Sunday, May 28, 2017

How to Be Good in Bed

If you have to stay in bed so you don't disturb everyone around you who's sleeping, gather everything you think you might need beforehand to keep from having to turn on lights, open and close doors, stumble into things when you search dark rooms, and your only light is one of those round LED-lit things that you slap on and off. Don't talk to yourself, or cuss when you cut yourself or the top sheet, and do not spill any glue. Don't use the smelly paper cement. Use Lineco instead. Being an occasional insomniac isn't all that bad if you have things to take your mind off being awake while the rest of your known world is sound asleep. It's actually fun. You get to do whatever you like and be surprised by what you've done when you see it in the morning. *grin*

So, yes, you too can be good in bed. Simply respect everyone else who slumbers, and the world will get on with itself despite you. Because of you? Along with you. Yeah, "along with you" sounds much better. I'm living proof, I gotta tell you. You see, JC treated me to another meal from Chipotle yesterday, making it two days in a row. I can go months without eating anything from their Mexican grill, but then I crave it like I craved popscicles when I was pregnant. I'm a fan of their Sofritas bowl. Have you tried it? OMG. Oh, my goodness! Tofu never tasted so good! 

Friday's serving was perfect. Not as tasty although I ordered the same thing. I asked for an extra bag on Friday too. Ask and you shall receive. There's nothing special about these. I have saved and used better, but something is better than nothing, as long as it makes a fine letter sheath holder envelope. And, one can always hope. Great expectations make way for great realizations. 

I do like a company that has a sense of humor. I like a company that somehow knows the consumer will read their silly-fun-stuff offerings too. Artists are such cool people. CEOs with a sense of humor trust graphic designers and artists who also have a funny bone. And skills. Chipotle's burritos aka little burros aren't so little; it takes two sittings to eat just one, but oh, yum for the sum. I almost always have the Sofritas Bowl though.

You know how some restaurants make sure kids get crayons and a placemat to make art while they wait for food? It keeps them from being _________________s. Well, Chipotle does the same for old children aka adults who need to be distracted and entertained too. Read, eat, drink and be happy. 

But anyway? So, as I stood in the way while JC paid for my meal, he didn't want Chipotle, I happened to spy the plastic oval sewing baskets at the end of the line. They preened with a shiny waxed sheet of paper between each one. Well,  I wanted one to go. I asked, "May I have one of these?" The manager (?) told one of the line workers to bring over some new ones. My heart leaped! I actually thought he was going to give me many. Alas, he gave me a single sheet. Not wanting to seem greedy, I grinned and thanked him. Then I went around the corner from the counter and picked up a small stack of napkins to go. I'm a messy eater. I get extra points when I come home with a clean bosom. Sauce always drips.

Here's Friday's bag. I thought Fierro was an  Italian surname. I worked with a Fierro from NY once. We collided worked together in Colorado for about three years. An Italian-proud bleached blonde who said things like Riter instead of Rita, we had our moments and almost got fired one day when tempers flared. Texas and NYC were like oil and gas that day. I have met some of just about everyone during this lifetime of mine. And I am not ashamed to tell you that although I won a medal for spelling in the Interscholastic Spelling Bee one year, I just learned I've misspelled vinaigarette all my life. I spell it vinegarette. Wow. Live and learn for real, huh?

I'm saving the bag for now. Instinct suggest that I do so. But here's a shot of that single sheet of Chipotle paper. Liking the way it feels, I've stroked it, smoothed it, folded and unfolded it countless times already, and I still like it. Dear God, please let it be food safe. Thank you, Amen. 

It's wider than 11 inches so I should have used the scanner. But the scanner is in my studio and it's still not in a user position, or even plugged in.  I must tell you right away how much I like "The Wisdom of Burrito-eating Elders. Turns out I am one. And today a kid from the other next door hollered to his sister, "Stevie, there's an old woman wantin' to talk to you." It's the first time I've been called old, aside from JC who makes sure he's grinning when he calls me that. And Erin. Oh. And the neighbor across the street who happens to dye her hair because it's so gray. The wrinkles are a dead give-away but she's backstroking up the river Denial on her own some. I mean, she has about five grands while I have none. *hard eye roll* 

But anyway . . . I've read every word on this paper, and keep looking for an identifier and copyright symbol. I want to know who these burrito-eating elders are, seeing as how they are so cool in the funny department. And plus of pluses? The liner is as good as air mail tissue paper! No, it's stronger. Now who's the winner here? 

Ah! The movie, "Miss Potter" is on. Can you believe it? B is learning that "she should have no financial worries the rest of her life." 

Simple folds do a lovely envelope make. The only problem? Deciding where to place an address label. There are worst decision that need making, don't you think?

Bits of Burrito Elder Wisdom 

Um, really?

Spoons! You need a spoon.

My favorites. 

Yes, you can have fun while being good in bed. Start with whatever is on hand, bring a handful of possibilities, array them on top of the covers, and play by yourself. Follow your lead! You need not have a particular destination in mind. Go where the paper leads and the markers will follow. 

You might consider a napkin with a less jaundiced eye. See Free stationery! Don't be afraid to use markers. A little bleed does little harm. The joker might be wild but so are we. 
Write on. Wipe on and wipe out. Love much while you're at it.

Peace and Joy.

Saturday, May 27, 2017

Pottering About with Beatrix or Dear Dodson, D. Part II

This came as a gift from Dodson, D. awhile back. It had to be "de-scentisized before I was able to enjoy it, but when I did, I went all out. "All out" included watching the movie about Beatrix that starred Rene Zellweger. The animation was annoying but I admire and respect Beatrix Potter more than ever having seen it. She has to be one of the first female illustrators, and I didn't have a little girl clue back then. And my Peter Rabbit came by way of a Little Golden Book. So, thank you again, Dodson, D., from the bottom of my childish heart. You gave me an especially beautiful gift that keeps on giving. I still wonder how you knew I'd develop a deep love for it. As in, "love: a great interest and pleasure in something."

The back is just as sweet. "I have been asked to tell again how Peter Rabbit came to be written. It seems a long time ago and in another world . . ." Her story is one of self-empowerment. Is that a word? Self-empowerment? If not, it should be. And children should be encouraged to create art again. Some might grow up to become artists or storytellers. Texas is bassackwards when it comes to the arts in schools. It's embarrassing but true. 

Such penmanship, yes? The sweetest little bird makes me smile. I confess. I am not fond of creatures in human clothing. It's silly, but so are my whimsical drawings. One of my favorite illustrated songs from childhood is all about a frog that went a-courting. He did ride with a sword and pistol by his side. He proposed to Miss Mouse; he said, "Oh, Miss Mouse will you marry me, yonder by that old oak tree?" I own several copies of "The Wind in the Willows," yet have never read the full story. 

I believe illustrations honed my childish imagination after I graduated to books without pictures. Drawing what we see is better than drawing what someone else has seen, although copying is great exercise. We could do worse than Ms Potter as an invisible mentor. 

Nature is a fine teacher too. But, rabbits, hares, frogs and moles won't wait. Did you know Beatrix walked about with Peter on a leash???

Dodson, D.'s lovely is ripe with such surprises. All the little bits tucked in here and there are delightful! Surely Dear B spent most of her time drawing and painting and imaginating a whole other world? 

And yes, there's mail. Postage stamps? Peter mail? He knows you're looking. Wondering if one of those letters might be for you? Here comes Petter Cotton Tail, hopping down the bunny trail! Hippity hoppity, Peter 's on his way. And according to the fantastical history of the USPS, I halfway believe Peter could very well have had mail in his sack!

Hair loss? Oh, no! I deduced the cause to be lead poisoning. From her paints. B is so working that cut though. Am willing to bet it freed up more time for artistic stuff, and courting perhaps?

. . . to be continued

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Pottering about with Beatrix or Dear Dodson, D.

She nails me with her unblinking, well-practiced look of reproach until I ask what's wrong. Minuet thinks she's my conscience. I went out for awhile yesterday for a meal at the Black Walnut and a quick stop at WFM. She's given me this stare since our return. JC is spared,  mind you, although he's the one who drove. I think she sent her jinx ahead for good measure because the food was a failure. 

Our Whole Foods shopping experience wasn't much better. There were gaping holes in all the shelves, the seafood department was shameful (I promise you the faux sea bass covered its eyes in shame), and the vegetables were pitiful and pathetic. We bought so little we could have carried everything home in two hands.  

The good always outweighs the bad so here's some good:

This notice is posted on TBW's patio. I took so many shots JC asked, "How many more are you gonna take?" He was embarrassed. Should I have told him the first few were taken in video mode? I was so excited my finger slipped from photo mode to video. Poor old thing. JC, not me.

Wait. Do you think smokers should have a designated smoking space? Should it be closed in, since we 'd tend to get a lungful of secondhand smoke on our way from the parking spaces to the cafe. Do smokers have rights? But if they had equal space, what about the rights of the wait staff who would be exposed to secondhand smoke? Carrabba's Italian restaurant got rid of their patio space all together, hence, no problem.

Graphic designers make my heart light up. There's so much right here, but the wrong shakes it up. It feels like three different artists worked on the same poster, and got it wrong where it counts. And there's something wrong with my brain or my eyes lately. The poster caught my attention because I thought the ad was for water. "Matter" somehow became "water." Of course, Johnson reacted as he would have had I had a stroke. I think I frighten him sometimes. *grin* Like rounding the corner onto the tea and coffee aisle, I asked him something--I forget what--but he said what he always says when he's behind me and I talk:  I can't hear you 'cause you're talking ahead of me. *sigh* *eye roll* So I said a little louder, "Come on old dude, you gotta keep up . . ." 

He heard me just fine, proving what I've suspected all along. He hears me. If he didn't, he'd walk beside me, right? So he walks up on my left, and I see this big cheese-eating grin splitting his face just as he says, "You need to be careful what you say to me; that man thought you were talking to him." I turn in wonder, and on my right is an employee and an older man with skin the beautiful color of walnuts or Aunt Miss's favorite snuff. He wore a "cap" that would have nudged the Census into classifying him as "other," and it showed off enough gray hair to distinguish him as an old dude too. Very handsome he was. 

The gentleman . . . Gentleman? My desktop dictionary defines the word in several ways. One is "2  a polite or formal way of referring to a man:  opposite her and old gentleman sat reading." So,  gentleman it shall be. The gentleman paid me no mind. I doubt if he saw me as anything more than a blip on his radar because he was in search of what he sought. Perhaps he was hard of hearing women too? Fast forward . . .

I didn't espy these until after we'd checked out and were near the exit. I still wonder what's on the other side, but hope springs that the circle designs are here for a while longer. See? I have good taste. Nanner nanna nanner, you ate a banan-er" to all y'all who laughed at me for liking the WFM circles. My "sewing circles" are still cool!

Tote with Pride. Indeed. I know I would. Would you?

Well, I would if they were better made. Craftsmanship always counts. Always. I never buy a thing if I can make it better, and I can sew these much better. Giving credit where credit is due, I like the idea of them being made with PETE. And while the Honda always has a cache of recyclable bags and totes, JC won't have them in his truck. Men are can be obstinate odd. Remember, you get five cents off your purchases for each bag you reuse. 

The final part of my parting ritual from a WFM is grabbing copies of "edible Houston." Sometimes they're so exceptional that I've mailed copies to Shin and Erin. The wrote about the annual Purple Hull Pea Festival in Shankleville last year! 

I am so smitten with this cow. Steer? Moo moo? Does it have vitiligo? Either way it is ab-so-lute-ly beautiful. Looking at it, I smell the sweet that comes from calves, a little manure, and freshly cropped pasture grass. For all I know, this dude could be in one of the pastures I frequent when I need to take in the great outdoors. It reminds me of the George Strait song, about where you'll find him down in Texas if you go looking for him. What a song. What a cow.

I wrote mail last night as I watched Clark Gable on TMC. A single letter. 

Drew another page for "As the Werm Turns," aka "The Story of Werm Hole Hill."

Most of my models work for food.

Which brings us to the title of this post.

. . . to be continued

Monday, May 22, 2017

An Early Berd Mail Werm

If werms write, who delivers their mail? Early bird mail is their norm. Ever see one when the sun is high in the sky? No, 'cause they usually die if they lie exposed beneath the rays without mud sunscreen. 

Guess who. What? I'll explain later.

One postcard went out to wing its way across the Great Mail Way. Thank you, JC.

Beached mail. Beach themed mail? Just mail. Two pages.

Brown Girl Beams

First Mail Opened today. Good and lovely words galore. Thank you, Anna. 

The moral of this post is:  Early werm mail goes out in the first post, but only if the early berd don't eat it first, 'cause it woke up hungry. 

Write more mail. Well, write more mail, and mail it.

Sunday, May 21, 2017

Catching Up to Myself

Is catching up with myself the same as being beside myself? If it is, and once I do, what do I do with myself? How much time do you have? There's more to do than there is time to do it in. There has to be time for doing nothing more than sitting, observing, thinking about what I see--what I want to do--and ought to do. I tend to do the opposite of ought. Ought carries very little weight these days. 

I ought to put away the folded laundry. I ought to put away my tools, but if I do I'll just have to take them out again tomorrow; I ought to listen to more music since I feel like singing along with Otis Redding, and I would but I forget where I put my iPod. Can you believe I forgot how to turn it on? Seems it needed charging first. I did forget how to turn the thing off though. Yep, it's been that long since I used it. I prefer it to the larger/newer version JC gave me. 

A gift from JC. It's hard to believe this is older than Alex. Okay. I'm listening now. It's old music. Good, and worth ear drum use. How many thumps in old ear drums? I don't mind using them for this joy though. I cannot get it back--used eardrum cells; it's like washing away used skin cells, right? They regrow without our notice. We enjoy wearing away our joints, our hair, taste buds, and other renewable self stuff. It's not like we can save any of it t by not using it. Right? Heck, I made myself laugh with that one. So, I shall write while I listen.

Well. I've forgotten what I set out to say. Perhaps listening awhile longer will help. 

Nope. So onward and forever hopeful . . . There's this:

Yellow Mail

Black Mail? 

Last Night's Mail

I lost misplaced last night's mail. Searched without success. Had to ask JC if he'd seen it. *shamefaced grin* Embarrassed, I set out on a personal search party of one. Found it too. Three more down with maybe seven more to go before I'll be back on track--er, caught up. This does not count the "thinking of you," or "Annie are you okay?" and "I simply had to show you this!" kind of mail. Packages don't count. Or do they? 

P.S.  I bought The Saffron Kitchen several years back. I bought it on Audible too, thinking I'd ease into listening to recorded books and not fall asleep. I'd read along as practice. Guess what. It did not work. There are several really great books on both iPods that I've never heard. There's The Bookshop, Christine Falls, The Rest of Her Life, Toast, The White Tiger," and one I am too embarrassed to tell you about, but The White Tiger is so hilarious I had to buy a hard copy. So. How do I teach myself not to fall asleep? My mind wanders too, so any advice on how to stay focused? I'd like to hear The Saffron Kitchen from beginning to end. *sigh*

Another Raggedy Assed Day

Published 1/31/2013

A Raggedy Assed Day

I went to the post office the last two days in a row. That means 6.1 miles each way. That is roughly 15 minutes one way. It sure feels longer. Today, I went to both post offices. The second trip took12 minutes and 6.8 miles get me to the closest post office, according to Map Quest. Something feels wrong here. No matter. I've had a raggedy assed day, so what's a messed up map gonna do to wreck it? The sunshine felt good.

Yesterday a stranger merged with me on the sidewalk that led to the post office front door. He asked me, "Ya like red much?" One, two, three. Before I could answer, he quipped, "I guess you like red 'cause you're driving a red car, and you're wearing a red windbreaker. I just figured you must like red. There's nothing wrong with it. People have different favorite colors."

All I did was turn, took a quick look at the Honda and kept walking. It's a deep dark red that borders on maroon. I looked down at my windbreaker. I said, "The Honda is my daughter's, and the windbreaker is mine." I am 99% patient and tolerant, most of the time. I'm not the old me, the one who kept her eyes on the sidewalk to avoid making eye contact with folks. I learned early on that eye contact means you are open for conversation. Okay. I'm shy, too. Some people have shy-dar. I get singled out for conversations every where I go. I was not in a receptive mood today though. It took a while for the stranger's words to sink in. When I'm in Funkville, I live with a barrier between me and thee. I know several people who would have asked him why he was dressed all in white. With red trim on his shirt. He wore a white Polo shirt, white shorts, he had white in his hair and beard, I think he wore white socks and white tennis shoes. And, he was white. He outdid me, right? Like the pot calling the kettle copper, huh?

I repeated myself. I kept walking. The inquisitive gentleman opened the heavy post office door on the right, allowed me to enter, and told me to "Have a nice day, ma'am." He was a little off balance by then. You see, I also told him this, "Yes. I like red. It's the color of life. It's the color of our life's blood. It's a sign of vim and vigor." Then I kept on walking. In silence. He kept up with me until we reached the door. Thinking on it now, I couldn't have made a snappy comeback because it's not my nature, but maybe I should have said . . . Heck if I know what. Why the heck did he notice me and my car out of all the other people going into that building? Aha! He didn't get my goat. See? I'm . . . I'm . . .

That happened at the second post office. The first post office had the stamps I need for my Valentine postcards. Yea! So I suffered through having to be there. And, yes, that same postal clerk who reminds me of Apu, pulled out his drawer and left a long line of customers waiting. He does that every single time I visit and he is there. He is the stereotypical federal employee.

Two replacement employees took to the counter. I was hoping to get the woman, but I got the sarcastic male, who reminds me of a mechanic. He was something else. He told anyone who would listen, "I don't do business with the United States Post Office." That's not all. The customer in line to the left of me got all loud and indignant. He told the clerk, "No way. No way am I going to pay ten bucks to mail that to Japan." He told them about themselves. They didn't get upset when he told them to remove the postage and give him his *&^%$ back. Wanted to ROFL here. He told us it was ridiculous to pay ten dollars to mail what he always pays five dollars to mail to the same destination. There's more:

Clerk: Have you mailed anything since the new rates went into effect.

Man: No. And I won't be doing business with you again. You guys are just putting yourselves out of business.

My Clerk: Yeah, man, they are.

Man: But, why?

My Clerk: They're trying to be competitive. They want to compete with UPS and FEDEX.

Smug me? I was smiling and commiserating at the same time. Then I snapped to. I said, "Oh, Lord, wonder what mine's gonna come to?"

My Clerk: Laughing. Oh, just you wait.

I saw the numbers in the little swiper, and prayed for dignity and grace. Let me tell you this: IT COST ME OVER $10 TO MAIL TWO CHOCOLATE BARS TO THE UK!

Excuse me. I have to walk away so I can swear inside my closet.

Another one for Estados Unidos Da America

My second postcard came just minutes ago. I have a sore throat so I've been just the teeniest bit aggrieved since waking. Did not feel like walking to the mail box. Felt worse when I finally reached it, opened it and saw nothing but the usual junk. The postman ticks me off when he folds my lovely magazines down the center. I hate that. Have I mentioned it before? I seem to live on Redundant Drive lately. . .

Oh! As I was saying, a postcard and a Christmas card were tucked inside the circulars. I smiled when I saw the postmarks! This one is from Portugal. His lovely card boasts a view of the Serra Da Estrela (Parque Natural, or Natural Park). It is the highest peak in Portugal. My first geography lesson about Portugal from a stranger. Very nice. 

There's also a language lesson involved. It's easy, but I like it. I live in Estados Unidos Da America. Ain't that a lovely mouthful?

*****This was just discovered on one of my other blogs, obviously in the wrong place! It was published there on 12/21/2010. This is what I get for having too many blogs. 

Here's another:  Please Mr. Postman, published 1/27/2011

Serendipity strikes again! Serendipity does not wear a cape. It is not masked. And no, it doesn't come when it's asked. Serendipity just is. So, always be prepared. Have plenty of stamps on hand. Be prepared, people. Be prepared.

serendipity |ˌserənˈdipitē|nounthe occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way fortunate stroke of serendipity a series of small serendipities.
This letter-writing thing is buzzing through my life like a bee in a bonnet. A letter I wrote last week to a friend in Colorado was returned today--stamped Return to Sender. I immediately thought of the returned Christmas card. The intended recipient had passed on a year and a half ago. I don't want to believe lightning strikes the same pen twice. Trying not to think about the possibility that Bill might have passed on as well, only depresses me. 

I am nervous about calling to see if he's okay, because the phone number is at the same address I mailed the letter to. It stands to reason that if no mail is accepted there, then the phone has to be disconnected, too. Right? Calling and learning I'm right will only depress me more. Right?  So, what else can a sister do, except sing, "Please Mr. Postman?" 
Well, I did, and that's when I just read that Gladys Horton, a co-founder of the Marvelettes, and singer of "Please Mr. Postman" has passed on. She was 66. And in a nursing home! How sad is that?
The song was the first hit for Motown. Who knew? Dang! They sang "Beachwood 4-5789," too! I lip-synced that one at a school talent show at G. W. Carver Elementary School. Three of my classmates lip-synced the background vocals. I used to love that song! Was always wiggling my skinny hips when I sang it.
Singing . . . ". . . So, my number is Beachwood 4-5789. You can call me up and have a date any old time . . ." Alas! There goes another part of my girlhood.

Sorrow and sadness aside, Mr. Postman has been kind to me this week. Despite the letters that bear black arm bands, the post has brought me another lovely postcard from Poland. It also brought me a lovely, unique thank-you note from Quebec. You are so welcome, Gillian. Both the card and note card came on a day when I needed a bit of cheer. Unexpected is always the best kind. Right?
I like getting and sending mail. So, in honor of Ms Gladys Horton, sing along with me, "Please Mr. Postman, look and see if there's a letter or a card in your bag for me. The sooner the better . . ." 

Now go and write to someone! And I bet they'll write you back. If they don't, just tell me and I will write to you myself.
This LimnerP.S. R.I.P. Gladys Horton.
Another:  Illumination for Beauty's Sake, 7/27/2011

This is one of the most beautiful postcards I've had the pleasure of receiving. It came via Postcrossing. I wish I could read all that's written here. Everything about it touches the artist parts of me. It speaks to the calligrapher in me. It speaks to the parts of me that appreciate the thoughtfulness of the sender. And if I could pass on this piece of beauty, I would. I would pass it on to Amy Winehouse. I have missed her for a long time now. I guess I will go on missing her for even longer. 

I wish the words on my postcard were about beauty, and life, and one-of-a-kindness, and one-of-a-kind-molds breaking after a single cast. If I could make it so, I would write it all down on this little card, address it to Amy Winehouse--address unknown, stick on a stamp, and mail it. Maybe then I could end my mourning for an artist whose songs embraced, and enticed me into embracing in return after the first notes she flung my way. She illuminated the world of music. Within her lay a part of the mystery of illumination.

Dang! There's more . . .