Having an Icky Day

Having an Icky Day

When you are sick, nothing is good. Food doesn’t taste right, the friendly comfortable bed has begun to develop pits and mountains making it near impossible to navigate with various arms, legs and trunk into a resting position.  Your head makes it impossible for light reading or any other kind of reading as eyes can’t focus, the brain can’t take in meaning of squiggles dancing across a printed page.  A Kindle is worse with the bright screen hurting sensitive eyes. It just plain stinks.

As for taking a walk to clear your fog bank dwelling in your head with fresh air. Well, the best movement is back to bed.  Let me say boring. Disruptive to one’s work week, planned social events or having a simply lazy day in which to do many things if the mood grabs you

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I was knocked down by an icky bug, no need for details.  Enough said I spend all of my time sleeping for two days, making it up for a bit of tea, eating a good breakfast that my husband prepared.  He knows me.  I would have ignoring eating.  As it was I lost several pounds without a good exercise routine.

Three days later, the man walked me around the block before declaring it good enough.  Today, I missed out on the fun things going to Farmers’ Market, getting a massage and just going to the grocery store.  I contributed a shopping list.  My list for Farmers’ Market included stopping to say hello to some of my favorite vendors, getting fresh baked bread which they had our favorite (honey oatmeal wheat bread), looking for good soup (I provided a jar with a good funnel) and some fresh vegetables.

Ah, but my bug was a small bug.  A small inconvenience for me, a bigger one for my poor co-workers. My apologies.  It does make you sit up and take notice. I am actually quite healthy.  I am going to be a year older in a month.  Sorry, if I keep harping on it.  You should hear the people who keep asking if I going to retire.  I am just as bad. Frequently I ask several individuals I know if they will be retiring on the big day of turning sixty-five.  Meanwhile, I just keep going.

I am taking more time for things I want to do.  Really, I am.  At least, in my mind, I think I have a plan.  I should probably talk to the man, my sweet husband so he can be involved, too.  It would be a lot more fun than him waiting on me hand and hand when I am sick.  Or would it? I should probably asked after he is done loading the dishwasher, heating me up something to eat. No, I will ask him after he finishes the laundry.     

Spiriting

Spiriting

I was raised with the idea of spirit inhabiting everything.  Ask before you hug a tree. Apologize, asking forgiveness when you walk on the grass and when you weed your flowerbeds.  As one of my Wiccan friends said, she needed to do a lot of apologizing to the fairies and spirits for all the yard work she had done one day in early spring, she was feeling the anger and grief for the disturbance from the fairies.

As we drove home from the valley yesterday, well the man, my husband was driving while I gawked in wonder at the display of clouds ringing the valley. My little body was vibrating with the utter joy I felt, getting me caught up in wondering how many cloud spirits it might take paint the sky with the mass of thunderheads I was seeing. Back lit with the sunshine, my heart was stilled. Which lead me to wonder about fire spirits, how many fire salamanders are needed to keep my little fire in our wood stove burning.  What about the wild fires burning every year? Spirits, billions and billions of spirits are inhabiting just the bodies of human beings, animals, insects, plants and heavens know what we are incapable of viewing with our eyes. It is easy to be overwhelmed.

 

Probably it is not a good thing to dwell on it, the mechanics of what is going on around us every single moment.  I am constantly amazed by myself. Egotistical?  No, just amazement for the body I have which in turn processes the good (a really great salad) and bad things (okay, I ate four chocolate chip cookies. They were homemade by the man.  They had a bit of oatmeal and whole wheat and all of the sugar and butter); I eat into a breathing, walking, thinking bag of protoplasm.   I mean Wow.  As a woman, I did an incredible thing.  I grew another creature inside my body.  Other than the initial hard work done by my husband and I in the set up for the biology experiment, I really didn’t do much.  I was lucky. The experiment now lives in New York.

Spirit, spirits.  Miracles, sparking everyday occurrences. Life. It happens, right?  I need to take more time out to feather dust my spirit. Let the sparkle shine.  Time to let some spiriting happen. 

 

Sweaty Buns

Sweaty Buns

When the man, my husband came in to wake me in order to go to our local REC center, I declined, telling him that I needed to cook my broccoli which had been sitting in the refrigerator for more than a week. After he left, I returned my alarm clock to the floor with a nice pile of dirty socks to muffle the tick, ticking of the clock.  I don’t like the noise while I am trying to go to sleep so over the years I have developed a routine of hiding my clock under a towel or discarded clothing but I have found socks work exceedingly well.

I began thinking of my day, cooking the broccoli, what to wear, figuring out what to have for breakfast.  Soon I began tossing, turning and ended up pushing the bedding to the foot of the bed allowing myself to steam off in the cool air of the bedroom.  Sweaty buns, I thought to myself as I flung my body onto its side.  My right bare arm rested on my side, my right hand touching one of the buns in question. Yes, definitely sweaty or is it a glow. Supposedly, women glow. Yeah, glowing, my royal ass.  Baby, I am sweating. In all of the creeks and crevices. Just a note, according to my sister Cindy, it never goes away.  Changes, yes, but never goes.  Just eat your dark chocolate during the day and you will know what I mean.

Luckily for me I never had to take hormones or rather I choose not to.  I had a brief period in which I would start stripping down practically everywhere.  Once in a jewelry store.  Fortunately, we knew the owner who smiled and continued to help us. The man, my husband told her, she gets hot. I did keep my blouse on but fanned myself a bit too rigorously defeating the purpose of fanning cool air on my body.  It is a good way to impress others.

Often, my own little ritual would begin with the removal of one piece of clothing followed by another piece and more articles of my attire until the blessed sweet cool air danced on my skin.  For a while, ice packs in my sports bra front and back was a new fashion statement in the privacy of my home.  Occasionally, our scrabble friend would see the sweater, t-shirt slide off and on throughout our game as I tried to adjust my temperature until I was sitting in just my bra on my torso.  I was aided in the process with a glass of cold water to put against my forehead and the back of my neck. The scrabble game went on.

Thankfully, I am way past those days.  My heat is mild lasting about 30 to 45 seconds.  Most of the time I sleep comfortably in my cotton flannel nightgown. I am resting beneath several quilts, a dark blue comforter, a couple of cream colored hand knitted afghans and a couple of small cotton blankets depending on the night.

 

I like to sleep with lots of things.  When I was a girl, it was the time of single pane windows that the winds whistled around and through.  Everyone slept with heavy quilts and a sibling or a cousin.

I would wake up with frost on inside of window from our breaths’ moisture in the night. The windows in my home are double pane now. Despite the whistling and howling of wind there is no frost except on the rooftops, the lawns about us. I have to wonder what the next decade has in store for me.  So far, I have begun to develop the attitude that this too shall pass.  Hopefully, the only future sweaty buns will be hot out of the oven with steam rising from the baking.

 

Aggravation and Relief

Aggravation and Relief

Sometime the simplest thing can aggravate you.  Perhaps this is not a conversation for the faint at heart as it involves potty talk. I am talking about heading to the small room after waiting too long, standing in place, trying not to dance as you try to separate the paper toilet seat cover in order to use it.  Aggravation, near terror, hopelessness and a compelling thought to stand and hover to take care of the problem.  Damn paper product.

Allowing the flow of bodily waste to pass warm from your body is one of the greatest pleasure in life. There is no judgement, no need to hurry once the process is in place as you rest gently in a publicly designated spot, in a stall with the door firmly closed behind you.  I have been out in the woods with rain or snow hitting my bare backside.  The great relief was not diminished in any sense.  Though the drip drying was not exciting.

 

I am trying to take my moments of aggravation out where I can examine them more carefully, to dig out the roots, to laugh at myself for nonsensible emotions I seem to be having at the time.  This is my truth. “This moment will past.” “The next moment will come.” “I will be.”

Gratitude should play into this somewhere.  Being grateful for a body which takes care of itself without much effort on my part is a win-win situation as far as I am concerned.  But I am working on it.  I am making an effort.  Adding various different vegetables into our meals, yes, the man, my husband is involved in taking care of ourselves.  Not only are we working on eating better daily, stretching our bodies, walking, playing games but periodically we attempt meditation on line with Deepak Chopra and Oprah.  We are not good at doing it daily but we are at least aware perhaps a higher view point would be good for both of us.  Procrastination is not just a big word.  It is a lingering habit right up there with the promises of an afternoon walk which does not materialize, reading uplifting prose to expand my mind, hell, just head for the cookie with a cup of coffee or tea to wash it down.

I am getting older.  I will be sixty-five in a few months.  I think I am doing well.  I can still walk and think.  I can touch my toes.  I practice it daily or try to.  When I was on the bed placing the eye drops for my dry eye problem, I found myself just continuing to rest on the bed.  There was really no pressing reason to get up yet for our walk. I relaxed my knees and let my legs rest fully on the bed.  This moment is perfect I thought to myself. I am perfect. I am loved. I gave thanks to the glorious father and divine mother.  I allowed myself to breathe in the perfect moment.

I find myself seeking these moments more and more as the days go by. It is better than aggravation.

 

Waiting for the Other Shoe

Waiting for the Other Shoe

            Do you ever have those moments of feeling like you are waiting for something? It is almost a heightened state of awareness bordering on some of the same effect I feel when I am attempting to meditate.  It causes me to pause, to listen and to reach out with my heart.

 

I had a moment last night as I work towards drifting to sleep. Not really a feeling of what will happen next but instead a feeling while I was compiling a list of what I was grateful for in the day I had just traveled through. I had a moment of awaiting, holding my breath, seeking out with my mind for a thread to grab, looking for the clarity to gain some insight.  I lost it. Gone as drops of rain dripping off a leaf to be absorbed into the earth. At least, out of my sight.

It seems I am getting a lot of messages. I just wished the telegraph system was better. I can hover in my mind on the edge of the universe taking in the view all I want, but when I return I am reminded of so many things, when turned on edge, seem to be lacking something.  I ignored most of it.  Instead, I watched the man going about his business, vacuuming, doing dishes and I enjoy the occasional nuzzling of my ear on his way to complete another errand.

Today after going to the grocery store, I let him know I was going to be reading for ten minutes before I started the casserole dish.  I put some items in the refrigerator and promptly sat down to enjoy a new book I had barely started.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw my husband looking intently at the recipe that his mom had given him years and years ago. Soon he was cutting up the onion, preparing it to sauté in a small frying pan. I read a few more sentences and headed to the kitchen.  Patience is not a state for his tummy.

Patience, it is hard to have patience.  Currently, I am waiting for the years to roll by so I can retire. I am still absorbing the idea.  I am hopeful I can treat it as new job. Get a schedule started.  One, get out of bed. Two, think about breakfast.  Three, kiss husband as he heads out the door for work.  (Yes, I am a cougar.) Four, take a walk. Weather permitting.  You get the idea.  Purpose, reading, writing and arithmetic to be enjoyed daily. Why, the arithmetic?  Well, how much money will I have?  Expenses? How long will I be enjoying this world?  I ought to have a plan of some sort.  Or I could simply wait for the other shoe to drop.

Confessions of a Sock Whore

Confessions of a Sock Whore

I am a self-proclaimed sock whore.  I come by the title honestly.  Some of us like shoes, jewelry, collecting dishes, spoons, glasses, paintings, you name it and I bet someone collects it.  My older sister Cindy once asked me what I collected.  I really could not come up with anything I collected. In desperation, I said embroidered pillowcases. I have a few so therefore I have a collection.  I don’t think of socks as a collection.  They are a necessity. My feet need them.  In all my years of living, I have come to respect the opinions of my feet when it comes to both socks and shoes.  Life is way too short to not have comfortable feet.  Just ask mine.

You can imagine my delight when a friend said she had slightly worn loved socks for me.  Would I like to have them, I restrained myself, and did a little happy dance in my mind. It was easy to reply on Facebook and I said yes without capital letters. No reason to scream with unbridled exuberance at the thought of new socks.  I have been thinking that I needed to buy some more socks as a few of my faithful playmates had given up and left for a rubbish bin without toes mended.  I have mended quite of few of my favorite socks back when I was a college student and thread for mending was cheaper than buying socks.  I would put the worn out soul upon my foot, bend over and mend the toes of my socks.  I must admit that I am not quite as limber as I use to be but I will still make the effort of fixing some of my socks while they are on my feet.  My mom-in-law says that life is too short to mend socks.  As always the universe supplies.

I have toyed with the idea of making gloves with some of my socks.  It seems a shame to toss them away after years of devoted services.  This idea has come and gone in my mind every year. I let the thought pass.  I go and buy gloves.  One year I might clear off the sewing machine, bring out my scissors and then call a friend to see if she can do it for me.  I will provide the socks, the ideas and lots of hugs, go my merry way while she works away on my project because she loves me.  I hope.

I have been on a blog hiatus.  I started this one in October 2018.  It is now January 20, 2019. Where did I go? Or rather, where was the inspiration for writing.  My man has been faithfully writing a blog each week. I think I got into the mind set of why? Do I really have anything to say? I still have thoughts about the purpose of my writing.  I really do write about mundane things.  Like what happened to me during the week or on a Saturday/Sunday’s afternoon.  I am not sure I have a life during the week.  I work, I eat, I sleep and if I am lucky I read.

I like my husband’s blog.  He writes about changes in the world, he thinks about what he grew up with, books he has read, television shows he watched or movies he has seen.  The God and Goddess knows I really don’t remember anything like what he has experienced.  I am writing about the importance of my socks or the slug I found in my salad (last Sunday’s blog). I had a childhood.  A good one filled with wonderful journeys, a great family.

I guess talking about what is going on in the world is too painful. Do I want to be sad all of the time? No, I rather think about happy moments for me, the gift of socks from a friend, a surprise visit from a brother, a beloved cousin who travels hours and hours to see me for a day. I am certain of only one thing.  I like my socks.

Slugs and Other (Vegetables) in Salad

Slugs and Other (Vegetables) in Salad

Winter is hard in some ways as the favorite vegetables of the season have gone away. The harvest land is now covered with the white of winter snow in some areas or has the constant cold rain pelting on the ground in our part of the county on the West coast.   When visiting our local Farmers Market, my husband pointed out the salad greens on display and asked if I want some for our dinner.  I was delighted.  We grabbed a bag of greens, a few other things from the organic vegetable vendor and continued our shopping.  It was a delightful morning as we had met up with a friend and I strolled arm in arm with her for a bit. We stopped to buy bread, a new hat for me and beautiful red-black place mats for her. My husband followed with my shopping bag ready to be loaded up with my purchases. My friend parted with us at the door after I picked up my Saturday fresh brewed cup of coffee.  It was a good beginning for our day.

Saturday is our grocery shopping day.  We make a list. We head to the store and if we are lucky, we have the list otherwise two great minds struggle to remember the list sitting on the table at home. Generally, we try and cook something up for the week in order to have something for a quick lunch when we come home from work. Our commute is five minutes from work if the traffic lights are with us.  The supreme advantage to living in a small coastal town. Vegetable chili is our pick for this week. For our Saturday dinner, fresh wild caught salmon and the greens for our salad.  It was a good day for shopping with no wind and no driving rain just beautiful sunshine. Lucky us.

This Saturday is the day that I decided to have some of the stories I am working on printed up to make it easier on my eyes to edit.  We picked up a new thumb drive and after unloading the groceries, having something for lunch I started to load the thumb drive with the help of my man.  For us, a quick drive to a local print shop was all that I need. Or so, I thought.

Trip number one:

I grabbed the thumb drive, headed to the front door and put on my shoes.  Realizing I have the wrong glasses on (my reading glasses for the computer), I cried out to my husband to bring my glasses. I make it to the printers.  He printed out my stuff handing it to me.  I say, “Is that all?” I was looking for more.  I quickly check and realize I had selected a wrong file. He sends me home saying I can pay when I come back. I let him know I am minutes away as I head out the door.

Trip number two:

I open the door to my house. Calling out to my husband.  I need your help.  I forgot a file.  He quickly loads it up and happily I head out the door. The young man greets me and takes the thumb drive. “I can’t print this,” he says. “It is in the wrong format.”  I ask him what is wrong with it as he lets me look over his shoulder at the computer screen.  “Okay, I will be back.”  He hands me the thumb drive and off I go. At least, it is not raining, I think as I drive down back streets, across the highway remembering to miss the bump on one of the streets as I go.

Trip number three:

My husband is vacuuming.  I have to wait as he finishes the cleaning of the heat pump on the wall.  “Help. He says it is the wrong format.” I explain what I need and my husband replies he is my IT guy.  Soon the thumb drive is reloaded with the proper format and as a plus I found some of the story hidden in a different file so we add it to the thumb drive. I head out the door, sure I have everything.  As I wait at the light to get back on Hwy 101, I recite to myself, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.”

The third time is the charm.  With a small box of papers I head home.  I am content. After all, the day is sunny. I have a lovely dinner to look forward to, books to read, there are board games to play with my man before we watch television.

Dinner.

My husband works on baking the salmon as I work on reading my collection of mysteries, selected by Ellery Queen.  I have read mysteries here and then.  Mostly, Agatha Christie.  I am working on branching out from science fiction and fantasy.  I take a break from reading when the salmon comes out and later when the freshly baked chocolate chip cookies come out.  My contribution was chopping the walnuts.

I get out the salad greens and pile my plate high.  My husband says, “Did you wash them?” 

I reply, “I think they were already washed.”  I added my salad dressing.   I sit down and start to read again deep in a mystery of a new author.  Carefully spearing bits of lettuces, etc. on my fork gazing absentmindedly at my load before forcing the fork full in my mouth.  They are fresh, tasty.

 

I ate several mouthfuls before I see antennae sticking up, followed by a brown head as a three inch slug begins its journey around my plate.  I don’t scream.  Calmly, I let my husband know of the invader as I head into the kitchen to dump the creature into the compost.   After seeing a slimy thread connecting some of the greens, the rest of my salad follows the slug into the compost well-seasoned with a shiitake sesame vinaigrette.  I head directly to the fresh warm cookies eating two in my suffering.

I washed the rest of the greens in a slightly salty water bath.  I inspected each piece on all sides.  I placed them to dry on a small red towel on another cookie sheet.  I am thankful.  I missed spearing the slug. I am thankful. I missed cramming him into my mouth to rest on my tongue or to slide along my teeth before my teeth closed down on its body to force cold internal fluids into the cavity called my mouth.  Now as I sit here writing this I think I just might need another cookie as I think about slugs and other vegetables in my salad.