Sonya-on-the-ridge apparently got much more snow than we did down here in town. In fact, it dumped so much wet, slushy snow that her father, snaking around in a tractor trying to pull her husband's truck up their driveway, almost slipped into the next world. That's a high price to pay for the beauty of the ridge, but at least Sonya seems to be strapping and muscular from shoveling, walking the dog, and whacking night creatures with a big flashlight (I just cannot let that last one go). She looks more fit every time I see her.
I, on the other hand, waited until I was in the comfort and privacy of my own house today to unbutton my jeans and let the winter happiness free (the winter happiness is my ever-growing gut, I'm afraid). I got some exercise by baking banana bread with two sticks of butter, which I will consume during the next two days. Things are not looking good for me; in fact, they're looking a bit Winnie-the-Poohish. Elevenses, here we come, and tut, tut, it feels time for a little something to quench the rumblies in the tumblies.
Friend Sal told me that I've been indoors so much lately that when I finally do emerge, everyone will be watching to see if I spot my shadow or disappear again. Sounds about right. Grassy Sam, Wazoo Farm's resident groundhog, is smarter than he looks. Right now he's curled up in a warm nest somewhere under our shed, dreaming of eating our spring garden.
Oh, looks like it's time to put the kids to bed, which means I must walk up the stairs. Don't. know. if. I. can. endure. that. much. exercise.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Slushy Snow
I keep glancing outside to check for more snow. Today the sky spit and glopped down a great big mess on us. No feathery, light snowflakes dancing and spinning like fairies to glaze our gardens. Nope. Big shovelfuls of wet stuff that proved almost lethal for pedestrians (I watched my friend Michelle dance the watootsi on her way across the street in her Just-Come-From-Work pretty red toe shoes.) With slush in my wheelwells, blocked breaks and a lot of luck, I slipped into the intersection from the grocery store (yes, the classical music was blaring, so we were absorbing a little culture at least) into an unusually empty street. "Well, I guess I'm going," I said as we slipped down the road. I've had this experience several times in the past on icy roads, and I've felt that same mixture of dull panic and resignation--probably, ironically, the closest I'll ever get to zen ever. I'm out of control! So be it!
I'm happy to report that the sky has stopped dumping, I imagine much to the relief of my friend Sonya-up-on-the-ridge, who was talking crazy earlier, all panicked about stocking up on water and the generator still wrapped and in the garage and how her husband had to be pulled up their endless slushy driveway by a tractor. There was no resignation for her--no, siree, not after last year when they were without power, water, or heat for two weeks in the middle of a blizzard. I'm glad to think she must be feeling a bit better--and now she's all clean, too, since she thought ahead to impending disaster and grabbed a hot shower while she still could, picturing herself possibly without water for the next fortnight.
But, look, no snow! And though we had an early dismissal today, I do believe the children will be disappointed tomorrow. School looks likely, blizzards unlikely. And now Martin is ready to ditch all our work for the evening to eat cupcakes and watch TV, and I'm more than ready to join him. It's hard to feel like working in the face of a vanilla cupcake with chocolate icing, wouldn't you agree?
I'm happy to report that the sky has stopped dumping, I imagine much to the relief of my friend Sonya-up-on-the-ridge, who was talking crazy earlier, all panicked about stocking up on water and the generator still wrapped and in the garage and how her husband had to be pulled up their endless slushy driveway by a tractor. There was no resignation for her--no, siree, not after last year when they were without power, water, or heat for two weeks in the middle of a blizzard. I'm glad to think she must be feeling a bit better--and now she's all clean, too, since she thought ahead to impending disaster and grabbed a hot shower while she still could, picturing herself possibly without water for the next fortnight.
But, look, no snow! And though we had an early dismissal today, I do believe the children will be disappointed tomorrow. School looks likely, blizzards unlikely. And now Martin is ready to ditch all our work for the evening to eat cupcakes and watch TV, and I'm more than ready to join him. It's hard to feel like working in the face of a vanilla cupcake with chocolate icing, wouldn't you agree?
Just Another Exciting Grey Day
More snow, light but it comes steadily.
On the agenda today: get off another column, stay sane, stay happy, keep the kids happy, make a big outing to store to pick up diapers, milk, and kleenex. Just another exciting morning for Wazoo. I think we'll play classical music in the car for a little bit of culture, and then we'll eat chili for the third time in a row for lunch, and then we'll take a nap. Perhaps somewhere during that time someone will rent the clouds asunder and send down a blast of sunshine, in which case we'll be so confused and excited we'll dump our plans and go to our central park, strip down to our skivvies, and perform a wild dance of gratitude. But I have a funny feeling it will be the former agenda we'll be pacing ourselves through, finding reasons to grin, like a big kleenex sale or extra-wet disinfecting cart wipes.
On the agenda today: get off another column, stay sane, stay happy, keep the kids happy, make a big outing to store to pick up diapers, milk, and kleenex. Just another exciting morning for Wazoo. I think we'll play classical music in the car for a little bit of culture, and then we'll eat chili for the third time in a row for lunch, and then we'll take a nap. Perhaps somewhere during that time someone will rent the clouds asunder and send down a blast of sunshine, in which case we'll be so confused and excited we'll dump our plans and go to our central park, strip down to our skivvies, and perform a wild dance of gratitude. But I have a funny feeling it will be the former agenda we'll be pacing ourselves through, finding reasons to grin, like a big kleenex sale or extra-wet disinfecting cart wipes.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Letter Corner
Letter Corner:
From a Reader, to Wazoo, received this AM, Re: Last Sunday's Caption
Letter Follows (I'm serious, I actually just got this letter in my e-mail; it's from a man, [hint: related to me by marriage] in Washington State). I include the photo once again for further edification.
I thought it improper to compete with the anonymous winner of the
amorphous prize in the caption contest. Now that due recognition has
been granted, I'd like to point out that having just one caption is
inappropriate, given the many layers of meaning that must be carefully
peeled back, as an onion, to find the deeper layers beneath.
9. Fungal transmission
8. Vladivostok Vixen votes vor Victor.
7. Now the rage, in Connecticut.
6. Today's podiatry: Empathy
5. Tickle Me Timothy
4. Hey, look, now we can count to 42!
3. Happiness is amorality.
2. Does it matter who these toys love?
1. What does it mean to be a man?
From a Reader, to Wazoo, received this AM, Re: Last Sunday's Caption
Letter Follows (I'm serious, I actually just got this letter in my e-mail; it's from a man, [hint: related to me by marriage] in Washington State). I include the photo once again for further edification.
I thought it improper to compete with the anonymous winner of the
amorphous prize in the caption contest. Now that due recognition has
been granted, I'd like to point out that having just one caption is
inappropriate, given the many layers of meaning that must be carefully
peeled back, as an onion, to find the deeper layers beneath.
9. Fungal transmission
8. Vladivostok Vixen votes vor Victor.
7. Now the rage, in Connecticut.
6. Today's podiatry: Empathy
5. Tickle Me Timothy
4. Hey, look, now we can count to 42!
3. Happiness is amorality.
2. Does it matter who these toys love?
1. What does it mean to be a man?
Monday, January 24, 2011
Monday Night Confession
At this point in January, my head begins to feel fuzzy from lack. My fingers have not encountered soil outside in months. My eyes have not seen green; I look at the deciduous trees that ring our property, their bare skeletons, and feel a dull longing. I begin to dream about my own childhood floors, flooded in sunlight, about standing under huge trees waiting for the bus, the wind sweeping up through coffee bushes, around the red clay track where I once ran hurdles (yes, me, really and truly), and sweeping around my own seventeen year old legs. I do not feel sentimental for this afternoon, for the wind and the sky wider than the sea, because I want to be seventeen again. No. It's because I want to feel warm again, and alive, and full of the energy that comes from sweater-weather and being outdoors with all my senses open and receiving, in no hurry to rush anywhere.
I tried hard this year, as I believe I try every year, to feel optimistic and full of vim for winter. This year, I swore to myself, I will get out every day for a walk. Winter will not get me down. A friend asked me yesterday if I suffer from SAD, and I don't think that's it so much as the fact that I was utterly spoiled growing up in Nairobi, where it was never colder than sixty-something degrees and never hotter than mid-eighties. My entire school experience was marked by outdoor living; we sat in classrooms (often with the doors open to the sweet air) and then walked outside to talk around our lockers (they were indeed also outside), to eat lunch under trees on a hill. The whole concept of a high school being contained within walls was foreign to me. I spent most of my years in Nairobi, whether it was at home or at school, barefoot.
And I hate being cold. I can't spin it any other way, and I will not tonight. I will just admit it: I am pathetic, and I absolutely, positively, abhor being cold. I see it as something I must endure, and that makes walks sort of silly; and though my brave, lovely mother has made us have picnics in sub-zero, snowy weather, and admonished us to think of it all as a great adventure, I have a hard time convincing myself that this is a good idea.
I have never been allowed to complain about anything. Instead, I've been charged to always see and seize the positive and celebrate it so furiously that the negative melts to nothing but a little puddle at my feet. So be it, but not tonight. Winter, I am tired of you. Runny noses, I am tired of all of you. Colds, begone. Frigid sheets, yuck to you too. Hats, scarves, mittens, coats, wool socks and snow boots, to all the mornings I have been tempted to swear as I bundle yet another child, end immediately. Bring on the robins, the mud, the flip flops and faces lifted to sun. I'm ready. Now.
I tried hard this year, as I believe I try every year, to feel optimistic and full of vim for winter. This year, I swore to myself, I will get out every day for a walk. Winter will not get me down. A friend asked me yesterday if I suffer from SAD, and I don't think that's it so much as the fact that I was utterly spoiled growing up in Nairobi, where it was never colder than sixty-something degrees and never hotter than mid-eighties. My entire school experience was marked by outdoor living; we sat in classrooms (often with the doors open to the sweet air) and then walked outside to talk around our lockers (they were indeed also outside), to eat lunch under trees on a hill. The whole concept of a high school being contained within walls was foreign to me. I spent most of my years in Nairobi, whether it was at home or at school, barefoot.
And I hate being cold. I can't spin it any other way, and I will not tonight. I will just admit it: I am pathetic, and I absolutely, positively, abhor being cold. I see it as something I must endure, and that makes walks sort of silly; and though my brave, lovely mother has made us have picnics in sub-zero, snowy weather, and admonished us to think of it all as a great adventure, I have a hard time convincing myself that this is a good idea.
I have never been allowed to complain about anything. Instead, I've been charged to always see and seize the positive and celebrate it so furiously that the negative melts to nothing but a little puddle at my feet. So be it, but not tonight. Winter, I am tired of you. Runny noses, I am tired of all of you. Colds, begone. Frigid sheets, yuck to you too. Hats, scarves, mittens, coats, wool socks and snow boots, to all the mornings I have been tempted to swear as I bundle yet another child, end immediately. Bring on the robins, the mud, the flip flops and faces lifted to sun. I'm ready. Now.
THE WINNER IS. . .
Some fight. Some sing. Some dance. And others simply sit foot to foot, staring each other down in order to win the favor of the female.
* * * *
To claim your sizeable prize, Anonymous, please write your bank account number on the bottom of a merigue, strawberry, and whipped cream cake, and send it to Wazoo Farm. Your prize will appear in your bank account in twenty years or so.*
*Wazoo Farm cannot be responsible for loss of prize, failure to give prize, or lack of follow-up whatsover.
Thanks for playing, everyone! That last one was a hard picture to make sense of, and you all did an admirable job. . .and kept this rather freezing woman laughing. Kudos.
* * * *
To claim your sizeable prize, Anonymous, please write your bank account number on the bottom of a merigue, strawberry, and whipped cream cake, and send it to Wazoo Farm. Your prize will appear in your bank account in twenty years or so.*
*Wazoo Farm cannot be responsible for loss of prize, failure to give prize, or lack of follow-up whatsover.
Thanks for playing, everyone! That last one was a hard picture to make sense of, and you all did an admirable job. . .and kept this rather freezing woman laughing. Kudos.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME
Alright, you know the rules. (If you don't, check them in the category for "ADD-A-CAPTION-GAME" at right.) Feel free to add as many captions as you think will increase your brilliance. Good luck.
Crazy Thief Bird
The sledding hill studded with footprints from a few brave souls, the garden glittering, capped with domes of snow--it's bright with sunshine and frigid temperatures in the negatives this morning and climbing now to single digits. Inside, the kids are watching Saturday morning TV, Beatrix is on a chair watching Martin flip pancakes, and NPR is whining out some filler jazz.
Last night I had a wild dream about a bird who chased me around a hotel. I'd seen the bird--an orange-feathered, sharp-beaked, rather pretty, rather large avian--about to steal eggs from a little mama bird's nest. The entire tree was full of unattended nests just waiting for this orange thief to pilfer. I knew I was messing with nature, but before the defenseless eggs were broken and scattered, I rushed over and waved my arms at the orange bird. And then he turned on me. The remainder of that section of that dream was spent trying to shake the bird from around my feet, which he seemed to be obsessed in snapping up like worms.
My friend T, whom I like to call Sonya in my columns, would have known what to do. She would have taken care of the whole situation by whacking the crazy bird with a big flashlight--or she would have blown the crazy thing away, if it were dangerous, with buckshot, and then planted an acre of garden, put up ten bushels of cherries, whipped up a pancake and sausage breakfast for fourteen, mended her daughter's toys, and hung out a fresh load of laundry, all before heading off to work for the morning in the OR. It's her birthday today. That crazy country girl deserves a happy break. All the best, dear Sonya. You're wonderful.
Last night I had a wild dream about a bird who chased me around a hotel. I'd seen the bird--an orange-feathered, sharp-beaked, rather pretty, rather large avian--about to steal eggs from a little mama bird's nest. The entire tree was full of unattended nests just waiting for this orange thief to pilfer. I knew I was messing with nature, but before the defenseless eggs were broken and scattered, I rushed over and waved my arms at the orange bird. And then he turned on me. The remainder of that section of that dream was spent trying to shake the bird from around my feet, which he seemed to be obsessed in snapping up like worms.
My friend T, whom I like to call Sonya in my columns, would have known what to do. She would have taken care of the whole situation by whacking the crazy bird with a big flashlight--or she would have blown the crazy thing away, if it were dangerous, with buckshot, and then planted an acre of garden, put up ten bushels of cherries, whipped up a pancake and sausage breakfast for fourteen, mended her daughter's toys, and hung out a fresh load of laundry, all before heading off to work for the morning in the OR. It's her birthday today. That crazy country girl deserves a happy break. All the best, dear Sonya. You're wonderful.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Rare Sunshine
After sleeping most of the day yesterday, Martin awakened at 2:30 last night and started rolling around the bed. "I can't get to sleep," he said, waking me, who had been blissfully accepting my first good night's sleep in three or four days. I was not feeling generous.
"Go over to your side of the bed and do finger exercises," I groaned (Martin informed me of this later). "You're like sleeping with a flipping fish."
I do remember feeling a little bad about this response even in my groggy state, and so I said something empathetic, like "So you're having trouble sleeping."
Affirmed.
"I did too after I slept all day," I said.
"What did you do?"
"I lay in bed and thought, It's so much nicer to be awake in the middle of the night and feel good than it was to be awake in the middle of the night and feel awful, and then I just lay there and fell back asleep."
Which, I think, is what Martin did as well, because when we opened our eyes again Beatrix was parting our curtains to say, "It's a sun-up day," and indeed, the sun was lighting up a deep, smooth snow outside our window.
It's a snow day, the children are home from school, and knock on wood, it's the first day in almost a week when we're all well. We celebrated by eating toasted waffles smeared with Nutella and drinking a pot of tea. Martin is like a puppy, bounding around all full of health and gratitude, just as anyone who has slept for over 48 hours and finally recovered feels--so happy to be alive and ready to take on the world again, or at least a shower and real clothes, which is a good start. We will miss the endless reruns of the Munsters, bowls full of Saltines, and salty chicken noodle soup out of a can, but these are sacrifices I think we can make.
"Go over to your side of the bed and do finger exercises," I groaned (Martin informed me of this later). "You're like sleeping with a flipping fish."
I do remember feeling a little bad about this response even in my groggy state, and so I said something empathetic, like "So you're having trouble sleeping."
Affirmed.
"I did too after I slept all day," I said.
"What did you do?"
"I lay in bed and thought, It's so much nicer to be awake in the middle of the night and feel good than it was to be awake in the middle of the night and feel awful, and then I just lay there and fell back asleep."
Which, I think, is what Martin did as well, because when we opened our eyes again Beatrix was parting our curtains to say, "It's a sun-up day," and indeed, the sun was lighting up a deep, smooth snow outside our window.
It's a snow day, the children are home from school, and knock on wood, it's the first day in almost a week when we're all well. We celebrated by eating toasted waffles smeared with Nutella and drinking a pot of tea. Martin is like a puppy, bounding around all full of health and gratitude, just as anyone who has slept for over 48 hours and finally recovered feels--so happy to be alive and ready to take on the world again, or at least a shower and real clothes, which is a good start. We will miss the endless reruns of the Munsters, bowls full of Saltines, and salty chicken noodle soup out of a can, but these are sacrifices I think we can make.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Flea in the Flue is better than a Few with the Flu
I have finally crawled out of the deep, long tunnel that is the flu. The flumeisters seemed to have shaken, not stirred, a perfect cocktail for lucky me--I had the whole shaboom served to me in courses. I picture the flu guys lounging somewhere, maybe on some soft easy chairs in my large intestine, having this pleasant planning meeting. "Let's start her with some chills, followed by a whole course of sweats, topped off, of course, by vomiting! What a wonderful time this will be! And then let's give her a real killer of a headache and more body aches, and then see how she's doing after all that." Thankfully my body kicked 'em out before they could go much further with their dastardly plans.
And no, smarty-pants I did not get a flu shot this year. This is what I figured: why get the antibodies with a thirty-second spray up my nose when I could get the very same antibodies by fighting for my life for two days? Why take the easy way out when the hard way only makes you weaker?
Two interesting things that resulted, I believe, from dehydration: one, I was prostrate on the couch with my hands around a pillow, when the pillow began feeling absolutely huge, and my hands started feeling smaller and smaller, like bird claws. The second trippy thing happened last night, when I'd actually been trying to hydrate for a good day, to slow results--I got up and started to putter around (Martin had by this time, succumbed to the party-planners and hit the pillows)--as I accomplished a few normal household tasks, I realized that all the colors I saw, on the counters, for example, seemed to be saturated, incredibly bright and vibrant. This sensation was far preferable than the bird-claw sensation.
I seem to be on the up-swing for sure, and I'm hoping that Martin endures a less serious, less interesting version of the flu, and that Elspeth, who I can't remember if she had the inoculation or not (Merry's was the first down and the first well and Bea's had the flu shot)--skips the yuckiness altogether.
So that's where I've been, lovies. Don't come over any time soon.
And no, smarty-pants I did not get a flu shot this year. This is what I figured: why get the antibodies with a thirty-second spray up my nose when I could get the very same antibodies by fighting for my life for two days? Why take the easy way out when the hard way only makes you weaker?
Two interesting things that resulted, I believe, from dehydration: one, I was prostrate on the couch with my hands around a pillow, when the pillow began feeling absolutely huge, and my hands started feeling smaller and smaller, like bird claws. The second trippy thing happened last night, when I'd actually been trying to hydrate for a good day, to slow results--I got up and started to putter around (Martin had by this time, succumbed to the party-planners and hit the pillows)--as I accomplished a few normal household tasks, I realized that all the colors I saw, on the counters, for example, seemed to be saturated, incredibly bright and vibrant. This sensation was far preferable than the bird-claw sensation.
I seem to be on the up-swing for sure, and I'm hoping that Martin endures a less serious, less interesting version of the flu, and that Elspeth, who I can't remember if she had the inoculation or not (Merry's was the first down and the first well and Bea's had the flu shot)--skips the yuckiness altogether.
So that's where I've been, lovies. Don't come over any time soon.
Monday, January 17, 2011
WINNER: ADD-A-CAPTION GAME 1
With a huge howdy-thanks to everyone who participated in this week's Add-A-Caption Game, and a special shout-out to the kid-contributors, I'm delighted to present the winners of this week's contest.
THE WINNER IS. . .ANONYMOUS
Your problem here, ma'am, is that this isn't a laundry chute--it's a handyman chute. They're just going to keep sliding out onto your floor until you turn off this valve ...
AND YOUR AWARD IS. . .A VIRTUAL, LIFE-CHANGING CYCLING TRIP THROUGH AUSTRALIA'S WILDERNESS!
We are not responsible for any harm that you or your bicycle may incur, virtual or otherwise. Please do not try to enchant crocs with your flashy rims.
THE WINNER IS. . .ANONYMOUS
Your problem here, ma'am, is that this isn't a laundry chute--it's a handyman chute. They're just going to keep sliding out onto your floor until you turn off this valve ...
AND YOUR AWARD IS. . .A VIRTUAL, LIFE-CHANGING CYCLING TRIP THROUGH AUSTRALIA'S WILDERNESS!
We are not responsible for any harm that you or your bicycle may incur, virtual or otherwise. Please do not try to enchant crocs with your flashy rims.
WINNER: ADD-A-CAPTION GAME 2
**DRUMROLL PLEASE**
THE WINNER IS (yet another) ANONYMOUS!
back guy/gal: "so, do these stirrups make me look fat?"
front dude (muttering to himself): "no right answer, no right answer..."
AND YOUR PRIZE IS:
A VIRTUAL LIFETIME SUPPLY OF GIANT VEGETABLES!!!!
man in regalia not included
THE WINNER IS (yet another) ANONYMOUS!
back guy/gal: "so, do these stirrups make me look fat?"
front dude (muttering to himself): "no right answer, no right answer..."
AND YOUR PRIZE IS:
A VIRTUAL LIFETIME SUPPLY OF GIANT VEGETABLES!!!!
man in regalia not included
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Wow, folks! Thanks for the wonderful response to our "Add-a-Caption" game! I'll leave it up for comments through the end of Monday just in case some of you didn't get a chance to dig up a caption. As Monday closes, Wazoo will VOTE.
PS. Martin just found Merry climbing into our bed (it's 11 pm) and asked her why she was getting in when we weren't even there yet and she answered, "A man named Triangle." The poetry of the sleep-walker.
PS. Martin just found Merry climbing into our bed (it's 11 pm) and asked her why she was getting in when we weren't even there yet and she answered, "A man named Triangle." The poetry of the sleep-walker.
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