my interest turned to Indigo Girls, and a big helping of what I considered ‘my parents music’, the music I had started with, Gordon Lightfoot, Harry Chapin, The Eagles, Simon and Garfunkel. The man (‘boy’ is far more apropos) I was seeing then was a throwback to the 70’s and introduced me to Cream, ZZ-Top and Bread. And of course, being the 80’s there was MTV. To this day I can’t hear a Pat Benatar song without accompanying video playing in my head.
When I moved to Florida, my first big ‘by myself’ move, I cued up the cassette deck so the song would start just as the truck and trailer hit full speed on the interstate. It was Melissa Etheridge, ‘Chrome Plated Heart’. My first few years here my only friend was my dad and my music tastes continued to echo that which I’d grown up with and my college favorites. I was no good at exploring on my own, and though I’d taken a risk by moving, I took few immediately after that, music selection included.
My future ‘step’ mom entered my dad’s life and she brought Reba McIntyre and Garth Brooks with her. I began to dabble in the ‘new’ country music and stumbled over Mary Chapin Carpenter, who I still enjoy. D entered my life, and he too brought music that was new to me. The Pogues (and all things Celtic), Sinead O’Conner, and the love of his life: Aimee Mann. He continues to bring things into the house that I might not listen to on my own, some I enjoy and some set me teeth on edge. I accuse him of listening to angry music and he rolls his eyes and turns it up. Like me, he is always happy to listen to anything 80’s and we are able to strike a happy medium.
I couldn’t tell you what my favorite music is today. My newest albums are from Imogene Heap and the Dixie Chicks and I’m considering one from Michelle Branch and the Wreckers. I still shush the room at the opening riff for “Jessie’s Girl” and blast it through the neighborhood. If it’s Karaoke you’re after my preferred tune is Nancy Sinatra’s ‘These Boots are Made for Walking’. I have happy music, sad music, angry music and everyday music. A home without music would feel much like a home without pets; strange, empty and too quiet. With music I can always go home, no matter where I am and I cannot imagine being without it.
I was handed a greeting card today that is being sent as a group to someone who has hit a ‘rough patch’. I can’t go into much detail with out treading on their personal crisis, but I will say that he brought the trouble on himself and it took me a very long time to decide what to write. In the end I settled on “I’m sorry you are having such a rough time, and I’m sure you are more than ready to get back to the everyday ho-hum. Take care. S”. And I still feel like I lied because I’m really not sorry. He screwed up - practically on purpose - and he’s paying the price.
I’ve encountered the same problem while standing in a card store. Each card I put back in the rack gets a rating ... too mushy, too silly, just wrong, NO WAY. I don’t think D suffers with this, he picks one that is pretty (usually with a dragonfly on the front) and is finished. Heaven help him if someone puts sympathy cards in the ‘Love’ section or I’m going to get a very pretty ‘I’m so sorry for you loss’ card on my 40th birthday, but then again that may not be so wrong.
I know I’m not the only person who takes card choosing seriously, there are always one or two others, usually women, that handle nearly every card in the place before choosing one. And when I can’t find a perfect card I shoot for humor, usually Maxine, because if nothing else she say it like it is. Perhaps I could have sent a Maxine card to Mr. Rough Patch, providing of course there is one that says “I’m sorry you are so stupid”. That, at least, would be true.
Though we’ve never done anything together socially I think of my hairstylist as a friend. When she got married a few years ago I made the wedding cake. When she announced her pregnancy I sent flowers and I was planning a baby quilt. But while she was on maternity leave she sent an announcement that she was leaving the salon and moving to a new one. To be honest I felt abandoned. A few weeks ago I received an invitation to the new salon for an open house, which I attended. I was not terribly surprised to find that the owner, and several other stylists were all from ‘my’ salon. For the record, the owner cut my hair for a few years, and I don’t think ever forgave me for switching stylists – at least the vibe I get from her is that she doesn’t like me overmuch.
Silly as it sounds I’m really fretting over my next haircut. I do not know if I should follow my stylist, go back to my old salon (they are aching for business) or go to the new place where Parnelli did such a nice job on my hair a week or so ago. I’m leaning toward the new place, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I felt more than a little guilty doing so. I tried to explain this to D, but he just looks at me like I’m cracked; which is what I get for asking a bald man about hair salon. Still I’m torn. What would you do?
Ahhhhh warmth. It was cool this morning but this afternoon we are bumping 75 degrees, and I am so very, very much more comfortable. It is still breezy, and there is a nip to it but my fingers and toes are pink (not red, white and blue) and I am not huddled in my office with the space heater blasting. To say I hate having become ‘cold natured’ wouldn’t even touch the tip of how I feel about it; then again there isn’t much use complaining as it isn’t going to change.
My, that sounded frustrated didn’t it? Frustration is the pervasive mood this time of year and it is currently heightened by being short handed at work (know anyone who wants a job in Florida?), my mother’s impending move (and the craziness it has inspired) and a general sense of needing change. There is little I can do about the first two problems, other than stress, but I’ve been giving that ‘change’ thing a great deal of consideration. I feel like I need a big one; like a new car, house, pet, but in truth I can probably only afford to paint a bedroom.
I’ve considered re-joining the gym to once again try to affect a weight change, but I’ve blown it off twice before and I don’t believe it would be different this go around. I’ve considered a new hobby, taking a class, trying to learn the guitar (again); all of which require conviction, something I’m often short on. I feel turbid, indecisive, anxious and I really have no idea why. I just know I need to do something and stop doing nothing.
Cinnamon rolls, Challah, potato soup, French toast*, more potato soup and lots of hot tea, hot chai and hot chocolate; it may have not been a warm weekend, but it was jam packed full of warm comfort food. Not to mention, blankets, slippers, socks, and wraps. I was so cold Sunday I just added layers to my night gown rather than have to take it off to put clothes on; I was a fashion plate for sure. Surprisingly I did get some things done, spent time reading and played with D’s Wacom tablet and a painting program I had not previously tried (with some success I might add). There was no sewing, in fact I don’t think I’ve had the machine out since I completed the journal covers. Its possible I’m a little burnt-out. There was also no ‘small’ project, but I have one in mind that I think I can tackle over the next couple of evenings.
I’ve mentioned before that I make piles of things, I also make boxes. The boxes usually occur when I’m cleaning and find things that don’t belong in that particular room. Rather than move them to their proper spot I toss them in a box. There are two such boxes in the house right now a small one from the master bedroom and a big one in my sewing room. Both have been knocking around long enough to have gathered dust, and I’m comfortable saying that they represent things unfinished. By rights I should just seal them up and set them out for the trash man as I obviously haven’t needed anything out of them in a long while; ‘course that’s not gonna happen. So I’ll settle for cleaning them out and putting their contents away.
Friday I roared outta here to pick up a part at another office for a customer with a broken oven. The drive was uneventful but you wouldn’t have believed the wind. I stopped at the Sunshine Skyway Bridge rest-stop to ... um… rest, and was amazed at the waves churning up in the bay. They were nothing that would excite a surfer, but for an area that is protected and usually glass smooth I was pretty impressed, especially since the only thing causing them was the wind. I have a photo for you but I loaned my mom my camera over the weekend and didn’t get it down loaded yet. Hopefully I’ll have it in a few days.
Other than the minutia of ordinary life I haven’t much else of interest except for stress ... and there is a truckload of that around these parts these days. It is coming from every direction imaginable, work, family, the blog. Murphy’s Law, I guess, if it can it will, and believe me it has! Perhaps I should console myself with another bowl of potato soup, heh.
*Made with the Challah, which, in my opinion, is perfect for French toast as it is faintly sweet with a slightly sticky texture.
Tomorrow is supposed to be our coldest day of the year. Of course anyone north of me isn’t exactly crying over 30 degrees here when they are buried under many feet of snow. Still, if I can work out a way to stay buried in blankets, with a hot chai close at hand that is where you will find me. It is not a weekend for resolving plumbing problems out doors, or cleaning out the garage. Sewing is a possibility, but only if I can get the circulation to improve radically in my fingers. Last night all I could do was sit in my chair, wrap around my shoulders (thanks Rox) and another across my legs (thanks Donni) and watch TV. Not that I don’t do that anyway, I do, but somehow it feels very restrictive when its ‘all’ I can do. Mostly it will be a weekend of little things; laundry (ahhhh warm laundry), clam chowder and homemade bread*, and taxes (luvs me some TurboTax). If I can keep my frustration level down it should be a nice, though mundane, weekend.
Last night I stopped by the place where D picked up my bracelet and added some locks (they keep the beads centered), two spacers, the hippo and the hedgehog. When I showed him he as sorry that he had purchased a gift that I had to spend money on ... I told him anytime he wanted to add a bead and save me the trouble he was more than welcome, lol.
For now though I’m off to Tampa to pick up an emergency part for a customer (two hours north). What ever you do, enjoy your weekend.
* I am not a bread baker, my loaves turn out lovely but would serve better as door stops than sandwiches. However, I do own a bread machine, and as far as I’m concerned the thing is a miracle worker, and quite possibly the best ‘air freshener’ known to man.
He snores, and clicks and talks in his sleep.
He cannot screw the lid back on anything, or put the bread away.
He has other girlfriends, two in fact. One enamors him with a luminous electronic glare, and the other with sad brown eyes and wet kisses.
He is a blanket stealer and a dirty laundry maker.
And, he can be very, very sweet.
It’s Pandora Jewelry, which I gather is the ‘new’ charm bracelet...and a bead lovers dream!
I started off the weekend planning to repair the drywall mess D and I made when we replaced the water heater a few years ago a while back.
In fact, I had planned to also repair three other drywall problems in the house at the same time. But, get me near anything that is remotely plumbing related and you can bet it’s going to be a much bigger project than originally planned. When I cleared everything away from the water heater to work above it I found that the drain valve was leaking.
Ok, not entirely true I knew it had been leaking for a long time, hence the saucer under the valve, one little drip every few minutes. But no more. Now it was leaking a lotta little drips every few seconds; I had no choice but to fix it. First I killed the power to the heater, and then went outside to shut off the water. You might remember that some time back I spent a lot of time and energy re-plumbing the valve box to the house (I swear I blogged this, but for the life of me can’t find the post to give you a link). When I opened that same box I was surprised to find it filled to the top with dirt. My guess is that it was forced in by rain. I dug it out, put a wrench on the valve handle and turned. Pop! The valve handle simply disintegrated. Luckily I was able to get it turned off (and back on later) so I elected to save that repair for another day. This is why I am no fan of plumbing, as projects like this are fraught with this kind of obstacle.
While the tank was draining, it takes over an hour; I fitted the new drywall (not as easy as it should be). Then I took the valve apart and headed to the hardware store for the parts. Three minutes to install them was the anticlimactic end to several hours of frustration.
I checked it a few minutes ago and it is seeping slightly, but once around with the wrench seems to have resolved that. I wish I could say ‘no more plumbing’ for a while, but given the problem outside I don’t think I’ll be so lucky. The good news is that I more than made up for last weekend’s malaise, and I’ve removed two things from the ‘worry’ list. So at least I’m one ahead – heh.
By 2 pm I was happily parked in my chair with a book in hand and a cat in my lap. The house is ‘company clean’ (Saturday’s project) and I accomplished my original task; to feel accomplished and relaxed by Monday. Whoohoo!
The ‘do’ has been saved, but it is very, very short. So short that it is practically dry before I leave the shower, and, frankly a little shorter than I like. But, ‘too short’ will grow ... ‘bad’ is always ‘bad’. And I think I’m diggin’ the new color. All around I’d say I’m not longer a ‘woman without a stylist’.
Normally I don’t name names around here, but I have to make an exception for my new stylist, her name is ‘Parnelli’ - like ‘par-nelly’. I didn’t scour up the courage to ask how she came by such an unusual handle, but I will on my next visit.
For the last week I’ve been meaning to share with you an orchid that I purchased for myself, but I kept forgetting my camera. . For anyone keeping track it’s a Phalaenopsis (Baldan’s Kaleidoscope) and I picked it up for $15 at BJ’s (a wholesale club). I’ll kill it but it’s worth the expense because its dang hard to be grumpy with this lovely dancing over my desk.
Since I finally remembered my camera I also thought I’d share what my desk looks like. That’s not news I know. But it’s rather large, and when I say its buried in paper, I mean a lot of paper.
A wonderful weekend to you all, I’m hoping mine is very productive and that on Monday morning I feel both relaxed and accomplished.
If you keeping track of my doings you’ve arrived here expecting a post about my trip to the Lion King and that’s what you’ll get, sort of. Dinner was delicious though a little rushed due to time constraints; Cin Cin (chin chin)was a bad choice on my part because its just not a rushing kind of place. The production was fascinating and stunning and jillion other adjectives that just wouldn’t do it justice. I’d have given anything for a tour through the costumes as they were truly inspired. Unfortunately the evening also had some problems that I allowed to taint my experience and today I’m feeling pretty disappointed. That part of the story won’t be aired here ... but I sure could use a hug.
Sigh - onward and upward. Tonight more ‘hairstory’, and fingers crossed that she can fix this mess I’m walking around with on my head. If not, no worries, the one thing I’m sure of is that it will grow. I’m toying with the idea of going lighter in color - not blond, but lighter. I’ll try to have a photo tomorrow of what I decided.
Now though its piles of invoices, service tickets, warranty claims, equipment orders and a myriad of other papers that cover my desk and I better get cracking.
I was remarkably ‘un-enthused’ this weekend and it showed in what I accomplished; which was practically nothing. The weather has been grey and cold since Friday and that has certainly played a part in my disinterest, but for the most part I think its just me. Much of my weekend was spent reading or playing City of Heroes. There was a little laundry, a bath for the dog, my final trip to the spa (and a bad, bad hair cut), a movie (Pan’s Labyrinth, very good but very dark) and an errand for my mom. On paper it looks like a lot, but trust me there isn’t but a few hours of work there. That malaise has carried into the work week as well and there is no doubt that I will soon be paying dearly for it as I am falling farther and farther behind. The sun has returned and it should be warmer by the weekend so perhaps my enthusiasm will return as well.
I won’t get anything done tonight because I making chili, and that is a full evening project.
Tomorrow night my mother and I will attend Broadway version of The Lion King, and I must admit that I am torn between being excited about seeing it and being distressed that I’m going to miss my bedtime. A sure sign of old age - heh.
Thursday night I’m going to yet another salon* to see if they can fix this mess of a haircut but I’m not holding out much hope because I can’t properly express what it wrong with it. Most likely I’ll just have it colored and let it grow a bit as it is almost too short as it is.
And Friday, well that has been my traditional ‘put my feet up night’ for a long time, so I doubt I’ll be struck with the urge to work on any of the things left undone over the weekend. All of which means next weekend needs be a blow out of accomplishment just to get me caught up. Nice how I treat myself isn’t it?
*My stylist of nine years is out on maternity leave and while out she sent a note saying that she was moving to another salon. I am a woman without a stylist. I caused this problem by announcing that I like my hair; I’m sure of it.
Saturday night I woke up around 2am. D was still in his office futzing with the computer which is not unusual he’s a night owl and I’m the early bird. I’m not sure what woke me, probably Daniel who waits until I’m asleep to partake of his daily bath. That cat has the uncanny ability to sound like a Windex trigger spray when he’s trying to hock up saliva – drives me nuts. Anyway, about 3am I was still tossing around and getting very perturbed with all the creatures in the room that were making noise, and that’s when D decided to come to bed. Six minutes after his arrival he was asleep. Fifteen minutes after that he began to snore in a way that he has never snored before. He was making a short honking sound that came at the end of a long, breathy inhale. I tried every trick; tickled his feet, thrashed around, touched him lightly on the nose – no response. A full thirty minutes I tried to get him to stop without actually waking him and then I snapped.
D! ROLL OVER!
mfffphs?
ROLL OVER!
mfphsd huh, why?
Because you are honking like a Canadian goose!
mmmmkay.
He rolls over and arranges himself and I thought dropped right back to sleep, but no, just as I get settled, from deep beneath the covers comes a soft “Quack! Quack!”.
He has no recollection of the exchange, and it is very funny by the light of day ... but he has no clue how close he came to being smothered by a pillow.
The land of Blog is quite these days. Many folks backed off as the holiday’s heated up, and some have still not returned. Others just don’t seem to have much of interest to offer. These folks seem to be divided into two groups; those with nothing and are silent, and those with nothing that blather on anyway, like me. I’m sure my approach of prattling-on so isn’t the best for keeping readers interested, but, it is the best for keeping me interested. I fear that if I took so much as a two week break I’d very likely fail to return. So, without further ado, I give you the daily blather:
Growing up it was a given that on the weekend there would be some sort of sports event on the TV. Tennis was the favorite, but football was a very close second. I’m sure I should be ashamed to admit that I never became a fan either sport, and I suspect that these Sunday TV marathons were partially to blame. In those days there was only one TV in the house, and though it had only four channels we still had a remote control. Two in fact: me and my brother. My dad was the undeniable king of the remote.
Football was of particular contention to me as those guys in the striped shirts clearly couldn’t tell time. The little clock in the upper corner of the TV would say ‘two minutes ten seconds’ for a maddening half an hour. Come on, boys, I was seven and I could tell better time than you! As you might gather, if we were going to watch with my dad we were to be quiet ... there was no explanation as to why that little clock was so darn slow.
In high school that clock continued to foster my disinterest in football, but this time it was considerably larger, a scoreboard, and I wasn’t watching it for the game to be over but rather waiting until it showed ten minutes till half-time. That was when we were expected to rise in unison, exit the stands in an orderly fashion and assemble at the ‘gym end’ of the field where we waited once again for it to grind down that same maddening ‘two minutes ten seconds’ so we could take the field for the half-time show. I enjoyed band, but I cant say football season was my favorite time of year. We were either broiling in our wool uniforms, or freezing in our wet ‘jazz shoes’. And we always, always had to wait too long for that freakin’ clock.
As an adult I’ve attended Super-Bowl parties, but my interest was in the comradery, the food, the commercials and not the actual game. Despite my disinterest I’ve gleaned some knowledge of the game; a dear friend is a college ball referee and I can watch with understanding. But I still have little appreciation for it, so little that I only know which teams are participating this year because the Doritos display at the grocery store included team banners.
There have been years that I’ve had it on at home so I could catch the commercials, but being able to see them on the internet has eliminated the need. And, the quality of these commercials seems to be declining over the years so I have less interest. In fairness I must admit that I have a weakness for the Budweiser Clydesdales (this ad always makes me all weepy) so I’ll probably track those ads down. All in all though it is very unlikely that my weekend will include the game or that darn clock which seems almost unpatriotic...but I’m not losing any sleep over it.