Forbidden Fruit

 No, this isn't a grocery store post although I keep meaning to tell Julie that blueberries are $2.99 a pint where I live and are mostly from Mexico, Peru, and Argentina. Sorry I forgot, J.

This is actually a Self-Pity Post about feeling old and a little pathetic. I'm going to get very Share-y right now, and I need your support. 

Here goes.

I have a little crush on 

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Myles Garrett of the Cleveland Browns football team. I find him very attractive; moreover, he likes Elton John music, writes poetry, and studies dinosaurs. Look how cute he is. 

Additionally (oh, it only gets worse!) I have a continuing Thing for

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Timothée Chalamet and his perfectly sculpted chin and cheekbones. I know absolutely nothing about him except that I think he should use the French pronunciation of his first name, not the American (even though it would sound sort of sing-songy, so I guess I get why he doesn't). I don't even watch his movies. I just find his whole head incredibly beautiful.

Both of these men are only 27 years old. I am old enough to be their...(where is Mikey to do my math!?) ... well, certainly their mother. Could I be their grandmother as well? Give me a moment--no Mikey. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*

Holy crap, yes. Yes, I could be. If their mothers were only 18 when they had Timothée and Myles, they would be 45 now. That means I'd have been 19 when I had them. It's a bit of a stretch, but certainly possible. 

Sigh. It's just pathetic. And a little creepy. But here's the thing. The man I used to have a Major Crush on now looks like this

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That is what is left of Daniel Day-Lewis. For your reference, here is what he used to look like when we all I fell in love with him lo! these many years ago

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Just saying. Daniel Day-Lewis turned 66 this past year. I'm all for embracing your age, but yikes! Don't tell me he couldn't look way better than he does.

In the meantime I'll appreciate these Cute Men from afar despite the fact that they could call me Nana. How about you? Tell me you have a Forbidden Fruit, too.

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Meet My Superhero

 Looky looky what I got!

That's 10--count 'em--10 packages!

Ten packages of Biscoff were sent to me via Amazon. My superfriend Mikey in California sent them to me after reading my post. Unfortunately, my cookies were waylaid. Mikey sent me a text on Friday asking me if I "got the cookies." I was confused. He told me he ordered some Biscoff to be sent to me and that Amazon had confirmed delivery on Monday. I assured him that they never arrived and, had they done so, I would have thanked him immediately. 

He was understandably irritated that his surprise was ruined. He contacted Amazon and got his refund. He said he would try again, and I told him it wasn't necessary. I was just so pleased to be in his thoughts, and I truly didn't want him paying those ridiculous prices, either.

Today I was out hanging up a block of seed for the woodpeckers on my front porch. I heard someone say, "There you are." It scared the hell out of me. I turned around to see my neighbor (the rather shitful one) standing there with a box. "I took this box to work thinking it was my books. I opened it and discovered it wasn't. Hey, I guess even they get it wrong once in a while." I took the box and thanked him for bringing it over. "It came about a week ago," he said. I thanked him again (although why, I don't know--my name was clearly on the box, as was my address) and he lumbered on home with nary an apology.

Inside the open box was my case of Biscoff, of course, from Mikey. I took the box in and it reeked of smoke. So did the carton holding the Biscoff. That box had been open a while, marinating in cigarette smoke, probably sitting in his house. Luckily, my Biscoff wrappers did not smell of smoke. I sent Mikey a text immediately informing him of the situation.

"Another batch is being delivered today," he informed me. "They shouldn't stink of cigarette smoke."

And there was! OMG SO MUCH BISCOFF!

That's 20 packages of Biscoff, for those of you scoring at home!

I told Mikey that I love him forever and that he is my Superhero. He also Did Math for me and told me that "it was only $22.48 for ten boxes. So as evil as Amazon is, it's a cheap way to get Biscoff, and proof that Biscoff doesn't need to cost $5 a package." 

Listen, I'll take a Superhero who does my math and buys me cookies any day. As a bonus, Mikey FaceTimes me from wonderful locations around the world as he travels. I think he only has 17 countries left, and then he has been to them all. (And I've been to a lot of them with him, in a way.) He's the best.

Biscoff is back on the menu at the Dept. for the forseeable, and I will be judicious and prudent. I don't want to have to break up with them like I did with Cheetos, or feel icky about them like I do with Original Lay's and now Peanut M&Ms. I can't do that to Mikey, Superfriend and Superhero. 

Snow Business: I Have A Problem

Greetings from the snowy depths of NEO in February. We have had snow on the ground here for approximately eleventy thousand of February's twenty-something days so far, most of which have been below freezing. And cloudy. If you listen closely, you can hear the screaming inside my head.

Because it is far too treacherous to take my daily walks, I happily shovel the snow from our driveway, sidewalk, front porch, and walkway. As I said in a previous post, it offers many rewards besides good exercise. Only when it is a particularly heavy or six-inches-all-at-once kind of snow am I not out there shovelling.

There is, however, a Dark and Unseemly Side to my snow shovelling habit. My sense of satisfaction at a job well done has turned into a fetish, a compulsion almost. My driveway must not just be shovelled. It must be completely clear of snow, scraped clean of ice, and a paragon of snow removal. It must be the Example By Which All Other Driveways Everywhere Are Measured.

Let me illustrate what I'm talking about by showing you a few photos. Here is what a normal person's snowpile looks like along the side of her driveway.

This is my neighbor's, two doors down.

See how the snowpile is just snow? There are some clumps here and there from a snowblower. For those of you who don't often see snow, you might even think it "looks pretty." (I'm trying hard not to hold that against you.)

On the very same day, here is the snowpile alongside my driveway after I had been outside shovelling.

Not so pretty, is it?

I cannot Just Shovel. Part of the problem is that my driveway gets driven on early in the morning when Rick leaves for work. This packs the snow down into tire tracks. Sam also comes for lunch, and if it's still snowing, his big truck tires pack the snow down even more. But once my shovel hits bare concrete one time, the Sickness takes hold, and I can't stop. Pretty soon, I'm scraping and chipping, and my snowpile looks like this:

Isn't it beautiful and awful at the same time?

Once those big pieces start coming up, I'm hooked. I'll stay out there until my shoulders are on fire and my hands and feet are numb and dead. Rick's at work; there's no one to stop me, to appeal to what's left of my sense of Reason. I'm on a Mission, and that Mission is a completely clear driveway. Even if there is a forecast for more snow that night--or even that same afternoon!--I do it anyway. I have no idea why.

I have come in from a bout of my Crazed Shovelling and gone straight into a hot shower, my whole body aching, only to get out and seek the comfort of a heating pad on my back and shoulders. More than once, my son Sam has caught me at my task, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Today, Rick called me from work specifically to tell me NOT TO EVEN ATTEMPT TO GO OUT AND SCRAPE ANY ICE FROM THE DRIVEWAY. I was mildly irritated; it was definitely something I had planned to do today. (There's no way a shovel would do it, but we have a different tool in the garage that would be perfect.)

Honestly, though, look at this stuff. Look at the layer of ice on the bottom and how compressed the snow is. That stuff used to be on my driveway!

Good riddance!

Am I alone in this? I definitely am the only Afflicted one in my family. No one else is so crazed about snow removal/driveway grooming in Winter. I know how nuts it is. Help me through it in Comments.

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November Challenge Post #18: My Collections

As a person who likes order and symmetry, I also like things to match and coordinate. Even when I am merely hanging out at home for the day, I make sure my clothes are coordinated, and that my shoes match my outfit. Taken further, my glasses must also match what I'm wearing for the day, even if all I'm wearing is black leggings and a grey sweatshirt.

Oh, I do love a theme, a motif, a color scheme, and a focal point. Each one makes everything so much easier. They also lead to Collecting. Here are three of 

My Collections

1. Cows:  As my veteran Readers know, I am almost preternaturally fond of Cows. I have been all of my life. It gives me great joy to be able to surround myself with them in my kitchen, which is cow-themed. What I am showing you is approximately one-tenth of my current Cow Collection. As many of you with Object Fondnesses know, once you express that Fondness, people start giving you tons of tchochkes in that realm. I have garage-saled dozens and dozens of Cow Items, and I still have more not on display. Here are a couple of photos of my Cowful Kitchen.

2. Books and Special Wine Bottles:  I have some very, very old books. Some were my husband's grandparents' from school. Others were from an insurance restoration job that Rick was the project manager for ages ago. He saw they were being discarded and brought them home for me. They are nineteenth century primers and sermonettes, among others. One is a leather-bound collection of Tennyson with a handpainted cover. 

We also save the bottles from wines that we especially loved and found to be incredibly excellent. If it knocks one out of the collection, then that bottle is retired. We have the bottles on the dining room table amongst some of the old books and some candlesticks and other objects of significance. Other bottles are on our mantel among still more old books, and a few more decorate a breakfront in the living room and bookshelves there where even more books reside. Here's a photo of my dining room table.

3. High Heels:  I had a terrific (and extensive) professional shoe wardrobe during my teaching career. My students always checked out my shoes every day, and I loved my high heels. There was simply not an outfit for which I did not have a perfect pair of shoes. Sadly, they now live upstairs in the back of my husband's big closet, like the wing of a Nance Museum. I know I should donate them or, in some cases, just toss them, but I can't bring myself to do it. Here's a sample of my Teacher Shoes.

I had to stop with those few. The cats were starting to climb around back there and at one point, I pulled out yet another work boot of Rick's. How many old pairs of work boots can one person have? (Yes, I'm hearing the irony in that remark, but really, it's not the same thing at all.)

What are some things you collect or have collected? Or, how do you feel about Collections?

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Bug Stuff, The Movie!

 

I just could not Let It Go. 

I'll be back here in a day or so--which you all know is NanceSpeak for a week, more likely--with something more substantial. But this damn Technical Difficulty was not going to break me. 

You were going to watch this mantis eat her mate whether you cared or not. Gosh, I feel better.

Carry on.

In Which I Admit I Have A Problem (But I'm Not Doing Much About It)

Ah, September! You are sneaking away so speedily, like the chipmunks that scatter across my deck. When I sit out on my chaise lounge, book in hand and ice water tumbler in a shady spot, I'm so quiet and still that many of them wander right up to my chair. If I've sought the coolness of my umbrella table, some will even scamper across my feet. The moment I move to grab a sip or turn a page, however, they run for cover as if launched.

And here's me, trying to think of the last time I ran. Oh, ha ha. It is to laugh.

Perhaps I shall have to run one day soon. You see, each day on my walk, I pass by a tall fence bordering the sidewalk, and peeping out from its slats are a few fronds of a cherry tomato plant. Every so often, there is a perfectly cheerful little ripe tomato, completely red and plump, hanging there to greet me. I've been picking them and eating them as I go on about my way, telling myself that it's Perfectly Okay, that they're Sidewalk Tomatoes, all the while living in fear that the gardeners will one day catch me at it and I'll have to a) run like hell and reroute my walk; or b) face up to my sin and apologize like the Tomato Thief I am.

More likely, I'll walk by one day and there will be a sign that says STOP STEALING OUR TOMATOES! THIS MEANS YOU!

All of those things sound terrible.

But today, I ate two of them and they were terrific.

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Be Careful What You Wish For: A Little Sunshine Is A Dangerous Thing

Today one of the worst possible Nance Domestic Equations occurred, and put simply, It Was Not Good. It set into motion a chain of events that became frantic, manic, and so far-reaching that it just may cancel Christmas here at The Dept. as we have heretofore known It.

I was unready for this Perfect Storm, and when the maelstrom was upon me, I was already so in the thick of it that I was powerless to stop it. The momentum of my astonishment, anger, dismay, and industry carried me on until I was literally too spent to continue. And when I now ponder a Christmas tree and its worky luxe...I feel I might take to my bed (ah! if only I had a fainting couch!).

What on Earth were the Terrible Factors in this Equation, you ask? What Horrific Elements conspired to bring about such Disastrous Results?

Here they are:

Bright Sunshine Streaming Into My Kitchen
I Had A Rag In My Hand
Rick Was Not Here (To Stop Me)

It was, in a word, scary.

I was like a woman possessed, a Whirling Dervish of Windex, a Tasmanian Devil of the Dishrag, and a Hurricane of Scrubbery. I cleaned in a fever-dream; the sun mocked me ceaselessly, showed me everything.

The broom in my hand swept me into the dining room where the sunlight sparkled on cat hair in the corner, just out of reach of the vacuum. I traded in my wet rag for a dry one and a can of Pledge, knowing they would lead me to the leather furniture and more tables and shelves in the living room. It would be Eternal, Endless, Infinite. Would Rick never, ever come home? Would the sun never set?

Would I die?

On and on it went. I vacuumed. I unloaded the dishwasher. I emptied wastebaskets. I dusted and tidied the desk in the office. Hysterical, at one point I even considered bathing a cat. At that moment, I knew Things Had Gone Too Far. I had to, somehow, rein myself in. I realized I had not eaten all day. Was I delusional?

I went to the kitchen to forage for a snack. It looked beautiful--so clean and perfect. And...dim. Suddenly, I realized that it wasn't so sunny anymore. I took a look out the window and saw a milky sky with gathering grey clouds. And felt myself relax. It was over.

I am exhausted.

What It's Like To Be All Of Me: Television

When I read a book or watch television or listen to the radio, my Internal English Teacher, Writer, and Editor immediately report for duty. It's incredibly exhausting, dragging these people around with me constantly. I wish they'd go away. They make my life a constant trial, like having that itchy tag in the back of your shirt when you're impossibly occupied and can't do a thing about it. Or like when your neighbour suddenly and inexplicably hangs wind chimes, and you never get another quiet evening out on the patio ever again. Or when you feel like you have something in your eye, but you absolutely cannot see what it is, let alone get the damn thing out. These Alter Egos endlessly alert me to little faux pas in grammar, spelling, mechanics, and usage in both written and spoken language. Why? Why? It's not like I can do a single thing about them other than Despair and Lament, Wail and Gnash My Teeth, and otherwise Moan and Fret about the downward spiral of The Language and The Intellect Of Our Country.

It's a good thing I Drink.

Here's a couple of examples from TV:

A week or so ago, one of the cutest on-the-spot reporters for the local Cleveland news affiliate was on the scene of a pretty big fire that included an explosion. Brandon--that's his name--was standing in the foreground of the devastation, and here's how part of his segment went:

Brandon: As you can see, Sarah, the building is a total loss, and there's damage to the property beside it as well. Several other neighbouring fire departments had to be called out to contain the blaze.

Sarah: Oh my. What about casualties? Was anyone hurt?

Brandon: Well, there is some good news there, Sarah. The people inside weren't there.

?!?!?!?!

Sigh. It's a good thing I love Brandon. It really is.

This next one is from a commercial for a legal team. For some reason, lawyer commercials are particularly bad at mechanics and grammar. "We" try to have my phone ready to snap a picture every time one comes on.

thought I'd better obscure the phone #

How in the hell is a dead person going to call for a free legal consultation? Just who are these people marketing to? WHAT IS HAPPENING OUT THERE? AND WHY MUST I ALWAYS BE ALERTED TO IT?

Am I alone in this? Share your Irks or at least make me feel better in Comments.


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It Started With The Coffeemaker

On Saturday, Rick repaired--again--my coffeemaker. I'm inordinately and irrationally fond of this coffeemaker, a Cuisinart drip model circa 2004-5, and I refuse to let it go. When I first discovered it was leaking a month ago, he took it apart and replaced a hose. My Gratitude and Joy were boundless. Last week, when it started leaking again, all Rick did was to mildly berate himself for not replacing both hoses when he had the thing apart the first time, and set about taking it apart again. This time, unfortunately, the repair was more difficult and tedious.

Lucky for him, my own tasks took me in and out of the kitchen so that I could check on his progress help. On one of my sojourns through his work area, he asked me to hold the light so that he could use both hands to maneuver the circuit panel/board back into place and put everything back together.

But it wouldn't all fit back in. I watched my husband's face carefully for clues: was my coffeemaker terminal? did he really know what he was doing? was I going to have to get dressed and do my hair in order to go get coffee in the morning? WAS LIFE AS I KNOW IT OVER?

My search of his features yielded nothing. His expression was one of Placid Determination and Quiet Concentration. Clearly, I was going to have to Get Involved.

"Maybe you should just untie that bigass knot in the cord there," I suggested helpfully. "It seems to be holding up the whole shebang."

"It's not that."

"Okay." He moved around a lot of wires and cords and the panel/board thing. He tried a couple more times to get it all to fit. He looked at a piece of plastic that fit on the back near the power cord. It was obvious that my expertise was necessary here. I thought carefully about Strategy, Tact, and the cost of Marital Counseling.

Then I decided to speak up anyway. "Hey, Rick? Maybe they just tied that knot in that cord because of some UL regulations about cord length or something. You know? I feel like--"

And suddenly, right in front of me, Rick was screwing the bottom onto the coffeemaker. Just like that.

"Hey!" I said. "You got it! Yay!"

"Yep," he said. "Nance, that knot in the cord is there to keep the panel from being yanked all the way out."

"Oh. Well, you could have said that from the beginning! Why didn't you say that before?"

"I just thought about it."

I boosted myself onto the kitchen counter to keep him company while he finished up. We needed to test the coffeemaker to see if it worked and to see if it would leak again. "And how did you do all this tedious, frustrating work without swearing? If it were me, I'd have been a few Eff Words deep and then some."

"Because every time you hear me swear while I work, you think something's wrong. And then you worry. So I learned not to do that."

For a moment I was floored by this.  It showed a depth of understanding and concern that truly touched me.  It showed that Rick had listened to me over these many, many years!  "Wow," I said.  "That's really true, and I very much appreciate that, but okay, hold on. Of all the fantastic advice I've given you in all the years we've known each other, what percentage of it would you say that you've actually listened to?"

Rick held the coffeepot up to eye level to measure its contents before pouring it into the machine. He plugged the coffeemaker in, flipped the switch, and without turning around said definitively, "Seventy percent. Your coffeemaker is working."

My heart was full. I was so happy! As soon as that red light came on and I heard the sound of water successfully burbling through My Precious Coffeemaker, I almost gave Rick a pass on his preposterous answer. Almost. "Seventy percent! That's ridiculous. No way is it seventy percent. I'd put it at forty percent, tops. Especially if you figure in follow-through, like when I say you should ice your leg or take a naproxyn or stay off screens after 9PM. And you don't."

"Look under here when I lift this up," he said. "See if you see any water." He carefully raised the coffeemaker, and I craned my neck to see beneath it. A few drops of water were collecting on the newly-replaced hose. A wire clamp dangled, too. I reported these to Rick, who sighed patiently. "I can't believe I forgot to put the clamp back on after all that."

"Don't burn yourself. Be careful. Why don't you wait until it cools way down? It's easy enough just to put the clamp on, right?" I leaned over to provide Support and show Concern, so much so that I almost fell into the sink. I needn't have bothered; by the time I had expressed my Profound Sentiments, Rick had unscrewed the bottom of the unit, replaced the clamp, and started to screw it back in place.

"Why don't more people take my advice?" I asked him. "I'm not talking about the people on TV; I know they can't hear me when I tell them what to do. More people need to do exactly what I say. And immediately. Everything would be better."

"Maybe a lot of people do take your advice. They just don't tell you about it."

A final check of the coffeemaker proved successful. Hopefully, I'll have another fifteen years of Good Service and Good Coffee from it.  I'll let you know.

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Throw It Out Thursday: Kitchen Table Linens (Supposedly) Drawer

One goal of mine has been to eliminate Junk Repositories from my home. I detest cutesy Crap Containers, so-called Organizers, any flat surfaces designated for detritus to accumulate, and all manner of Clutter. Part of the reason is that we have a very small house; another is that I am home now for a large part of the day and have to deal with it/look at it.  (I dream of getting rid of my coffee table, but we do use it.)

When we went to set the breakfast nook table for our Informal Thanksgiving, the Kitchen Table Linens Drawer quite simply exploded. In the search for tablecloth and matching napkins, (and a placemat for Zydrunas's dishes on the floor), stuff was rooted through, and only with superhuman effort would the drawer begrudgingly close again...almost. Rick and I rarely use an actual table for meals now, opting for more casual dinners on the couch while watching the evening news. The Drawer, therefore, had become neglected, and while I was aware that it needed editing, I was unaware of exactly what had been squirreled away in there of a decidedly Non-Linen nature.

Here, then, is what got Thrown Out of the Drawer today:

First of all, that Lowe's receipt is so old, you cannot even read what the item was or how much it cost.  It was stuffed way in the back.  The little plastic tub was not in the drawer, but it is overflowing with the doodads that somehow found their way into the linens:  screws, a plastic bag of hooks from before my subway tiles were installed, a key safe, a light timer (like for when you go away and want burglars to think someone is home), a broken cover for my refrigerator's water filter, a partial tube of silicon adhesive, some hooks for my pot rack, and a slew of other stuff, including a ceramic cow's ear for a cow I no longer have in my collection.  Rick will have a little sorting job to do.

(I'm sorry to see that cow hook up there get tossed.  I love it, but I have nowhere to put it, and while the repair is an easy one to make, it will also be easy to see.)

And yes, those are actual linens from the drawer I'm either tossing, donating, or selling cheaply at the next garage sale.

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Teacher Tuesday: Reader Mail For The Dept. And Me (Or Should That Be I?)

Devoted and Long-Time Reader John from Gettysburg sent me an email today questioning me about this sentence in yesterday's post:

The parade will provide several opportunities for Rick and I to exhibit our complete lack of awareness in the areas of Broadway Musicals, Cartoon Stars, and B/C-List Celebrities...

wondering specifically about the particular phrase for Rick and I.

I wish John did not live so far away in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, because he really needs to be right here in Northeast Ohio to give me a Good Hard Smack. Immediately and with Great Alacrity.

Because, holy crap, what a Rookie Mistake. And if I saw it or heard it anyplace, I'd be all over it like...well, Me On A Grammatical Or Spelling Error Made By Someone Who Knows Better.

I'm so mortified, my face is falling off.

But every Mistake is a Learning Opportunity, so here is the reason why the phrase should have been for Rick and me:

"For" is a preposition; therefore, it requires an object, the objective case pronoun "me." One way to check is to remove the compound ("several opportunities for me"). You wouldn't say "several opportunities for I", would you? No, nor would I, even though I made that silly error.

"Perhaps this will make Nance more forgiving and less of a Language Martinet," some people may be saying. Sadly, they would be wrong.

And yes, of course I corrected yesterday's post.

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Sign Language Saturday: Feeding My Addiction To Names

Along with shoes, cows, and books, I've been sort of obsessed with Names since I was a child. I've written about Names quite a bit here at the Dept., and I've mentioned more than once how I feel disappointed with my own. My given Name, Nancy, has never suited me; I shortened it to Nance early on and have gone by it professionally and personally for decades. I'm not excited about that Name, either, but oh well.

Having a boring and unsuitable Name has made me a noticer and coveter and collector of Names. I love beautiful Names (like Annabelle), unusual Names (like Barkevious), melodious Names (Vivienne), evocative Names (Tristan), and am fascinated by trends in Names. Lucky for me, there is a Sign that feeds my Name Addiction, and I pass by it at least once a week. It is on the grounds of an elementary school not very far at all from where I live, and it lists the Names of all its weekly Pride Award Winners. Here are this week's:

(I've blacked out surnames and the name of the school for privacy/security reasons. These are, after all, elementary kids.)

This is quite a hoity-toity, high-tea-in-the-drawing-room-sounding collection of Names, is it not?  I feel like Victoria, Cameron, and Elizabeth are probably sitting there, backs nice and straight, politely applauding with gloved hands whilst Caleb collects his Pride Award, hoping that their Good Example is followed by the rest of the class.

Those Names are a bit of a departure from the previous week, when the Pride Awards went to Dallas, Raven, Liam, and Aniyah.  These Winners probably had to take an hour off from their MTv reality show or maybe from taping "4ForRock", a KidzChannel show about four elementary school kids who are in an after-school rock band and yes, each one is a fashion doll, available now!

Previous to that week, Jordan, Amari, Marissa, and Ciara collected Awards.  Each of them likely used their acceptance speech as a platform for his or her work with International Charitable Organizations, a couple of which they personally founded.  I bet a short personal video from Angelina Jolie was shown, including an original song sung by native children they inspired.

I love Names!  I love them all, and I love the character they seem to convey.  Names are fun and interesting.  This sign gives me a little boost every week.  I think I'll add its list of first Names to my sidebar just in case anyone else likes to check in on Names.

Teacher Tuesday: Language Alert!

www.tias.com

Welcome to Teacher Tuesday, where I come out of Retirement once a week to talk about something in my Field Of Expertise (English) or something Incredibly Thinky that I read or heard and want to hear your opinions about.

Today's topic is a Threat-Level-Yellow, or Mildly Irritating, Language Alert. Because I have had to be Out In Society lately, due to St. Patsy's Health Maintenance Appointments and my own errands, I have been exposed more than usual to Other People talking.

I know.

Here are the Slings And Arrows Of Outrageous Language that I was forced to Suffer:

1. All of the sudden. "Wow! That wind came up, and all of the sudden, the temperature dropped like ten degrees." This phrase is never, ever correct. There is no particular, singular instance of suddens. It is an adverb. Would you say this sudden, that sudden, those suddens? The correct phrase is and always has been ALL OF A SUDDEN.  If you don't like it or remain confused, just say the economical and always correct "suddenly."

2. I seen. "I seen you only had one item, so no use in you being behind me." This was said by such a kind and gracious gentleman ahead of me at the store, and I thanked him profusely. The persistence and proliferation of "seen" as the plain past tense of the verb "see", however, is killing me a little more each day. Why is this happening? What is wrong with the perfectly good--and correct--word "saw"? "Seen" is only used with helping verbs: I had seen; I have seen. When you add a form of "be", use the -ing: I have been seeing.

3. Have went. "I've went to that place three times now, and each time there's been no handicapped spots." I am continually mystified by this particular linguistic quirk. How did it come to pass? Why can't the speaker hear how clunky and wrong it sounds? Why hasn't he or she ever heard of the word "gone"? "Went" is simple past tense of the verb "go". I went; she went; we went. If you add the helping verbs, then use "gone": I have gone; she has gone; we have gone. Again, when you add "be", use -ing: They have been going.

4. Expresso. "That baby acts like it has shots of expresso in its bottle, I swear!" Sigh. It's ESPRESSO. There is NO "X". One of my sons came home from classes one day and said he could no longer truly respect anything his English instructor said because she persisted in pronouncing this word incorrectly. It was a tough time for him, and I completely understood how he felt.

5. Hone In On. "This particular screen can really hone in on that rotation pattern." No, it can't. Perhaps it can HOME in on it, which is what radar is designed to do. Honing is what you do with blades; it refers to the act of sharpening on a whetstone (or the stone itself). The phrase is HOME IN ON, which means to aim toward a specific target.

Have you heard these out and about?  Do they set your teeth on edge, too? 

Way Back When Wednesday: How I Came To Love Shoes

I'm not entirely sure as to when--or even where--I first saw The Wizard of Oz in color, but it had a profound effect on me. Oh, sure, I was a little afraid of that scary closeup of Margaret Hamilton's wicked witch face, and I wanted to wear my own long, dark hair like Dorothy's, but what I really wanted was those Shoes.

Once I saw those beautiful red sparkling shoes, I could not watch anything else. Oh, what I would have given for a pair of red shoes, and if they sparkled, what heaven! And those ruby slippers did not have shoelaces, either. They were simply perfect. And so Unlike any shoes I ever owned (or would ever own, I knew).

A child of the Midwest, attending public elementary school in the early 60s, did not wear sparkling ruby slippers, especially the child of a steelworker and stay-at-home mom and one who had three siblings. No, my footwear consisted of an endless parade of black and white saddle shoes and tennis shoes from the 2 for 5$ rack at the Pic-Way Shoe Mart. And before the ruby slippers made their commanding appearance, I coveted a pair of black patent leather Mary Janes. A few girls at school had them, and I used to look at them with equal parts envy and despair. One day, the elderly neighbors across the street had their granddaughter over for a visit. Pam was my age, and we often played together for part of the day when she came. This time, she wanted to demonstrate what she'd been learning in her tap-dancing lessons, so she brought out her tap shoes. They were black patent Mary Janes shined to a mirrored lustre. After her brief dance, she asked me if I would like to try them on and perhaps tap a little. As I slid them on and fastened their buckles, I almost cried. They fit me perfectly! Pam showed me a few basic tap steps, but I barely performed them. All I wanted to do was to wear those shiny black Mary Jane shoes.

I steadily hated my shoes for most of my early school career, but I was not the kind of child to complain. I always assumed that whatever my parents gave me or did was what was correct and allowed and that was simply the way it was. If there were other options, I would have been presented with them. Since I wasn't, I accepted things the way they were and vowed that one day, I would buy beautiful shoes for myself.

Even during church, as I knelt in the pew after Communion, head bowed, I watched the aisleway as people returned to their seats. Instead of praying, I was looking at their shoes, picking out the best ones, choosing a favourite, and always looking for red ones and, of course, patent leather Mary Janes. Because I was In Church and because I was Catholic, I felt very guilty about Not Praying and Being Envious about other people's shoes, but I did it every single week.

Once I became a Career Woman, I finally indulged my desire for Beautiful Shoes. I bought high-heeled shoes for every outfit and shoes that I loved and knew I'd wear with something someday. I prowled sale racks and found terrific bargains. I have plaid shoes, polka dot shoes, sparkly shoes, silver shoes, gold shoes, purple shoes, orange shoes, cheetah print shoes, and yes, red shoes. And I do have a pair or two of Mary Janes.  I do not have a single pair of saddle shoes. Upstairs in a closet are all of my shoes, the only part of my work wardrobe that I did not donate. Sometimes I look at them like relics in a museum of my life. They make me happy and a little sad at the same time. They are all high-heels, and I don't have anyplace to wear them now. Once in a while there is a Special Occasion, though not too often.

But trust me: I still buy Beautiful Shoes and Boots for my Retired Life. Life is too short to drink mediocre wine, eat bad food, and wear ugly shoes.


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L Is For Lots Of Things, So Here Is A List

Oh, hello there. Life--another L Word--got in the way for a time, and things sort of Got Away From Me. Then there was a little Jaunt northward, some Wine Loveliness, and here we are. How about a little

List Of L's

1. Liver
2. Long Hair
3. Lemon Meringue Pie
4. Loneliness
5. Lake Season

Alrighty then; shall we on?

1. It is a small and continuing Sadness in my life that even though I truly love Liver, I only get to eat it once or twice a year. I grew up eating Liver at least once per month, expertly sauteed in gorgeous caramelized onions and served with mashed potatoes. Often, it was accompanied by my other Food Crush, big fat lima beans doused in butter, salt, and pepper. All of this was lovingly prepared by my mother, St. Patsy, much to everyone else's chagrin, at the request of my father, who also loved liver. Now, no one cooks it since Dad has been gone for 16 years, and everyone else hates it except me. Happily, a restaurant in Niagara-on-the-Lake that we like does it wonderfully (mashed potatoes, even!), so I can at least get it there occasionally.

2. After the Pixie Debacle, my hair has grown out past my shoulders and I could not be happier. Actually, that is A Lie. I could be a teensy bit happier: my hair could stop being recalcitrant and obdurate and, overall, an asshole. But I am trying to Be Mindful and Remember My Growing-Out Angst. I also want to mention my continued impatience? bemusement? overall wonderment? at the (largely male) reactions to my husband's very Long (and always well-kept) silver-streaked Hair. No,  everyone (Men), he is not in a band. Sigh. Wow.

3. Oh, Lemon Meringue Pie, I fear that I will have to break up with you. No one else loves you the way I do, and even when I buy the smallest size of you at the pie shop, I struggle to eat you before you become yucky. And, let's face it, I do not ever eat the Meringue (who does? ugh). What I need is Just The Lemon Part, in jars, and with a shelf life of several weeks. I know--lemon curd--but I want it to be Pie-Perfect.

4. While I was teaching, I found it very necessary to keep my Work Life and my Real Life separate. I was also very Private. I needed that for my sanity and to minimize my stress. And it worked pretty well. I left Work at Work, and Home was my sanctuary and never the twain met. Unfortunately, the Flaw in that plan has come to light now, and that flaw is that sometimes, I get a little Lonely. Teaching--at least for me--was such an intense and intensive career that I didn't make many Outside Friends; certainly not while I was actively raising my boys. Now, with Rick at work and me at home, there are times when, unless I make witty observations to the cats, I go the entire day without speaking to anyone. Please don't suggest a part-time job or volunteering. Both of those would certainly want me to follow a schedule, and I am not going to do that. Honestly, I just can't.

5. Spring has finally come to Ohio (but my snow shovels will stay on the deck until the end of April, just to be safe), but that last Winter Storm this month almost pushed me over the edge. Rick and I are even more eager for Lake Season to start, and I caught him leafing through a fishing lure catalog last week. There will be fewer snakes this year since all the shoreline bushes have been taken out, so my axe is retired. We became quite well-known last year for being The Ones With The Wineglasses On The Boat. (Why are we the only ones?)

Again, sorry for being so Late with the L's. Let's hear some of yours, or, as always, your Comments on mine.

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Do Me--And Edgar--A Favour With This Poem, Won't You?

June, my Golden Month of Summer, burns out at midnight tonight. When I was teaching, June was my True Summer month, for it seemed that once July blazed in, time began running much faster, the days sizzled so much hotter, and soon, my countdown of the days back to school would start in earnest.

This year, however, June proved to be my July. Over almost before it started, June made me feel as if I never stopped driving, doing, and squeezing things in. And now, Poetry Month is over with this post. Perhaps I shall beg your indulgence and discuss poems every now and then regardless of the month. As St. Patsy, whose birthday is in June (hence her middle name!), would say, "We'll see."

My final poem must be one of my favourites, and it must be by one of my favourite authors. All of my Loyal and Longtime Readers know that I have long felt a strange sense of responsibility toward defending the memory of Edgar Allan Poe. Vilified by a rival who wrote a scathing obituary, Poe's legacy was left to wallow in a mire of jealous inaccuracies and sad half-truths. The blanks were filled in by ignorant analyses of his macabre stories and poems, which, because they have first-person narrators, were mistakenly seen as autobiographical and psychological unburdenings.

As if the facts of his poor life, both childhood and adult, aren't pitiful enough.

This poem is sad, but I want to look at something else about it. First, of course, you need to read it. It is the incredibly beautiful

Annabel Lee.


It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe was a careful, meticulous, downright picky craftsman when it came to his poetry. Nothing--and I truly mean nothing--was by chance in his poems. Every single word, line, stanza, set of parentheses, and exclamation point had been sweated over. He was a bit of the egomaniac; he held most other contemporaries in disdain, so he had to be perfect by comparison.

This poem, like so many of Poe's works, has a first person speaker. He starts out very rhythmically, very calmly as he recalls for his listener the love of his life. But by the time you get to the third stanza, and the speaker is recounting a more emotionally taxing part of his love story, the meter/rhythm begins to unravel. Your reading is a bit choppier; it's as if you are perhaps fighting those sobs, that you are breathing a bit heavily, becoming upset. The fourth stanza is the emotional peak of the poem. You can really see the heavy punctuation, the frequent stops for breath. And the speaker stops using euphemisms for his dear Annabel Lee's fate: in the last line, he says "killing my Annabel Lee." Notice, however, that after this catharsis, the speaker begins to reassure himself, and the poem's sound reflects it. In the fifth stanza, he calms and regains the rhythm of the poem, and the language becomes beautiful again; it is about love and how romantic love is enduring. In the final stanza, the language is at its most beautiful in sound and imagery. The moonbeams bring him dreams of his love, and the stars are Annabel Lee's shining eyes. He will be by her side always as long as he is near the sea. The final stroke of Poe's mastery is that the rhythmic sound of this poem, especially the last stanza, is that of the ocean's waves. He uses repetition and internal rhyme to do it (beams/dreams; rise/eyes and "Of the beautiful Annabel Lee", among other things).

A great many of Poe's poems were meant to be read aloud precisely because of his attention to sound. There would be days when I could not get through this one, and eventually, I stopped teaching it. My threshold for beauty was ever inexplicable to many of my sophomores.

Bring joy to yourself and to Edgar and read this poem aloud if you can.  Do it proudly and with great expression.  I know you will be glad that you did.  And so, somewhere, will he.

So Much On My Mind That It's Criminal

In 2013 the Oxford Dictionaries Word of the Year was selfie, the photo taken of one by oneself with a smartphone or webcam and usually shared via social media. That same year, a runner-up was binge-watching. I do not do the former, but I have done the latter, and I have done it often. Selfies always make me look terrible and I hate them. I look tired, old, and as if I have an enormous face. Binge-watching has never done me a bit of harm; that is, until today.

First, a bit of exposition. Some of you may recall that the Dept. gave up cable quite a while ago, and now we live on regular broadcast digital and a Roku, which brings us Jared's Netflix. I've found that I really don't miss anything, especially now that I've found a few new shows to watch. One of them has an actor whose character I like, and it has turned into a Mini-Obsession of sorts, especially now that Daniel Day-Lewis has retreated back into the Gaping Void Of His Creative Space And Marriage. Anyway, the show is Criminal Minds, the character is Dr. Spencer Reid, and the actor is Matthew Gray Gubler.

Here he is with sunglasses and the tously hair, and a little bit of a five o'clock shadow happening.

He's a fan of the messy-haired, but kind of  "Just got off the soccer field, but it won't take me long to get cleaned up before we go out" look.



He's got kind of a "Daniel Day-Lewis Meets Johnny Depp Meets Rob Lowe" thing going on, and I like it.

His character is very awkward and nerdy, however, and brilliant, of course, and he gets debilitating migraines.  (Aha! say all my Readers.) The big thing is, of course, his looks. He has quite a few of the Necessaries: 1. Pretty 2. Longer Hair 3. Slender 4. Great Mouth.

Sigh.

Good Heavens. If he had a British accent, I'd be in tears every time I watched that show.

But I digress.

I had no negative side effects, as I said before, from binge-watching Criminal Minds with MGG in the past, even though it is a terribly and horrifically violent and bloody show. (Honestly, I have no idea how I am able to watch it. It's truly sickening.) The past few days, however, I have watched it a lot. A LOT. There were some episodes that I hadn't even seen before, and last night I watched very late into the night.

But I still woke up early to take the Prius in to get some recall work and an oil change. The place had generously provided all kinds of coffees and teas and some doughnuts. I had a bottle of water. I was playing against my Maryland friend Leanne in Words with Friends on my phone to pass the time. Suddenly, the elderly lady to my left took an absolutely enormous bite out of her jelly doughnut. Huge red clots dropped down through her fingers and onto her pants. My stomach lurched just a little. She grabbed her napkins and began wiping, wiping, wiping, trying so hard to get rid of the evidence of what had happened. The whole napkin was stained with red now. My stomach felt a little queasy, so I looked away and tried to get Lady Macbeth's famous speech out of my head. I turned toward the television and took a sip of water.

On the screen were obscenely large slabs of raw, red meat. The chef (Bobby Flay) selected a long steel knife and carefully sliced away several cuts. The sound was muted, so all I heard was a service tech, who was explaining something to another woman sitting across from me. As the knife continued slicing, I heard, "We didn't find him in there, no, but we found evidence that he'd been there, all right. There was some hair, some shavings, and some other things all balled up. Those kinds of things can clog up the works pretty well. The harsh winter brings them out, and then they need to find a place to hide out and stay warm." Horrified, I was glad to hear the jingle that told me it was my turn to play a word. I played lye for a decent amount of points, then glanced back up at the television. Big chunks of raw meat were being ground up, and then, a quick cut to shots of sloppy burgers dripping with ketchup. My stomach clenched, and I frowned, suddenly suspicious.

I began to observe the staff as they bustled around, smiling at every single person they encountered. No one came near a door without one of Them opening it for the person to walk through. They were so obsequious and eager that it was creepy. Just what kind of place was this? Why were all the people in the waiting room women? Was I the only one who couldn't hear the TV? And why did it take so long for my iPhone to connect to their free WiFi?

But these were questions for another time.  My car was done, and I had to go.  They held the doors open for me, and waved me out, smiling all the time.

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And So It Continues

Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! Yesterday I chortled in my Joy as the temperature reached a perfectly Springlike 55 and, one by one, I opened wide one window in each room for a good Airing Out. Once the sun reached its noon acme in a Crayola cornflower sky, I was already feeling its warmth radiating underneath my skin and effervescing in my veins. Soon, the Urge came upon me, primitive and tribal, an instinct so deeply inborn that it could not be shaken off or ignored. I was dressed, I was made up and tressed, I was energized by the glorious weather. Like all the women in my family, I was driven now to do One Thing, and One Thing Only.

I was going to clean my house.

How ridiculous, I know. But we simply Cannot Help It. All of us are doomed to behave in this way, and I have no idea why. I can absolutely guarantee you that, had I called either of my sisters yesterday and, if they had the day off work, they were cleaning their houses. It's a sickness. (We also wait until the hottest and most humid day of the summer occurs and then we get down on our hands and knees and scrub the kitchen floor. We call each other, too. I call Patti, and I say, "Hi, what are you doing?" "Oh, I'm down here scrubbing this awful floor," she says. "ME TOO!" I yell into the phone. "What's wrong with us?" Patti asks. "Call Susan and ask her," I say.)

My particular routine is to start in the kitchen and work from there. The stove always slows me down because, unlike many people who own a black and stainless (HA!) steel stove, I actually use mine. I had been ignoring it since Christmas, just giving it a cursory swipe now and again. There it stood, a hulking mess of meal-making memories and olive oil freckles. If only stoves were as affordable as microwaves, I'd get rid of this...this thing and buy a new one. I hate it like I hate my uncooperative can opener. It's still usable and useful, but I want desperately to get rid of it and get a new one. Junking this one is wasteful and dumb, however, so I have to soldier on, silently resenting it all the while.

My spirits remained lifted, however, by continuing to open windows as I moved along. Small challenges were no match for me and my dustrag and Pledge. My leather furniture gleamed, my tables glowed with a soft sheen like moonlight in the forest. The velvety cabernet sauvignon we had last weekend will never be forgotten, thanks to me saving the lovely bottle and adding it to our display. Pictures look brighter and sharper now. Our Vermeer reproduction is relieved of its mantle of dust. I smile a little as I clean up the fireplace area, hoping against hope that we have seen our last fire for the season.

The Season, by the way, meaning Winter, has lasted six months here in NEO. We had our first snowstorm in mid-October, and we had one a few days ago on March 29th. This had better be It. (Or what? What am I prepared to Do About It? Sigh. I don't know, but it won't be Pleasant.)

Here's a Thing, though. A Thing I thought would get way better once the boys moved out, but it hasn't gotten better, really, not by much. Cleaning the bathroom is still a shitfully thankless job, there I said it, and it had to be said. First of all, my bathroom is about as big as a closet. Cleaning the toilet, therefore, is a very intimate experience, and it is not made any better by the fact that A Male Person uses it. Why is it that men cannot--at some point in their Business--grab a wad of toilet paper and wipe the rim of the toilet? Because holy crap! You know? Or is it just me/us?

And boy, did I get sucked in to using this product. The ScrubbyBubble brush thingy. I like the idea that I don't have some icky toilet brush hanging around, but these paperwad brushy doodads are getting ridiculous. They don't really scrub, they fall apart when you wrench them off the big row they come in, and now, they have a new "heavy duty" one that, when you try to wrestle one away from its compatriots, it's almost impossible, thanks to the plasticky scrubby insert that makes it heavy duty. I almost sprained my wrist! Then I bought one of those industrial looking solid cakes that hangs in the toilet to constantly clean the bowl. I put that baby right in the flow of the water so that each time there is a flush, the clean can swirl all over the place. But Marlowe wanders in and likes to chew on it and moves it around.

Marlowe is what my students would have called "a hater."

Speaking of the cats, my mother doesn't read this blog unless she is visiting my aunt in Gettysburg, and she isn't right now, so let me just say this: C A T   H A I R. It is ruining my life. My mother would say, "Well, Nance, you signed up for it when you got those cats." So. What. Did I sign up for burping and farting contests when I had two kids? Anyway.

The cat hair would not be Such An Issue if they were not so patently stupid about being brushed. Let me ask you this: if you lay down and someone came over, spoke softly and lovingly to you, and then proceeded to rub your back and brush your hair for half an hour, would you act like IT WAS A HUGE IMPOSITION AND GET UP AND WALK ALL OVER THE PLACE AND HIDE UNDER CHAIRS AND TABLES AND MAKE THAT SOMEONE FOLLOW YOU ALL BENT OVER UNTIL IT BECAME SOMETHING LIKE A SCENE IN A MOVIE ABOUT INSANE PEOPLE? Just asking. Because I have to vacuum my bed. Did you read that incredulously?   I HAVE TO VACUUM.    MY BED.

It took me all day to clean my house. I did not sit down. Rick came home, took off his work boots, came into the living room, sat down and said--this is a direct quote--"Wow. The kitchen looks nice. You cleaned it today."

Today's forecast is for 64 degrees and partly cloudy. I think I will take a little drive and enjoy my day. After all, my house is clean.

Sorry, Walgreens--More Like The Corner Of Confused And Crabby

Sometimes, when a bunch of people gather, I can't help but listen for Blog Fodder. It's not that I'm looking for something to criticize or poke fun at so much as I am--in a Seinfeldian manner--observing things that I can comment upon from a "did you ever notice" perspective. It's like looking at an ordinary drop of rainwater under a highpowered microscope. So much more there than the first look affords.

I belong to two retiree lunch bunches because I taught at two schools in my district. Even though I taught at a junior high only one year, they are gracious enough to include me in their monthly group, and I like their company. Of course, I also attend my high school's monthly lunches. At both, I generally order a bloody mary and settle in for some chatting. In addition to gossip about colleagues or district business, the conversation always comes down to two familiar topics: travel and what everyone is doing to promote health and longevity. If there was such a thing as a Dr. Oz Cruise, these groups would book immediately. I know who is taking flaxseed and chia seed every day, who is using only gluten free products, who is swearing by glucosamine, and who orders everything online from Puritan's Pride. I know that Dr. Bragg's Raw Apple Cider Vinegar With The Mother is the only apple cider vinegar with true health benefits. Oh, and do you want to take a river cruise? Well, forget it. They book so far out now, that it's impossible to plan one any earlier than 2015, and you had better forget the "Downton Abbey" one. That one is sold out for the foreseeable future. Carnival Cruises are just so noisy--too many kids and young people--but you can book a quieter one on Princess or Holland America. But--sigh--it's just sad how some lines treat their employees, who are all foreign nationals. Try to tip them well, if you can. There are horror stories out there that are just awful.

Listening to travel stories is one of my joys. If I can't go, then I want to hear about when you went, and if you have some pictures, even better. My colleagues are generous with their travel stories, and they give good recommendations regarding cruise lines, travel agents, places to see, and places that aren't really worth a stop. They will even give you their guides, books, or anything else that they have that might be of help. The problem is, they never sound very impressed or happy about where they went. I always get the idea that they went in order to have gone, to simply cross it off their list or something.

They get far more exercised when talking about their use of wellness products. I understand. Ten years ago, I didn't think twice about any of that. Now, however, my hair keeps getting greyer. My hands and knees truly hurt with arthritis. My vision prescription changed for the worse, and I have a hard time driving at night. It all seems very unfair to me. That stuff is for Old People. I'm not Old. Then I think about the Simple Arithmetic of it. I have far more years behind me than I am likely to have ahead of me. It's natural to want to tip the scales more in the other direction.

The whole thing makes me feel confused and guilty. Should I be taking supplements, chia, flax, wheat germ, green tea, fiber powder, and shots of vinegar (With The Mother)? How do I know? Every time I watch a little of Dr. Oz, he tells me to eat something else to lose weight. If I ate all of that stuff, I'd weigh 200 pounds. Should I get a Neti pot, or will I collapse and die from a brain-eating fungus? Rick and I eat very little meat now compared with how much we used to eat, and at least three days a week, we eat vegetarian. I start my day with Greek yogurt or a spinach and strawberry smoothie. I use olive oil only. Should I start oil pulling?

Let me say this: I liked it so much better when I was young and talked about makeup and boys. Or when I was a mom and talked about sleep habits and spit-up. Or even when I was in my thirties and talked about work, teenage attitude, and my shoes. And let me also say this: I am deep-bone tired of this winter. It has made me old. Older. Elderly. Aged. Aged and in need of Spring.

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