Classic Disney cartoons
Toast
My dogs in my bed
Candles
Take out Delivery
Nasty Rainy Sundays
Books
Book Reviews
Magazines
Freshly Sharpened Pencils
Clean sheets
The sound of the dryer running when I go to sleep at night
Crown Royal
Meat
The smell of turpentine
The sound of a cork being drawn out of a bottle of wine
Autumn
The smell of burning leaves
Being alone
Home made cookies
The ability to post anonomously because what I like most of all is privacy
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Pooh Bear
"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh,'said Piglet at last,'what's the first thing you say to yourself?"
"What's for breakfast?' said Pooh. "What do you say Piglet?"
"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?"said Piglet.
"Pooh nodded thoughtfully. "It's the same thing." he said."
A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh (1926)
I strive to find excitement in daily events, in mundane tasks. Some days things are easy to appreciate, the morning cup of coffee, the hot shower. Other days, I just can't seem to get out of my own head. Interestingly, my dogs have no trouble finding excitement in their daily events.
Perhaps I don't need to run across the lawn, yelling at people walking past. But it could be fun.
"What's for breakfast?' said Pooh. "What do you say Piglet?"
"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?"said Piglet.
"Pooh nodded thoughtfully. "It's the same thing." he said."
A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh (1926)
I strive to find excitement in daily events, in mundane tasks. Some days things are easy to appreciate, the morning cup of coffee, the hot shower. Other days, I just can't seem to get out of my own head. Interestingly, my dogs have no trouble finding excitement in their daily events.
Perhaps I don't need to run across the lawn, yelling at people walking past. But it could be fun.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Today's News
I looked at CNN online today. A man in Australia threw his daughter off a 17 story bridge. A man in LA killed his wife, five children and himself. A Florida mother is on trial for the murder of her three year old daughter. A mother in Texas on trial for killing her two year old daughter.
When asked directly why I have no children, I told one nosy person that it was by choice.
Her reply was " Oh, I guess you hate kids."
Oh yeah, I'm the one who messed up.
When asked directly why I have no children, I told one nosy person that it was by choice.
Her reply was " Oh, I guess you hate kids."
Oh yeah, I'm the one who messed up.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Question of the Day
"Do we want to give your father a medicine that will slow the progression of his Alzheimer's disease?" It won't provide improvement, but, it will slow things down.
A no-brainer, this particular question had been anticipated and discussed.
It was decided that,of course we wouldn't do anything to prolong this disease. If Dad was capable of making this decision, he would say no medication. Right?
The problem with hypothetical discussions is they are hypothetical. Hardwired within all of us is a grasping desire to hold on for as long as we can. Chronic invalids who say, "no extreme measures, don't keep me alive on a machine." Living wills created, distributed to family members. And yet when push comes to shove, we shove back as hard as we can. That breathless nod saying " Yes, give me all the damn help you can. I want to live."
There is also a willingness to let go. The time when someone gently releases their grip and simply expires. I like that word, it sounds like a soft sigh. He died sounds hard. He expired, sounds better to me.
But this isn't about me, it's about my Dad. Would he say," I don't know my children anymore, I can't read or comprehend new things but, I still like to have a beer at 4:00 and I love my dog. That's good enough for me. I could stay here for awhile." Or "This sucks. I'm not me anymore. I want out as fast as I can."
I don't know. I can guess. My intuition says the man who managed to stay alive through the Korean War, through 35 years as a cop, through 29 years of a miserable marriage, who had ample opportunity to check out but chose instead the numbing path of alcoholism, would say" Yeah, it sucks, so what else is new? I'll take the medication."
He won't be starting that course of treatment....
A no-brainer, this particular question had been anticipated and discussed.
It was decided that,of course we wouldn't do anything to prolong this disease. If Dad was capable of making this decision, he would say no medication. Right?
The problem with hypothetical discussions is they are hypothetical. Hardwired within all of us is a grasping desire to hold on for as long as we can. Chronic invalids who say, "no extreme measures, don't keep me alive on a machine." Living wills created, distributed to family members. And yet when push comes to shove, we shove back as hard as we can. That breathless nod saying " Yes, give me all the damn help you can. I want to live."
There is also a willingness to let go. The time when someone gently releases their grip and simply expires. I like that word, it sounds like a soft sigh. He died sounds hard. He expired, sounds better to me.
But this isn't about me, it's about my Dad. Would he say," I don't know my children anymore, I can't read or comprehend new things but, I still like to have a beer at 4:00 and I love my dog. That's good enough for me. I could stay here for awhile." Or "This sucks. I'm not me anymore. I want out as fast as I can."
I don't know. I can guess. My intuition says the man who managed to stay alive through the Korean War, through 35 years as a cop, through 29 years of a miserable marriage, who had ample opportunity to check out but chose instead the numbing path of alcoholism, would say" Yeah, it sucks, so what else is new? I'll take the medication."
He won't be starting that course of treatment....
Monday, January 26, 2009
Purple Caterpillars
All journeys begin with a small step and today I have taken my first small step. Will this journey end as so many others have ended, prematurely and unsatisfactorily? For those who know me, my inability to commit to a project has long been a source of amusement.
The detritus remains, a small ceramic mouse who represents an interest in painting ceramics, a long purple caterpillar who was to have blossomed into an afghan, vials of aromatic oils reflect an interest in aromatherapy. Let us not forget the Tarot cards, the seed trays, and the sketchbooks.
By now you get the point. I am not,as they say, a finisher. However, there is one patient man who never fails to encourage me and it is in his honor that I begin once again.
Here's the thing, I can talk a mile a minute all day long, but, faced with a blank page, I don't have anything to say. O.k. I have lots to say, but, I am too damn lazy to type, proofread and spellcheck the feeble imaginings of my diminishing mind. It's amazing how unimportant things seem when so much effort is required to present them.
And what about my other tools, the tone and inflection of my voice, my body language, and hand gestures. Now this is where it gets really hard, the only tool in my kit is words. It's like being down to one crayon in the box.
Which leads to the memory of the day.
I used to eat crayons. They didn't taste good but I persevered. I believed each color would have it's own flavor and so I tried each one. I tried soap a couple of times, how could something in pastel pinks and whites that smelled so good not be just delicious? Don't bother if you haven't tried it. It will only lead to disappointment. Once I found a candy wafer that tasted like the host. That was scary and well just sinful.
Now paste was a treat, a generous dollop on a small torn square of math paper was heaven indeed. I have never encountered anything that tastes like paste. There is a flavor in wax lips that is reminiscent, but, only in a subtle teasing way. How come you never see paste listed in the Treats from the Past websites? I know I wasn't the only one. Dear God, please don't let me be the only one who ate paste. I feel odd enough as it is.
Perhaps I have shared enough for the present. Let those of you bold enough to hear more from a paste eating girl return another day. That is unless this blog goes the way of the purple caterpillar. Time will tell.
The detritus remains, a small ceramic mouse who represents an interest in painting ceramics, a long purple caterpillar who was to have blossomed into an afghan, vials of aromatic oils reflect an interest in aromatherapy. Let us not forget the Tarot cards, the seed trays, and the sketchbooks.
By now you get the point. I am not,as they say, a finisher. However, there is one patient man who never fails to encourage me and it is in his honor that I begin once again.
Here's the thing, I can talk a mile a minute all day long, but, faced with a blank page, I don't have anything to say. O.k. I have lots to say, but, I am too damn lazy to type, proofread and spellcheck the feeble imaginings of my diminishing mind. It's amazing how unimportant things seem when so much effort is required to present them.
And what about my other tools, the tone and inflection of my voice, my body language, and hand gestures. Now this is where it gets really hard, the only tool in my kit is words. It's like being down to one crayon in the box.
Which leads to the memory of the day.
I used to eat crayons. They didn't taste good but I persevered. I believed each color would have it's own flavor and so I tried each one. I tried soap a couple of times, how could something in pastel pinks and whites that smelled so good not be just delicious? Don't bother if you haven't tried it. It will only lead to disappointment. Once I found a candy wafer that tasted like the host. That was scary and well just sinful.
Now paste was a treat, a generous dollop on a small torn square of math paper was heaven indeed. I have never encountered anything that tastes like paste. There is a flavor in wax lips that is reminiscent, but, only in a subtle teasing way. How come you never see paste listed in the Treats from the Past websites? I know I wasn't the only one. Dear God, please don't let me be the only one who ate paste. I feel odd enough as it is.
Perhaps I have shared enough for the present. Let those of you bold enough to hear more from a paste eating girl return another day. That is unless this blog goes the way of the purple caterpillar. Time will tell.
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