Christmas Lights

Let me be honest - I love tacky houses. Adore the overload, the wealth of mismatched lights and decorations. Total admiration.

But when it comes to our Colonial, I just can't do it. My beloved likes some bling, but he keeps it in the yard. I get a little wild with the fresh greens and ribbons around the porch, but mostly, I like little twinkling white lights that fit the Colonial style of the house. The only problem is, this year I'm fighting a desire for wildly flashing lights and bright colors. We'll see what wins - good taste or cutting loose and getting wild!

Tried to read one of the Bourne books from the 80s, because 1) the movies were so cool and 2) Ludlum is the master of the thriller, right? OMG. SLOW. BORING OPENING. Dialogue that's dated as heck. Couldn't read it.

Today is my oldest daughter's birthday. I'm so glad I'm not in labor for 36 hours. Birthing her was a lot of work, but worth it. She's a gem and a nice young woman as well.

Post Holiday Bloat

I'm fooded out. Too much food is the diagnosis. Spicy food. Rich food. Desserts loaded with whipped cream and sugar. Even the thought has me cringing. I may never cook the Big Feast again. Just tasting the progress of everything on the stove and in the oven sent me into food-overdose. Can't even look at the leftovers in the fridge.

The only solution is shopping, right? All that walking. All that standing in line, it'll get rid of the extras in my system, I hope. Did my best this weekend to stimulate the US economy, but I don't think the jiggle in my wiggle was affected. Sigh. Time for severe austerity in the kitchen.

I really do believe all that food affects my brain. I go into this semi-awake state where every thought is an effort. Maybe it's because all my creativity heads for the kitchen? Recipes are my favorite reading? Whatever it is, the brain has to get back in shape along with the derriere. Time to give it some exercise.

Only solution: WRITE!

Time

In the background, I hear the Rolling Stones shouting "time!" At least, I think it was the Stones. I was more of a Beatles fan myself. In comparison to the Stones, the Beatles wore white hats and were squeaky clean. Although I have to admit, I want to read Keith Richards' biography, just to find out exactly how "stoned" they were. Quite a bit, is my bet.

Anywhoo, I have a new watch. A very pretty new watch. I love timepieces. Collect them. All types, all price ranges, all sizes. However, for a few years now, I've been leaving the wrist bare in an attempt to wean myself away from time: Its permutations, its limitations, its demands. I can function without one pretty well but recently, I've missed the watch as jewelry. So now I have a lovely Seiko I really really like. But am I checking the time every five seconds? I don't think so. Time is just a number. Like any other number, it only has the power you give it.

We're surrounded by numbers. Social Security, age, weight, blood pressure, deli counter lines, height, birth order, IQ and whatnot. Ignore them. They're nothing but a shell game. Who and what you are has nothing to do with time or numbers.

Christmas Shopping and oh my....

Couldn't believe it. We went Christmas shopping yesterday, instead of plunking ourselves in front of the next-to-the-last race in Phoenix. Got home in time to see Denny Hamlin fade to 12th because of fuel issues, (bet he stayed awake last night thinking of new curse words), but didn't need to suffer through the whole ESPN/Commercial show. The only good thing about the race is that JJ didn't win.

I'm out of shopping shape. Sigh. This morning my body said "what did you DO yesterday?" This may be the year Christmas comes from online vendors, LOL. Normally I've done a ton of our shopping by now, but not this November. It's hard to admit, but I'm pretty stumped. When the kids were young, Christmas was so easy it was a ton of fun. How hard is it to open the American Girl catalogue? Ah, for the good old days...

Writing is the one sane part of my day. For those precious hours, I don't worry about what to cook for Thanksgiving, when to get the Christmas decorations from the attic, or if the iPad's second generation is worth waiting for.

Cockiness, or What it Takes

Denny Hamlin is on a roll. He makes promises about his on-track performance, then he goes out and does exactly what he said he'd do. Cocky? Yeah, I'll buy that. Convinced he's a winner? You bet. Arrogant? Comes with the territory in a world that is drowning in testosterone. But you know what? He's a believer. In himself. And that's what it takes to get to the top in the jungle known as Nascar.

You can't win the Cup by saying "we're pretty good," or "the car's real nice today." Pshaw! Phooey! Let your opponents in the Chase know you've got the right stuff and you know how to use it. In this contest, the man who's got his head where the Cup is waiting, is the man to beat.

You can't write unless you believe you're a writer. You can't tell stories others will want to read unless you KNOW they're good. Man up. Grow some. Use your talent to do what you know you were born to do, and write, write, write. Set a goal: win a Pulitzer, make a bestseller list, go viral on the Web. Then go for it with dogged determination and the guts to know you're the best and you'll make it.

A Perfect Day

No humidity, blue skies, temps in the seventies, and I'm a new woman. After church, put on some Doors, fix a big glass of iced tea, forget the "to do" list, watch the Martinsville race (bad coverage by ESPN), take an unexpected nap, and it's a perfect Sunday.

Add to that, Denny Hamlin won! Go, Virginia Boy!

Baseball!

I love baseball. If I'd been born with perfect vision and a boy, I'd have worked really, really hard to be a professional ball player. Hopefully, hard work would have trumped talent, because I have none. Zilch. Nothing but a love of the game, and a passion for a perfect triple play. And a sinking ball. And catchers with their cute fingers flying in their crotches, giving instructions to the pitchers. I played on a lady lawyer softball team when I was single and had a great time despite our lack of a bench or decent fielders. I'll never forget our coach's shock when I caught a fly ball in right field. Guess he didn't think I could do it!

I root for anyone who's up against the Yankees. However, watching them rally in the first game of the playoffs against Texas, I could see why they're a championship team. They never gave up. Just plugged away, until finally, they got a run up on Texas.

Does anyone know what the meaning of the braided-looking necklaces some of the players are wearing? They look at little bit Second Grade, so I couldn't help but wonder if someone's daughter made them for the team.

Dirty Politics/Rob Whitman/Krystal Ball

I have to be up-front here. I don't like Rob Whitman either as a person or as a politician. This means nothing to you unless you're in the 1st Congressional District of Virginia, which I am not, so I can't vote against the man.

As the French would say, tant pis. Too bloody bad. If I lived in his district, I'd be hoofing it door to door, campaigning against him, and it has nothing to do with party affiliation.

Do I for one second believe his campaign for re-election had nothing to do with posting the photo of his opponent, Krystal Ball, online? The private picture with her ex-husband, when they were married and at a Halloween party, with a definitely ribald pose? The picture Whitman's campaign must have been digging for, because it had never been seen anywhere before it showed up on the Web a few days ago?

Absolutely not, I don't believe Whitman's protestations of innocence. Whitman's people are jumping with joy about getting this picture into the public eye. Why? Does a 29 year old accountant with a toddler and a small business scare Whitman so much? He won't debate her, which leads me to believe she has something going for her that he's avoiding. Like integrity. A sane voice on the issues. Honesty. A sincere desire to serve.

Maybe he's afraid because she's running for the right reasons - to work on the issues, not for political power and personal gain. I have observed that people who suck up to the power brokers and those who can advance them personally are not the people I want in office. Fits Whitman to a "T."

Watch how politicians treat those who aren't wealthy, powerful, or well-known. Observe their manners when speaking with the "regular" people in their sphere. You'll learn a lot. Whitman deserves to lose on November 2, and not just because of the dirty tricks he's pulling on Krystal Ball.

Protecting children

from Disney. Yes, the Walter Disney Company. Hang in there with me. . . .

My daughter who is working on her master's degree in Library Information Services tells me she had a deprived childhood. Not only did she not get to read THE GIVER, but I also withheld OLD YELLER (film and book) and anything dealing with death of animals and/or best friends. Let me warn you about the first Kirsten book in the American Girl series. I couldn't believe it when Kirsten's friend died of yellow fever on the boat to America. Could not believe it.

I also promptly gave away any and all videos of BAMBI and OLD YELLER, and to this day, unless my adult kids are lying, they haven't seen them. Nightmares, that's what those movies gave me. Unadulterated nightmares. What was Disney thinking? Bambi's mother's death scarred me for life. Not joking here. No child should have those images inflicted on her. So mine didn't.

Normally, Newbery books are required reading in this house, but THE GIVER was just too morbid. Why can't we let kids be kids as long as possible? I read every book my kids read before they got it in their hands. Call me the Mom-censor. I wear the badge proudly. It's a tough job, but someone has to do it.

Rain!

We were promised 100% rain today and tonight, and while it's sprinkled nicely, it hasn't been the gusher we were expecting. However, no complaints. We welcome this gray, soggy day with joy. Severe drought conditions have placed the county under strict water rationing. No watering grass, plants. No washing of cars. (Mine is bug-covered and needs it dreadfully, but hey, I'm a law abiding citizen!)

Our shower decided to bust a leak over the weekend, and rather than waste any water, we shut off the main water to the house. Cranked it back on for a quick shower, to run the dishwasher, then off again. It's amazing how many times I went to the sink to wash my hands or rinse something, and nothing . . . . (I can't tell you how often I hit the wall switch when the power is out, as happens often in my neighborhood.) This small deprivation (the shower was fixed at 8 a.m. this morning) made me think about the women in Africa and elsewhere who must walk long miles several times a day to fill buckets that they then haul home. We Americans take so much for granted. Like hot and cold running water. Abundant food. Cheap gas compared to the rest of the world. (Check on gas prices, per liter, in Europe if you want a shock.)

If the reservoir doesn't refill soon, we have approximately 125 days of water remaining. That's at approximately 25 million gallons a day. The world won't end in fire or ice. The world will end when we run out of fresh water. We need to conserve, people.

Where is Fall?

Come on, people, enough already! It's in the mid 90s today, and that just isn't acceptable. I want to wear different clothes, different colors. I gaze longingly at my sweatshirts and clogs, hoping I'll be able to slip into their comfy-ness one of these days. Sigh. The question is, when? More than anything, I want to be able to stop shaving my legs (my beloved doesn't even notice, LOL) because I'll be wearing cords and long pants every day, not sundresses and skirts because it's so blamed hot. Walking the dog without my sun hat would be a nice change as well, since all it does is make my sweaty hair stick to my head. If I don't wear my sun hat, it's all over. Sunburn city. (Thanks for this fair Northern European skin, folks.)

Pumpkins tumble from pallets at the grocery store. Halloween decorations have been for sale for a month. Now I ask you, who feels like hot cider and caramel apples when it's 96 degrees out? Right. So much for getting in the spirit.

I refuse to turn on the AC. It's almost the end of September. If I pretend it's fall, will it really happen? Please?

Ink Well

I've had a fountain pen for years. Since 1976, to be exact. Sterling silver, it has served me well, but it's getting darned expensive to buy its cartridges. Vaguely, I remembered an ink well my grandmother gave me a zillion years ago. Sterling silver, it's a remnant of another age, but it has held ink for me. Since my Parker came with a refillable cartridge, I would buy colored inks and fill the pen up from this well. When I felt the urge to write in emerald green, I'd go at it.

Lo and behold, I found the ink well. It's a bit battered (heaven knows how old it is), and it has a half-glass, half green baize (I think that's the word for the fabric) bottom. You can see inside where there's a metal well (maybe tin?) sitting in the glass, and the silver is formed around the glass. You stick the pen in the well, pump the cartridge holder vigorously, and voila! Ink.

Now I have to find ink in a jar. I'll probably have to shop at an art supply store, but we writers are artists, right?

There's nothing in the world like watching words flow on the page from a beautiful pen. I'm gonna have a trip down memory lane. If I can find the ink, that is.

Richmond - sigh.

You know how much I love the racing at Richmond, right? It's short track Nirvana.

No longer.

Nascar is killing itself from the inside. I think it's the car. Sure, the safety aspects are marvelous. But this isn't IROC. (Which is dead, btw.) Putting the teams in nearly identical cars, with only sponsors, numbers, and colors to distinguish them, has made this the most boring set of races we attend every year. And we may be ready to quit.

Single file racing for hours on end. Very polite passing. Everyone on their best behaviour.

Where's a fake caution when you need one, I ask you!

Not even going to post any pictures. Too disappointed with the whole race.

Pre-Race Production

From the outside, it appears I'm staging a Formula 1 race around my block of suburbia and feeding the thousands who will show up to watch it. I'm not kidding, I just came home and unloaded the car. With food. Tons of food. You'd think I'm planning to feed Patton's army.

It's actually only six people. I've rationalized my excesses with "if we don't eat it all at the track, you can have it for lunch next week" excuse. The plain truth is, I'm a Southerner, and you don't ask people to bring food when you're the one who has done the inviting. And there's no disgrace more horrifying (except wearing ratty underwear when you get hit by a bus, or fake pearls)(no, not hit by the fake pearls, wearing them). Anyway, there's nothing more humiliating than running out of food. It MUST not happen. Hence the coolers that will be stuffed to the gills. Remember, I'm feeding six people who will have nothing to do all day until the race starts about 7 p.m. Well, they can chat and be sociable, and discuss drivers and who has the best chance to win the Chase, but they can't bring food. Verboten.

We were once invited to a dinner party, I accepted (by phone with the inviting person), at which point the invitor said "oh, and bring a casserole." Now, if I wanted to cook that night, I'd stay home and do it. So I thought about it for half a second, and said "Oh, I'm so sorry, I just found my husband's calendar, and we can't make it after all." It's not a dinner party if I'm taking dinner to someone else's house, and I wasn't a willing cook. My husband, the mid-westerner, sees nothing wrong with asking people to bring food to a party, but I'd rather wear fake pearls and ratty underwear, and believe me when I say, it'll be a cold day in hell when I do.

Just sayin'. . . .

On to Richmond! Can't wait for this weekend and tailgating, shopping the trailers, and a wonderful race.

English Ivy and its Perverse Nature

The weather has given us a wonderful gift the past few days, and I hate to squander it inside, so I've been playing in the yard. Any excuse. . . and this time, it was the ivy.

Years ago, I decided our fence would look nice covered with ivy, so I planted a few tendrils and waited for them to do their thing. Some understood their mission in life and went after it with a vengeance. I carefully wove their sprouts (or whatever you call them) in and out of the fence slats, and considered it to be a success.

Until the miniature English ivy rebelled. I coaxed. I watered. I promised sunshine and fertilizer. Nothing. Those suckers lay limpidly (is that a word?) where I'd planted them and refused to do their job. Grow and entwine.

So I did what any self-respecting gardener would do, I ignored those traitors. Turned a blind eye through this summer's drought. Pretended I didn't know they were there. Until today, when I went to check on the climbing rose I'd planted on this same stretch of fence, and there they were.

What should I see, but long flowing tendrils of English ivy, a superabundance of it. It would appear that neglect made the recalcitrant ivy rethink its miserable existence, and the trailers are now long enough to weave, to dart in and out of fence slats. It's not only happy, it's prolific. How was I supposed to know that heat and drought were the correct prescription to make the damned stuff grow?

Lesson learned. I'll ignore it from now on.

House Memories

Caption: My grandmother is the smaller woman in the white dress. She's a teenager here.

Pulling the family room sofa from its place so I could drag out a ball the dog lost under there (I finally got tired of her whining, LOL), I found a brick with a needlepointed cover. Moths have had a heyday with the needlepoint wool, but I instantly recognized it as my representation of my grandmother's house in Georgia. I made it for her for a Christmas gift. What memories.

A one-story house built by the local lumber company owner, it was as sturdy as a stiff wind in Oklahoma. The front porch, with its red-tiled floor and straw rug, was the center of the neighborhood's social life. The porch swing was my favorite reading spot, and I'd stretch out with a book in one hand and a fresh glass of lemonade in the other while the ladies more my grandmother's age would discuss the latest movie gossip from trashy magazines excessed by the beauty shop. Life was good on a hot summer afernoon.

I didn't get to stay in Georgia for long periods of time. Just quick visits. I couldn't wait to haul myself up into the cherry four-poster with a fringed teester, the one in "my" bedroom. The wide cherry plank floors reflected the morning light, and I'd wake up hearing morning doves in the garden outside my window. Nineteenth century travel cases hid under the bedskirt, and it was a tradtion to haul them out and search through old clothes and hats stored just for my dress-up pleasure.

That cherry bed is stored in my attic, its posts too high for modern ceilings. The red lacquer Chinese mirror from my Georgia room reposes in my guest room. The trunks are long gone, along with their sartorial treasures. But the memories are all held firmly in that motheaten needlepoint picture.

I won't toss it in the trash, no matter how awful it looks. Some things you just keep.

Cool portrait

One of my daughters did the self-portrait, LaceFace. Don't tell her I put it up on my blog...she'll be embarrassed. But I thought it was terribly creative. She and her sister are both so talented with a camera, it's amazing. I have no idea where they got that one. Not me.

The crabgrass is winning...

Now that we've had several days of rain/heat/rain, crabgrass is king. I keep telling myself to be grateful, it's green, and a definite improvement over the brown lawn of a few weeks ago. My sweetie, however, thinks differently. The crabgrass is winning, much to his chagrin.

The munchkins are all heading back to school in a day or so. One is working on her master's degree at a top ten school in her field, the younger is heading into her fifth year of a five year architecture program at one of the best schools in the country. I love the way my kids don't want the easy way out - they always choose the harder path in their education choices. It will serve them well, as my eldest realized soon after starting to work on her masters in June. Her rigorous undergrad degree had her tearing her hair out, but now that she's in the masters program, she can see how well served she was by working her buns off for four years to get her BA. While others struggle in the class work, she's on top of it with her usual persistence and hard work. Both girls aren't happy unless challenged, and boy howdy, are they.

Re-read Larry Watson's MONTANA 1948 last week. Still his best book, at least in my eyes. The older voice narrating the events from a youngster's viewpoint makes it fit into one of my favorite storytelling devices.

Sick of Watermelon Yet?

Getting there! What a colossally awful thing to admit, since the melons this year have been spectacular. But I found myself walking away from my fav watermelon vendor at the local farmer's market, simply because I've had enough. If I could freeze the melons for later in winter when I crave a taste of summer, I would. But right now, I'm on watermelon overload. Same with cantaloupe. Great stuff, had too much.

Have you ever found an author who grabbed you with that first book you read? Then you run out and find everything s/he ever wrote and move them to the top of your TBR pile. Only by the time you're on the fourth or fifth book, you've hit the wall. Nothing seems fresh or unusual anymore, and you put down the next book in favor of another writer. Susan Elisabeth Phillips - prime example. Great writer, wonderful books, but I can take only so many in a row. I guess it's like anything else, you CAN have too much of a good thing. Think how boring meals would be if we only ate chocolate. Wait, let me reconsider that one. . . .

The moral of this story? Eat the watermelon as long as it's tasty, then move on. It's okay if you're groaning out loud. Not much depth to that pithy bit of philosophy, huh? Oh well, it's still hot as a haywire oven here, and the brain cells are pretty much melted into a buttery puddle. Forgive me.

Real Stories

Just discovered a show on Animal Planet called "The Last American Cowboy." Those of you who have read my westerns know I'm in love with the American West. I have no idea why, it's just a facet of my psyche. So when I saw the show on the TV guide, I had to Tivo it.

It's about modern ranchers in Montana, and what they face in getting their cattle to market and preserving their land for the next generation(s). Classic storytelling. I wish the characters had more to say for themselves, and there was less narration, but the scenery alone is worth watching. God's country isn't North Carolina (sorry folks), but Wyoming, Montana, etc. If you have cable and get Animal Planet, give it a watch next Monday.