Another day . . . another blog. That's how it works.
So guess what is right up there with ovocatoes and citrus? FIGS, Baby, FIGS. I'd had a hankering for some lately, and then at last there they were, oh joy, many boxes of the plump little guys stacked neatly in Rollin' Oats, a sensible grocery store because it's SMALL and you can get in and out lickety-split and not spend hours untold wandering the aisles of some SUPERmarket, getting lost in mind and body and never finding the figs. Well, I'd like to know what is more fabulous than a fresh fig? Nothing, that's what. It's so DIFFERENT. And it's so much fun to eat something that, without question, goes way back to the Garden of Eden, you really can't go back much farther than that. When Adam and Eve took and ate of that forbidden fruit, the most pathetic moment in history, wow, guess what was their very next act? To sew aprons out of fig leaves. Does this make anyone besides me wonder if the fruit of The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil was a FIG tree? I don't know, that thought is brand new to me, it sprang into my head unsolicited and quite of its own free will while I was vacuuming hair tonight. I had just had a Fig Fix, that was the trouble. Actually, Adam and Eve were probably too scared out of their wits to dare touch the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil again to pluck its leaves, even though that would have been convenient because they were RIGHT THERE. But the very first humans were in WAY too deep. They must have yanked off leaves from some other tree, which, obviously, was the fig tree. I'm thinking maybe God didn't propagate such a significant tree anyway, yet figs are still with us today, thank goodness. Yeah, so it's true, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil was probably not a fig tree. Wow, did that make ANY sense. It did to me, that's scary. Anyway, most of us have kind of assumed the apple was the fruit, at least there seems to be a general consensus among early artists, and the power of their suggestion has lived on, I'm not arguing that.
So, anyway, I had a TO DO LIST that I made up last night. When I came downstairs this afternoon, there it was on the stove where I can't miss it and it said, EAT BEANS AND GO TO TARGET. Remember that can of baked beans Mike snubbed? Well, three days ago I opened and ate half the can for breakfast and three days is my limit for leftovers. I got that great idea from Dear Abby. In one of her columns she was APPALLED that ANYONE would consider eating leftovers BEYOND the THIRD day, how NUTS can you get?, and that to do so would land you smack dab in the ER after, say, the first rotten bean. Also, AskMarilyn says that she presumably has a limited number of calories she can consume in her lifetime and she's not about to squander them on GROSS food. So, my three days were up and the beans had to go down the hatch, not the garbage disposal, because my pet peeve is wasting food, even though I just threw out some aged cherries. Rats, how could I let cherries bite the mold? I LOVE cherries, they're right up there with figs, citrus and acacadees.
So, CHECK, hey, where's the check mark on the computer? Hmmm, they need to add that in. Hey, I see two eighth notes, never saw those before, but I'm afraid to press that button, there's just no telling. CHECK BEANS. Now I need to get to Target but first the mall is calling. It's calling loudly and clearly because I want FREE STUFF and I want it NOW. I want my FREE you-know-what from VS. I suddenly want to give my brother-in-law a birthday present from Clinique so I can get my FREE little gift bag, which I had just given one to my sister for her birthday. I was SO TEMPTED (see Adam and Eve above) to steal the blush that's like lipstick and the wee mascara AND the tiny tube of Even Better cream that Marie Claire Magazine said is one of the "25 new products that will change your life." WHO would believe THAT? If a skin tone corrector is going to change my life, I am in SERIOUS TROUBLE. But I'm seriously curious, too. See, I had bought my sister that Even Better cream in the big size for her birthday, because it sounded so great, don't you know, and that got me the free gift bag, which, as I said, had the mini version of same cream to try. Oh boy, I wanted to try it. But it would have looked ultra tacky to rip open the plastic sack and help myself to the darling little minatures I coveted and then just dump what was left in the cloth zip bag. I asked Mike, Would it be okay . . . ? He said, Absolutely not. I didn't want to be a crumb of a sister, so I left it alone. When she received the gift she called to thank me and first thing she said, I LOVE THE GIFT BAG, all that little stuff looks so cool. Figures.
Back to the story at hand. What was it? Oh yeah, AND, I also want to get a FREE escalator ride in the department store. I think my blog from yesterday has been subliminally chanting ever since, Go back . . . go back to cruising the escalator . . . up and down, up and down . . . yeah, go live a little . . . go back to your granny roots. So, get a load of THIS. The escalator was BUSTED. The moving staircase was at a perfect standstill and roped off with yellow caution tape and barricades. PERFECT illustration of the things that can only happen to KEM. I go into a department store about twice a year and can't even get an escalator ride, which is a given in a department store, a FREE escalator ride! So we had to take the boring, claustrophobic elevator up to housewares. I have a TERRIFYING elevator story to tell you someday, and that combined with the fact that I suffer SEVERELY from claustrophobia, well, elevators have about as much appeal as being buried alive.
So, we get up to the Fiestaware display. I'm telling you, Fiestaware is cheerfulness personified. They incorporate every color known to man and then make up some more. I wanted new dishes a couple of years ago and I picked Fiestaware because of course it goes charmingly way back. AND it's made in the USA. AND it's lead-free. My friend and I were discussing what colors I should get, one placesetting of each color and go hodgepodge, or what? Normally, I always get everything in safe, boring, wonderful white. But THIS time I was going to break loose and go WILD. Besides, my friend bossed, YOU ARE NOT GETTING WHITE. So, I went in the Beall's department store and told the nice lady, I CANNOT buy white dishes again. She said, WHO ON EARTH WOULD BUY WHITE FIESTAWARE? I would, breathed a small, still voice. FIESTAWARE IS ALL ABOUT COLOR!, she told the truth. I liked the lady, she had attitude. So, she helped me pick out eight pretty colors, it was very exciting and took forever. At home I unpacked the dishes and laid them all around, mixing up the colors, a purple mug with a red bowl, with a pink plate, oh, millions of possibilities . . . and became completely nauseous. The next day . . . I promptly went back to Beall's to return them. I have the kind of luck where the lady who helped me the day before was staked at her post, the front door, to greet customers. What's she doing here for Pete's sake? Lady, go away, you never knew me. I tried to sidle past her, but she was prepared, she had watched me loading up the cartons from my trunk to a cart, the brazen little thing. She said to the man who had also assisted, OH NO, look what I'm afraid I see. She said to me, You've got to be kidding! I am not. I have come to exchange the colors, just like every other lady who ever bought Fiestaware, I asserted with false assurance. She rolled her eyes. I said, All these colors are just too crazy for a girl of bland taste. She said, Well, you are NOT getting white. I AM getting white, I contradicted. And I did, white and tangerine, like an orangesicle. So, at least only half of my dishes are white. Tangerine reminds me of orange juice in a paper cone, duh. Then Laura gave me the yellow Fiestaware individual casseroles. So, tonight I find myself at Dillard's admiring blinding lime green Fiestaware. But it was all for fun, mainly so I could have a FREE escalator ride, that was my excuse for riding the escalator, FW on the second floor. The salesman proudly held up a divided vegetable bowl, FW makes this EXCLUSIVELY for Dilliard's he boasts. Excellent peas of knowledge. Then I spotted the Clearance where there was a peacock blue FW mug for $1.54, regular price $8.50. One of my white mugs got chipped and got chucked, so I got it. It was PRACTICALLY FREE.
Now, Target, 1/2 of the main object of the day. Target flyer said if you bought two things off this list, that you could get a $5 FREE gift card. I'm telling you, marketing is aimed straight at the gullible . . . me. Nothing on the list appealed except paper towels, because I'm out. But then there was a jar of Regenerist Sculpting Cream by Olay. It comes in a shiny red jar, just like Eve's apple. It purports to lift a sagging jowl. Hmmm. But guess who doesn't believe in wrinkle cream? You already know it, 'cause I already said it. I don't. How on earth is a mere soggy cream supposed to be any match for real wrinkles or drooping chin flesh that ain't goin' nowhere 'cept deeper and lower, for crying out loud? It's not and it doesn't. So someone please tell me how come I jaunted (KEM word) out of Target at the stroke of 10:00 PM swinging a sack of Rengenerist Sculpting Cream by Olay in the red shiny jar with silver lid? Sculpting cream??? Now I've heard of everything. What is it? Plaster? What do you do with it? Smear it on, let it dry and then pick up a chisel and hope you turn out a Michelangelo? Gads, what next?
Will let you know what's next,
KEM
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Well . . . here I am again . . . sort of . . .
I just had a midnight snack of an avocado heaped with Hellmann's mayo (try spelling avocado correctly on the first try, I sure couldn't do it if my life were on the brink, so . . . I just made up a little trick, like we used to do in school, you know, to remember things short-term, like for a test. Avocado, two A's, two O's, intermixed, A comes first 'cause it's the first letter in the alphabet, or more simply, A comes before O. So, A, O, A, O. Ta-da, now we will never forget how to spell AvOcAdO, at least not until the end of this blog. I'm sure 99% of you, that would be about 1/2 a person, will just figure it's easier to memorize spelling avocoda outright . . . look at that, I STILL can't spell it. It's just one of those impossible words, has a million combinations to spell badly. Avacada, avocodo, avacodo, avacado, avocada, to name a few. Okay, now that none of us will ever spell aveecado correctly again as long as we live. Hey, the more I say avacadee, the more annoying it's getting to me. A dear friend emailed me that my "hair" story caught her attention. She said, I have to say you hit a spot with all the talk of vacuum cleaners, hair balls, cleaning, etc. I absolutely know I didn't have hair on the floor before reading your ... entry (nor have I ever vacuumed daily) but suddenly there's hair everywhere. Thanks ever so much. :-) All KEM can say is, You are ever so much welcome. I now expect to get a grateful email from someone who USED to know how to spell avekado.
Do you even like avacadoes? I think they are simply MARVELOUS creations, right up there with anything citrus. Really. Slice a lemon or an orange and just sit back and marvel. That's all you can do, they are so beautiful and enticing, so rich in color, so unique, so succulent. My granny used to take me downtown to this old-timey orange juice shop. Besides selling incredible maple sugar patty praline thingys oh, WHAT are they called?, well of course they sold orange juice, just-squeezed and roiling around in this big glass machine. That large quantity of busy OJ was enough alone to fasten me to the spot, transfixed. Then they would fill a paper cone with this cold, sweet, other-worldly Florida oranje, look at me, I can't spell worth a lick tonight, oranGe juice, and one sip and you seriously thought you had just been instantaneously whisked through space and greeted at Heaven's portals: WELCOME dear child, and please refresh yourself with a pearly cone of Liquid Gold. Oh, I loved that shop. It was kind of open-air and was just so therapeutic -- PASS OUT!, I just spelled thera . . . right on the first try. I just then wrote out thera . . . because I know if I try spelling it again, it will be . . . WRONG! Anyway, the shop had lots of goodies for sale and a bare cement floor and an "all business" proprietor -- uh, uh, got that one, too, I'm on a sudden, inexplicable accurate-on-first-take spelling roll. I've ditched poor Martha Washington. Anyway, back then people weren't afraid to do something well, no matter how mundane the task, like slicing oranges in half all day long. I appreciated his if-we're-going-to-sell-orange-juice-we're-going-to-be-perfect-at-it mentality. Back in the day people knew how to use time well and efficiently . . . by taking it easy and having some no-fuss fun. I'm talking about my granny and me now, but I hope the serious OJ man lived a little, too. My granny would take me to the old-fashioned downtown department store, Maas Brothers. She would sit in the shoe department, right where the down escalator kindly deposited people, unless you were like my great-grandmother, Josie, who would screech the whole way down, They're going to turn me into MINCEMEAT! I can only imagine she thought she would fumble at the bottom trying to step off and the grate where the stairs magically disappeared would grind her up like hamburger. I guess mincemeat has more of a dignified ring to it, so she used that. Granny would let me ride up and down the escalator to my heart's content, and I had a very big heart. Up and down dozens of times. I wondered why she allowed this, she was probably exhausted and enjoyed the chance to sit in the shoe department while I was happily occupied, although not necessarily gainfully employed. But she was a special granny and LOVED her grandchildren and indulged us to a magnificent degree.
Oh dear, this reminds me. One of my sister's and my favorite childhood books, besides The Little Rabbit that would not Eat, was titled, Sally Goes Shopping Alone by Louise Eppenstein. It's about this little girl who, Oh, my goodness!, her mother's birthday is tomorrow and she simply MUST get down to the department store to buy her mother a gift. She has never been shopping alone before, but she tells her mother her pigtail ribbons are mussy and simply MUST be replaced with Red Ribbons, she needs New Shiny Rubbers and also a Bathrobe for Lulubelle, her doll, but of course she doesn't snitch on herself and tell the REAL reason for HAVING to shop alone, which of course was to buy Mother's Birthday Present. Sally's mother decides that 8-year-old-Sally is very responsible and so she grants permission, but with reservations and lots of instuctions for how Sally should manage herself and by all means have all the packages SENT home. This was in the day when service was luxurious and there was a separate department for EVERYTHING, remember the button department? I don't think I do, I think that's before my time. Whew, SOMETHING is before my time, no way. But it wasn't before Sally's time and off she went. Of course, she bungles things up badly because she disobeys her mother and tries to carry all the various packages around with her instead of having them SENT home, because, after all, she's so grown up and knows better than her mother. Hear that, DTD? Some things kind of never change. The packages get left hither and yon all over the giant department store. It's a delicious mess and anticipating how Sally is going to work herself out of it is even more delicious. Perhaps this book influenced me to ride myself silly on the moving staircase, just like Sally. Anyway, the book was illustrated by Esther Friend and was the epitome of charming, all in red, white and black. You just don't know how much I wanted to be Sally claiming her independence.
The book associated with Laura and her Cream of Wheat and mentioned above, as also in a previous blog, The Little Rabbit that would not Eat, was written by Edna Groff Deihl with color illustrations by A. E. Kennedy and one color illustrations by Roberta Paflin, isn't that interesting? At first I no comprehendo that one, but now it makes perfect sense. Well, the drawings for this book are WAY TOO CUTE. On the cover the bad naughty little rabbit is sitting on his hind legs in front of a big lettuce leaf. His front paws are held in the air above the lettuce as if shunning it with pure unadulterated scorn, you can tell because his little face is turned away from it and tells the whole enchilada without a word. It's hysterical. Later in the book when NIP learns to eat his vegetables, he is rewarded with a trip to the store with his granny for a STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM CONE, while his silly siblings, FLIP and SKIP, chose CHOCOLATE CONES. WOW!, talk about brand new bunny and turning over a whole brand new lettuce leaf -- getting fruity ice cream and all. The picture of the store and the bunnies eating their cones on the wooden stools just SO reminds me of myself with my granny at the Orange Juice Stand. So, you can see these books revved up my imagination. And another thing, when I capitalized the letters for Red Ribbons and NIP, etc., that is exactly the way it is in the books. So my penchant for capitalizing things for EMPHASIS, well, I think I picked that up from lore of long ago, too.
This story is TOO BE CONTINUED. There is a BIG punchline to it, but my darling husband, who was not, in case you were wondering, offended by the STIKE FOUR entry, says I should budget my time. So, for once, I might just pay heed. I tend to overdo things but I want to enact my philosophy that Americans, in general, probably function at overkill at about a 50% rate. I think that we could cut out maybe 50% of everything we do and have and come out WAY ahead. Like, don't you just KNOW we have 50% more clothes than we need or can possibly stay in charge of, that we eat 50% more than we should, or at least 50% of the wrong kinds of foods, consult NIP above. We fill our homes and garages and storage units with a GENEROUS 50% more than we have any sane use for whatsoever. You catch my drift. So, since I can't seem to ZIP it -- I seem to be ducking out of my own experiment -- without further adue, Adieu. Rats, I spelled Adieu correctly on first try, that's no fun. But, a-ha!, now I see I spelled Adue wrong, good for me, I see that because the dictionary is open to Adieu, and I'll be doggoned if Ado isn't right there nearby, didn't even have to turn the page, another of my favorite dictionary games, when you find a second word that's on same page as first word. FUN. Get it?
I have reduced the promise of my "B" story to: You shall have it before the last game of the World Series, in which, most sadly, our former darling 2008 110% Unlikely World Series Rays will not be participating. BUMMER!
KEM of FEW WORDS
I just had a midnight snack of an avocado heaped with Hellmann's mayo (try spelling avocado correctly on the first try, I sure couldn't do it if my life were on the brink, so . . . I just made up a little trick, like we used to do in school, you know, to remember things short-term, like for a test. Avocado, two A's, two O's, intermixed, A comes first 'cause it's the first letter in the alphabet, or more simply, A comes before O. So, A, O, A, O. Ta-da, now we will never forget how to spell AvOcAdO, at least not until the end of this blog. I'm sure 99% of you, that would be about 1/2 a person, will just figure it's easier to memorize spelling avocoda outright . . . look at that, I STILL can't spell it. It's just one of those impossible words, has a million combinations to spell badly. Avacada, avocodo, avacodo, avacado, avocada, to name a few. Okay, now that none of us will ever spell aveecado correctly again as long as we live. Hey, the more I say avacadee, the more annoying it's getting to me. A dear friend emailed me that my "hair" story caught her attention. She said, I have to say you hit a spot with all the talk of vacuum cleaners, hair balls, cleaning, etc. I absolutely know I didn't have hair on the floor before reading your ... entry (nor have I ever vacuumed daily) but suddenly there's hair everywhere. Thanks ever so much. :-) All KEM can say is, You are ever so much welcome. I now expect to get a grateful email from someone who USED to know how to spell avekado.
Do you even like avacadoes? I think they are simply MARVELOUS creations, right up there with anything citrus. Really. Slice a lemon or an orange and just sit back and marvel. That's all you can do, they are so beautiful and enticing, so rich in color, so unique, so succulent. My granny used to take me downtown to this old-timey orange juice shop. Besides selling incredible maple sugar patty praline thingys oh, WHAT are they called?, well of course they sold orange juice, just-squeezed and roiling around in this big glass machine. That large quantity of busy OJ was enough alone to fasten me to the spot, transfixed. Then they would fill a paper cone with this cold, sweet, other-worldly Florida oranje, look at me, I can't spell worth a lick tonight, oranGe juice, and one sip and you seriously thought you had just been instantaneously whisked through space and greeted at Heaven's portals: WELCOME dear child, and please refresh yourself with a pearly cone of Liquid Gold. Oh, I loved that shop. It was kind of open-air and was just so therapeutic -- PASS OUT!, I just spelled thera . . . right on the first try. I just then wrote out thera . . . because I know if I try spelling it again, it will be . . . WRONG! Anyway, the shop had lots of goodies for sale and a bare cement floor and an "all business" proprietor -- uh, uh, got that one, too, I'm on a sudden, inexplicable accurate-on-first-take spelling roll. I've ditched poor Martha Washington. Anyway, back then people weren't afraid to do something well, no matter how mundane the task, like slicing oranges in half all day long. I appreciated his if-we're-going-to-sell-orange-juice-we're-going-to-be-perfect-at-it mentality. Back in the day people knew how to use time well and efficiently . . . by taking it easy and having some no-fuss fun. I'm talking about my granny and me now, but I hope the serious OJ man lived a little, too. My granny would take me to the old-fashioned downtown department store, Maas Brothers. She would sit in the shoe department, right where the down escalator kindly deposited people, unless you were like my great-grandmother, Josie, who would screech the whole way down, They're going to turn me into MINCEMEAT! I can only imagine she thought she would fumble at the bottom trying to step off and the grate where the stairs magically disappeared would grind her up like hamburger. I guess mincemeat has more of a dignified ring to it, so she used that. Granny would let me ride up and down the escalator to my heart's content, and I had a very big heart. Up and down dozens of times. I wondered why she allowed this, she was probably exhausted and enjoyed the chance to sit in the shoe department while I was happily occupied, although not necessarily gainfully employed. But she was a special granny and LOVED her grandchildren and indulged us to a magnificent degree.
Oh dear, this reminds me. One of my sister's and my favorite childhood books, besides The Little Rabbit that would not Eat, was titled, Sally Goes Shopping Alone by Louise Eppenstein. It's about this little girl who, Oh, my goodness!, her mother's birthday is tomorrow and she simply MUST get down to the department store to buy her mother a gift. She has never been shopping alone before, but she tells her mother her pigtail ribbons are mussy and simply MUST be replaced with Red Ribbons, she needs New Shiny Rubbers and also a Bathrobe for Lulubelle, her doll, but of course she doesn't snitch on herself and tell the REAL reason for HAVING to shop alone, which of course was to buy Mother's Birthday Present. Sally's mother decides that 8-year-old-Sally is very responsible and so she grants permission, but with reservations and lots of instuctions for how Sally should manage herself and by all means have all the packages SENT home. This was in the day when service was luxurious and there was a separate department for EVERYTHING, remember the button department? I don't think I do, I think that's before my time. Whew, SOMETHING is before my time, no way. But it wasn't before Sally's time and off she went. Of course, she bungles things up badly because she disobeys her mother and tries to carry all the various packages around with her instead of having them SENT home, because, after all, she's so grown up and knows better than her mother. Hear that, DTD? Some things kind of never change. The packages get left hither and yon all over the giant department store. It's a delicious mess and anticipating how Sally is going to work herself out of it is even more delicious. Perhaps this book influenced me to ride myself silly on the moving staircase, just like Sally. Anyway, the book was illustrated by Esther Friend and was the epitome of charming, all in red, white and black. You just don't know how much I wanted to be Sally claiming her independence.
The book associated with Laura and her Cream of Wheat and mentioned above, as also in a previous blog, The Little Rabbit that would not Eat, was written by Edna Groff Deihl with color illustrations by A. E. Kennedy and one color illustrations by Roberta Paflin, isn't that interesting? At first I no comprehendo that one, but now it makes perfect sense. Well, the drawings for this book are WAY TOO CUTE. On the cover the bad naughty little rabbit is sitting on his hind legs in front of a big lettuce leaf. His front paws are held in the air above the lettuce as if shunning it with pure unadulterated scorn, you can tell because his little face is turned away from it and tells the whole enchilada without a word. It's hysterical. Later in the book when NIP learns to eat his vegetables, he is rewarded with a trip to the store with his granny for a STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM CONE, while his silly siblings, FLIP and SKIP, chose CHOCOLATE CONES. WOW!, talk about brand new bunny and turning over a whole brand new lettuce leaf -- getting fruity ice cream and all. The picture of the store and the bunnies eating their cones on the wooden stools just SO reminds me of myself with my granny at the Orange Juice Stand. So, you can see these books revved up my imagination. And another thing, when I capitalized the letters for Red Ribbons and NIP, etc., that is exactly the way it is in the books. So my penchant for capitalizing things for EMPHASIS, well, I think I picked that up from lore of long ago, too.
This story is TOO BE CONTINUED. There is a BIG punchline to it, but my darling husband, who was not, in case you were wondering, offended by the STIKE FOUR entry, says I should budget my time. So, for once, I might just pay heed. I tend to overdo things but I want to enact my philosophy that Americans, in general, probably function at overkill at about a 50% rate. I think that we could cut out maybe 50% of everything we do and have and come out WAY ahead. Like, don't you just KNOW we have 50% more clothes than we need or can possibly stay in charge of, that we eat 50% more than we should, or at least 50% of the wrong kinds of foods, consult NIP above. We fill our homes and garages and storage units with a GENEROUS 50% more than we have any sane use for whatsoever. You catch my drift. So, since I can't seem to ZIP it -- I seem to be ducking out of my own experiment -- without further adue, Adieu. Rats, I spelled Adieu correctly on first try, that's no fun. But, a-ha!, now I see I spelled Adue wrong, good for me, I see that because the dictionary is open to Adieu, and I'll be doggoned if Ado isn't right there nearby, didn't even have to turn the page, another of my favorite dictionary games, when you find a second word that's on same page as first word. FUN. Get it?
I have reduced the promise of my "B" story to: You shall have it before the last game of the World Series, in which, most sadly, our former darling 2008 110% Unlikely World Series Rays will not be participating. BUMMER!
KEM of FEW WORDS
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Hi.
Not feeling so well these days. But I can still say one little itsy thing. I used to call my sister Buckwheat. As in Hi, Buckwheat. Or, What was that, Buckwheat? Or, Hey, Buckwheat, come over here. This went on for years until she got sick of it and I had to stop, when we were at the advanced ages of thirty-something. Must have been a carry-over from her Cream of Wheat childhood. Being big fans of The Little Rascals might have contributed.
The "B" coming up . . .
KEM
Not feeling so well these days. But I can still say one little itsy thing. I used to call my sister Buckwheat. As in Hi, Buckwheat. Or, What was that, Buckwheat? Or, Hey, Buckwheat, come over here. This went on for years until she got sick of it and I had to stop, when we were at the advanced ages of thirty-something. Must have been a carry-over from her Cream of Wheat childhood. Being big fans of The Little Rascals might have contributed.
The "B" coming up . . .
KEM
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Living Dust's KEM will be back soon.
In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy one of my favorite little bits, called The Kind Voice. I found it once upon a time in an old children's books of virtuous stories, poems and short essays. No authors are listed, unless I'm missing a credits page, which is possible as some of the pages are loose. The book is titled Story after Story and published by McLoughlin Bros., New York. Do not have the year of publication, but it seems quite a long time ago from the pictures, maybe even 100 years old. Most of the pictures show the artist's signature, which if I really wanted to go crazy with research (Google, anyone?), I might be able to accurately determine the age of the book. I love old books on manners and etiquette, things truly were sweeter and gentler back then in lots of ways. People cared and felt for others more than themselves, seems to me.
The Kind Voice.
There is no power of love so hard to get and keep as a kind voice, and there is no one thing that love so much needs to tell what it means and feels. One must start in youth and be on the watch night and day, at work, at play, to get and keep a voice that shall speak at all times the thought of a kind heart. A kind voice is a lark's song to earth and home. It is to the heart what light is to the eye.
Isn't that beautiful?
KEM
In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy one of my favorite little bits, called The Kind Voice. I found it once upon a time in an old children's books of virtuous stories, poems and short essays. No authors are listed, unless I'm missing a credits page, which is possible as some of the pages are loose. The book is titled Story after Story and published by McLoughlin Bros., New York. Do not have the year of publication, but it seems quite a long time ago from the pictures, maybe even 100 years old. Most of the pictures show the artist's signature, which if I really wanted to go crazy with research (Google, anyone?), I might be able to accurately determine the age of the book. I love old books on manners and etiquette, things truly were sweeter and gentler back then in lots of ways. People cared and felt for others more than themselves, seems to me.
The Kind Voice.
There is no power of love so hard to get and keep as a kind voice, and there is no one thing that love so much needs to tell what it means and feels. One must start in youth and be on the watch night and day, at work, at play, to get and keep a voice that shall speak at all times the thought of a kind heart. A kind voice is a lark's song to earth and home. It is to the heart what light is to the eye.
Isn't that beautiful?
KEM
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
To my friends,
Hello. So. Tonight my husband, a faithful Living Dust Follower, bless his baby heart, asks, What are you blogging about tomorrow? You, I said. Oh, you're going to tell the world what a sweet husband I am and how I rescued you from all your vast misery? Wait and see, I said in sepulchral tones.
Back up to that morning, won't you? I come downstairs in early-to-mid afternoon because I slept in. I always ask first thing, Did you read my blog and how did you like it? (the heck with Good Afternoon). He looked at me and said, You have reached new heights of corny. WHAT??? Then he quickly semi-modified his insult by saying, Oh, I meant that in a good way. Really. What flavor sucker does he think I am anyway? STRIKE ONE.
THEN he informs, with smokin' hot superiority, I Googled James Linn, and it says that President Thomas Jefferson appointed Linn to be supervisor of the revenue (whatever that means), inferring that James Stamina Linn, my illustrious relative, had nothing whatsoever to do with stalling the vote for Jefferson's election, but rather JSL didn't come into play until AFTER Jefferson became president and was actually never hardly heard of before, that I had it all backwards and turned around and grossly misrepresented. (Whoa, that was a looooong sentence.) I told Mike, I am just SO SORRY that Wikipedia neglected to consult my mother for this article. STRIKE TWO.
THEN, bing, bing, bing, Mike says, You need to go to the store, we don't have any food. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? What unsupervised gall. We had a can of tuna. But he didn't want THAT because he had suffered eating homemade-by-KEM tuna casserole the last two nights in a row (served in the darling individual Sunny-Yellow-Fiestaware-casseroles-that-make-everything-taste-ever-so-yummier, the ones my sister gave me for my birthday). Let me dig out my violin. See, I'm not that picky, I could eat tuna every night for a month and not blink an eye. Once when my stepson was a young teenager I served leftovers from the previous night. When I placed his plate in front of him he whined, all down in the mouth, We had this last night. You're darn tootin' we had it last night. And that's the last time he delivered that little brand of charm to his wicked evil little stepmommy, you can bet your bottom dollar. Well, a can of baked beans perched on the pantry shelf (not as good as my mother's, but what of it?) didn't suit His Ungrateful Royal Highness either. What does he think I am, . . .
OH HEART ATTACK CITY, my fingers just slipped on the keyboard, and I pressed a whole bunch of wrong keys at once, and my whole blog instantly vanished into the thin (or would that be thick?) inky blackness of Computer Outer Space. I mean the whole site shut down. PUSH PANIC! So I had to pull it back up with great tremulous fear and HALLALU!, here it is somehow, unerased (word?) and in its right mind, even though I hadn't hit PUBLISH POST or SAVE DRAFT or anything. Nigh unto miraculous . . . again . . . how many times can this HAPPEN to one terrorized soul? I thought it was a gonner. Mike nearly escaped me ratting on him . . . but not quite, heh, heh. Okay, what does he think I am? SUPERWOMAN?? Listen, I made ultra clear before we married that I was NOT SUPERWOMAN. Nor had I any shred of an interest or intent in becoming SUPERWOMAN. I disguised not my true self, I sold him not a bill of goods. He swallowed. Now he's begging for something besides canned beans because he doesn't think they constitute an appealing lunch. STRIKE THREE.
But wait. In the evening we went to his really fun Singing For Your Health class he conducts. Walking up to the door I felt compelled to say, I'm TIRED ALL OF THE TIME. His shweetie-pie comment? You are not tired, you are only mentally prepared to be tired. STRIKE FOUR. And HOGWASH. My tiredness is NOT fabricated just like my James Linn story is not. Apparently Mike doesn't take the content of my blogs seriously, I mean, didn't he just freshly read my NO STAMINA blog that very morning? SHEESH! No real surprise, however, because I've heard the likes of this before. When we were dating I suggested, I'll have you over for dinner sometime. I'm not holding my breath, was his cavalier retort. Down the road I recited this story for HURH'S education, and he said, Oh, I was afraid I said something like that. Yeah, you betcha!
Now, hear ye the darling CDW by way of contrast:
KEM Dearest,
Have you ever considered your family came from royalty and had been used to servants that were at their beck and call 24/7? Maybe that's why you and your family are without that particular gene...ancestors didn't need it! See...I have it all figured out.
Well, modestly, yes, I do consider. And yes, CDW certainly does figure it, and I hope a certain someone is taking notice.
Of course tonight I was supposed to tell you the new "B" word that has booted Baseball right off its cocky little throne. I didn't quite get there, although I was somewhere in the field, talking about STRIKES and all. Like I said, Life happens, and far be it from me not to jazz things up for Mike. After all, he is a very dear and most satisfactory husband. All the ladies in his church choir that he directs are positively smitten with him. They tell me so, but also that I have nothing to worry about. Glad to hear it. And I forgive Mike his four-strikes-you're-outta-than-out because after all I had not been to the store and there WERE meager pickin's for a starvin' man. I mean, you can forgive a famished grouchy man just about anything.
SASSY KEM
Hello. So. Tonight my husband, a faithful Living Dust Follower, bless his baby heart, asks, What are you blogging about tomorrow? You, I said. Oh, you're going to tell the world what a sweet husband I am and how I rescued you from all your vast misery? Wait and see, I said in sepulchral tones.
Back up to that morning, won't you? I come downstairs in early-to-mid afternoon because I slept in. I always ask first thing, Did you read my blog and how did you like it? (the heck with Good Afternoon). He looked at me and said, You have reached new heights of corny. WHAT??? Then he quickly semi-modified his insult by saying, Oh, I meant that in a good way. Really. What flavor sucker does he think I am anyway? STRIKE ONE.
THEN he informs, with smokin' hot superiority, I Googled James Linn, and it says that President Thomas Jefferson appointed Linn to be supervisor of the revenue (whatever that means), inferring that James Stamina Linn, my illustrious relative, had nothing whatsoever to do with stalling the vote for Jefferson's election, but rather JSL didn't come into play until AFTER Jefferson became president and was actually never hardly heard of before, that I had it all backwards and turned around and grossly misrepresented. (Whoa, that was a looooong sentence.) I told Mike, I am just SO SORRY that Wikipedia neglected to consult my mother for this article. STRIKE TWO.
THEN, bing, bing, bing, Mike says, You need to go to the store, we don't have any food. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? What unsupervised gall. We had a can of tuna. But he didn't want THAT because he had suffered eating homemade-by-KEM tuna casserole the last two nights in a row (served in the darling individual Sunny-Yellow-Fiestaware-casseroles-that-make-everything-taste-ever-so-yummier, the ones my sister gave me for my birthday). Let me dig out my violin. See, I'm not that picky, I could eat tuna every night for a month and not blink an eye. Once when my stepson was a young teenager I served leftovers from the previous night. When I placed his plate in front of him he whined, all down in the mouth, We had this last night. You're darn tootin' we had it last night. And that's the last time he delivered that little brand of charm to his wicked evil little stepmommy, you can bet your bottom dollar. Well, a can of baked beans perched on the pantry shelf (not as good as my mother's, but what of it?) didn't suit His Ungrateful Royal Highness either. What does he think I am, . . .
OH HEART ATTACK CITY, my fingers just slipped on the keyboard, and I pressed a whole bunch of wrong keys at once, and my whole blog instantly vanished into the thin (or would that be thick?) inky blackness of Computer Outer Space. I mean the whole site shut down. PUSH PANIC! So I had to pull it back up with great tremulous fear and HALLALU!, here it is somehow, unerased (word?) and in its right mind, even though I hadn't hit PUBLISH POST or SAVE DRAFT or anything. Nigh unto miraculous . . . again . . . how many times can this HAPPEN to one terrorized soul? I thought it was a gonner. Mike nearly escaped me ratting on him . . . but not quite, heh, heh. Okay, what does he think I am? SUPERWOMAN?? Listen, I made ultra clear before we married that I was NOT SUPERWOMAN. Nor had I any shred of an interest or intent in becoming SUPERWOMAN. I disguised not my true self, I sold him not a bill of goods. He swallowed. Now he's begging for something besides canned beans because he doesn't think they constitute an appealing lunch. STRIKE THREE.
But wait. In the evening we went to his really fun Singing For Your Health class he conducts. Walking up to the door I felt compelled to say, I'm TIRED ALL OF THE TIME. His shweetie-pie comment? You are not tired, you are only mentally prepared to be tired. STRIKE FOUR. And HOGWASH. My tiredness is NOT fabricated just like my James Linn story is not. Apparently Mike doesn't take the content of my blogs seriously, I mean, didn't he just freshly read my NO STAMINA blog that very morning? SHEESH! No real surprise, however, because I've heard the likes of this before. When we were dating I suggested, I'll have you over for dinner sometime. I'm not holding my breath, was his cavalier retort. Down the road I recited this story for HURH'S education, and he said, Oh, I was afraid I said something like that. Yeah, you betcha!
Now, hear ye the darling CDW by way of contrast:
KEM Dearest,
Have you ever considered your family came from royalty and had been used to servants that were at their beck and call 24/7? Maybe that's why you and your family are without that particular gene...ancestors didn't need it! See...I have it all figured out.
Well, modestly, yes, I do consider. And yes, CDW certainly does figure it, and I hope a certain someone is taking notice.
Of course tonight I was supposed to tell you the new "B" word that has booted Baseball right off its cocky little throne. I didn't quite get there, although I was somewhere in the field, talking about STRIKES and all. Like I said, Life happens, and far be it from me not to jazz things up for Mike. After all, he is a very dear and most satisfactory husband. All the ladies in his church choir that he directs are positively smitten with him. They tell me so, but also that I have nothing to worry about. Glad to hear it. And I forgive Mike his four-strikes-you're-outta-than-out because after all I had not been to the store and there WERE meager pickin's for a starvin' man. I mean, you can forgive a famished grouchy man just about anything.
SASSY KEM
Monday, September 14, 2009
To all my prized Blogees,
Guess what? I took a walk tonight to clear my head and try to shake off an oppressive cloak of exhaustion, which was entirely smothering me and turning me into the biggest drip and droop EVER, and here's what I came up with. I inherited an additional family gene, the list is lengthening. As of two weeks ago, I didn't have one single gene, now I have three. The latest is the STAMINA-WHAT'S-THAT? gene. NO ONE in our family, with the exclusive exclusion of DTD, has an ounce of stamina. An ounce? How absurd. We have negative stamina, we are in a stamina pit, never ever going to crawl our way out. Yeah, MAYBE once a year I wake up in the morning, sit up in bed and say, HELLO??, 'cause I feel that foreign vibe called energy. It's so rare that I get all excited and feel a surge of new life. I use it up really fast. It's a scant energy supply to begin with and is usually depleted by the time I pad to the bathroom. So there I am, back in the bottom of the pit in negative time. There are nights I'm so tired that I lie in bed and I FEEL, really FEEL, that I am a spirit only. I cannot sense my body. This is true. I snatch for my arms and legs, just to make sure. It's a VERY STRANGE feeling, and I don't like it one crummy little bit. When the teacher used to read to the class in school, my arms got tangled up in their haste to fold on top of the desk so I could burrow my head down in them -- and please wake me up when the story is over. When I was a camp counselor as a teenager, one group of counselors had after-lunch meetings every other day while the other group supervised REST HOUR for the campers. Guess which activity I drooled for? I can remember being so tired in those meetings that I would just wobble and swirl on my seat and jerk to every now and again. And when I worked an office job for one year after college (WHO on EARTH hired ME for THAT and WHY?), I would go on breaks in the ladies' lounge and fall dead asleep to the world. My sister has a wonderful husband whose Motto for Life is GO, GO, GO, AND THEN GO SOME MORE. In contrast, our family motto is When the GOing gets Oh, GOlly!, GO unfold your cot and GO take a nap. My mother actually was worried for Laura to marry him, even though he is Mr. Universe, but only because of the energy levels discrepancy. One day Mom said, in a thin weary wavering voice for effect, But Laura, my goodness, I don't know if you will be able to keep up with him. Then we were all exhausted for the rest (ha) of the day, mulling over that one. It's like we're all programmed to dissolve on cue, the cue being someone sighing, GOodness, I'm SOOOOO tired! My grandmother, when her doctor asked how she was feeling, snapped back, I'VE NEVER FELT GOOD A DAY IN MY LIFE. Granny, I know EXACTLY what you mean, even if I live on vegetables and you lived on chocolate cake and dill pickles all your born days. What IS the explanation for this permanent state of exhaustion, which the more hardy among you are probably scoffing to pieces this very second? I can tell you what, besides the fact that because my bladder is the size of a peanut I only sleep through the night once a year (reference energy vibe above). Well, first, just try to absorb what it would be like to have your sleep cycle interrupted a low average of 3 or 4 times a night. A good night's sleep and I don't keep company . . . EVER. Well, that was literary license. There is the single silly night that comes around once a decade. And a lot of good it does (reference above).
So, here is the scoop. Remember the Linn twins -- that would be my sister and her sister. Well, remember how I said I should ask my mother about naming us both Linn? A friend who read my blog was actually curious to know, will wonders not cease? So, I did ask . . . in person. VERY important to experience the whole enchilada when unraveling family secrets. Mom, why do Laura and I have the same middle name? Oh, well, I named you after your famous relative James Linn. OH?? Tell me about it, Mom. Turns out James Linn is an ancestor who had the "S" word . . . Stamina, oh beautiful word, if you have it, which I don't. Hear Webster on stamina, "strength or power to endure fatigue, stress, etc.; endurance." Oh, yeah, right. Well, when Thomas Jefferson was up for election (apparently in those days a small group of elected representatives voted on the big stuff, instead of a general election, again, never quote me, I was probably sound asleep when Mr. Allison lectured on early American History, as if he would allow that . . . GARRETT, WAKE UP!, he'd thunder, and I'd bolt up, face beet red), well, when the vote was taking place, good old James Linn was the only dissenting vote. He kept all the other distinguished gentlemen sitting there for a VERY LONG time. He did not want Thomas Jefferson to be President. Not at all. I guess the vote had to be unanimous, like a jury. And isn't there sometimes that one loner who won't give it up? Who drives all the others bananas? That was MY relative, Mr. James Stamina Linn. He gave an excellent performance of stamina that evening . . . up to the point when all good things must come to an end. So, finally, since everyone except THE ONE wanted to go home to bed, James Linn gave 'em what they wanted, he relented and threw in the old stamina towel. AND THAT, my dear friends, is when the ancestral stamina gene got purely disgusted and exited the family pool, for good, never to be seen nor heard from again. Guess the gene felt he wasn't fittingly revered, that he was being wasted on someone who could have changed history had he only stuck it out. Well, so THAT is why I have no stamina, my mother has no stamina, my sister has none, my niece and nephew have hardly a trace, just give 'em a few years and they'll be joining the Ranks of the Fatigued with top honors. My grandmother certainly did not have stamina, but she had character which saw her through. Nor did the great-grandmothers bother with it. In fact, exhaustion is contagious, so now I need to ask my mother which side of the family Mr. J. Linn was on, 'cause anyone I ever heard of in my family, minus Mr. J. L. and DTD, is devoid of the stamina gene, whether they are blood to Mr. J. L. or no, not that it seems to matter.
And that, whoever cares, is why Laura and I were named after James Linn, the relative who had the stamina gene and then he did not. I guess my mother wanted to ensure that we remembered our glorious roots, which once upon a time included "S". Or else she inserted the name Linn as an easy reminder that our "S" condition, or lack thereof, cannot be helped. Or else she thinks tiredness is elegant or something. If you doubt the verity of the James Linn story, I really do believe it's true. But if you doubt the rest of the story, how any human being could just barely sustain life on such a pep deficit, well, I am Living Dust Proof.
I have a new game I play with my dictionary. I try to open it at the exact page of the word I'm looking for. Once it happened by accident, that's how I got the idea, I was so amused by that. It doesn't take much to amuse me, and if you are reading this blog, it doesn't take much to amuse you either. Anyway, I do come pretty close sometimes, it's lots of fun. I was impressed with the deli lady in Sweetbay the other day. I said, 1/2 pound of roast beef, please (remember those good sandwiches, the ones with liquid gold marmalade sandwich spread?). She sliced and weighed and came in on the first try at .49. Very good, I thought. Then I said, trying to trip her up, 1/3 pound of Horseradish cheese, please. I'll be doggoned if she didn't slice and register .33 worth of cheese on her first try again. I said, YOU'RE GOOD! She smiled. Then after that a man at Publix weighed salmon for my dear friend I take to the grocery store. She wanted 1/2 pound. I stood there, glued to the spot, eyes riveted. He cut and slapped some salmon on the scale, .64. What a joke. I had been bragging to my friend when we walked up to the fish counter about how great the Sweetbay lady was. Friend said, when Publix guy failed, Well, usually this guy gets it close. I guess I made him nervous. Well, so, that's another reason why I play my dictionary game, I want to eye it up just like the Sweetbay lady and not the Publix man.
Okay, tomorrow I have a startling revelation. I am going to enlighten you of the fact that Baseball is NOT America's pastime. Not anymore. Clue: ANOTHER "B" word has taken its place. I hope you can sleep tonight for fretting about it. Please do, sleep, not fret. You need your S & S . . . Sleep and Stamina. One utterly and thoroughly S & S deprived family, minus DTD, in the US of A is enough.
Somebody Give Me a Good Gene,
KEM
Guess what? I took a walk tonight to clear my head and try to shake off an oppressive cloak of exhaustion, which was entirely smothering me and turning me into the biggest drip and droop EVER, and here's what I came up with. I inherited an additional family gene, the list is lengthening. As of two weeks ago, I didn't have one single gene, now I have three. The latest is the STAMINA-WHAT'S-THAT? gene. NO ONE in our family, with the exclusive exclusion of DTD, has an ounce of stamina. An ounce? How absurd. We have negative stamina, we are in a stamina pit, never ever going to crawl our way out. Yeah, MAYBE once a year I wake up in the morning, sit up in bed and say, HELLO??, 'cause I feel that foreign vibe called energy. It's so rare that I get all excited and feel a surge of new life. I use it up really fast. It's a scant energy supply to begin with and is usually depleted by the time I pad to the bathroom. So there I am, back in the bottom of the pit in negative time. There are nights I'm so tired that I lie in bed and I FEEL, really FEEL, that I am a spirit only. I cannot sense my body. This is true. I snatch for my arms and legs, just to make sure. It's a VERY STRANGE feeling, and I don't like it one crummy little bit. When the teacher used to read to the class in school, my arms got tangled up in their haste to fold on top of the desk so I could burrow my head down in them -- and please wake me up when the story is over. When I was a camp counselor as a teenager, one group of counselors had after-lunch meetings every other day while the other group supervised REST HOUR for the campers. Guess which activity I drooled for? I can remember being so tired in those meetings that I would just wobble and swirl on my seat and jerk to every now and again. And when I worked an office job for one year after college (WHO on EARTH hired ME for THAT and WHY?), I would go on breaks in the ladies' lounge and fall dead asleep to the world. My sister has a wonderful husband whose Motto for Life is GO, GO, GO, AND THEN GO SOME MORE. In contrast, our family motto is When the GOing gets Oh, GOlly!, GO unfold your cot and GO take a nap. My mother actually was worried for Laura to marry him, even though he is Mr. Universe, but only because of the energy levels discrepancy. One day Mom said, in a thin weary wavering voice for effect, But Laura, my goodness, I don't know if you will be able to keep up with him. Then we were all exhausted for the rest (ha) of the day, mulling over that one. It's like we're all programmed to dissolve on cue, the cue being someone sighing, GOodness, I'm SOOOOO tired! My grandmother, when her doctor asked how she was feeling, snapped back, I'VE NEVER FELT GOOD A DAY IN MY LIFE. Granny, I know EXACTLY what you mean, even if I live on vegetables and you lived on chocolate cake and dill pickles all your born days. What IS the explanation for this permanent state of exhaustion, which the more hardy among you are probably scoffing to pieces this very second? I can tell you what, besides the fact that because my bladder is the size of a peanut I only sleep through the night once a year (reference energy vibe above). Well, first, just try to absorb what it would be like to have your sleep cycle interrupted a low average of 3 or 4 times a night. A good night's sleep and I don't keep company . . . EVER. Well, that was literary license. There is the single silly night that comes around once a decade. And a lot of good it does (reference above).
So, here is the scoop. Remember the Linn twins -- that would be my sister and her sister. Well, remember how I said I should ask my mother about naming us both Linn? A friend who read my blog was actually curious to know, will wonders not cease? So, I did ask . . . in person. VERY important to experience the whole enchilada when unraveling family secrets. Mom, why do Laura and I have the same middle name? Oh, well, I named you after your famous relative James Linn. OH?? Tell me about it, Mom. Turns out James Linn is an ancestor who had the "S" word . . . Stamina, oh beautiful word, if you have it, which I don't. Hear Webster on stamina, "strength or power to endure fatigue, stress, etc.; endurance." Oh, yeah, right. Well, when Thomas Jefferson was up for election (apparently in those days a small group of elected representatives voted on the big stuff, instead of a general election, again, never quote me, I was probably sound asleep when Mr. Allison lectured on early American History, as if he would allow that . . . GARRETT, WAKE UP!, he'd thunder, and I'd bolt up, face beet red), well, when the vote was taking place, good old James Linn was the only dissenting vote. He kept all the other distinguished gentlemen sitting there for a VERY LONG time. He did not want Thomas Jefferson to be President. Not at all. I guess the vote had to be unanimous, like a jury. And isn't there sometimes that one loner who won't give it up? Who drives all the others bananas? That was MY relative, Mr. James Stamina Linn. He gave an excellent performance of stamina that evening . . . up to the point when all good things must come to an end. So, finally, since everyone except THE ONE wanted to go home to bed, James Linn gave 'em what they wanted, he relented and threw in the old stamina towel. AND THAT, my dear friends, is when the ancestral stamina gene got purely disgusted and exited the family pool, for good, never to be seen nor heard from again. Guess the gene felt he wasn't fittingly revered, that he was being wasted on someone who could have changed history had he only stuck it out. Well, so THAT is why I have no stamina, my mother has no stamina, my sister has none, my niece and nephew have hardly a trace, just give 'em a few years and they'll be joining the Ranks of the Fatigued with top honors. My grandmother certainly did not have stamina, but she had character which saw her through. Nor did the great-grandmothers bother with it. In fact, exhaustion is contagious, so now I need to ask my mother which side of the family Mr. J. Linn was on, 'cause anyone I ever heard of in my family, minus Mr. J. L. and DTD, is devoid of the stamina gene, whether they are blood to Mr. J. L. or no, not that it seems to matter.
And that, whoever cares, is why Laura and I were named after James Linn, the relative who had the stamina gene and then he did not. I guess my mother wanted to ensure that we remembered our glorious roots, which once upon a time included "S". Or else she inserted the name Linn as an easy reminder that our "S" condition, or lack thereof, cannot be helped. Or else she thinks tiredness is elegant or something. If you doubt the verity of the James Linn story, I really do believe it's true. But if you doubt the rest of the story, how any human being could just barely sustain life on such a pep deficit, well, I am Living Dust Proof.
I have a new game I play with my dictionary. I try to open it at the exact page of the word I'm looking for. Once it happened by accident, that's how I got the idea, I was so amused by that. It doesn't take much to amuse me, and if you are reading this blog, it doesn't take much to amuse you either. Anyway, I do come pretty close sometimes, it's lots of fun. I was impressed with the deli lady in Sweetbay the other day. I said, 1/2 pound of roast beef, please (remember those good sandwiches, the ones with liquid gold marmalade sandwich spread?). She sliced and weighed and came in on the first try at .49. Very good, I thought. Then I said, trying to trip her up, 1/3 pound of Horseradish cheese, please. I'll be doggoned if she didn't slice and register .33 worth of cheese on her first try again. I said, YOU'RE GOOD! She smiled. Then after that a man at Publix weighed salmon for my dear friend I take to the grocery store. She wanted 1/2 pound. I stood there, glued to the spot, eyes riveted. He cut and slapped some salmon on the scale, .64. What a joke. I had been bragging to my friend when we walked up to the fish counter about how great the Sweetbay lady was. Friend said, when Publix guy failed, Well, usually this guy gets it close. I guess I made him nervous. Well, so, that's another reason why I play my dictionary game, I want to eye it up just like the Sweetbay lady and not the Publix man.
Okay, tomorrow I have a startling revelation. I am going to enlighten you of the fact that Baseball is NOT America's pastime. Not anymore. Clue: ANOTHER "B" word has taken its place. I hope you can sleep tonight for fretting about it. Please do, sleep, not fret. You need your S & S . . . Sleep and Stamina. One utterly and thoroughly S & S deprived family, minus DTD, in the US of A is enough.
Somebody Give Me a Good Gene,
KEM
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Greetings,
I can't believe what I saw in the newspaper last night, when I was ready to trash a stack without peeking but peeking won out. SO THANKFUL I couldn't help myself. In Section A on the editorial page of the St. Petersburg Times, Friday, September 11, 2009, was THE MOST STUNNING picture of outer space I have EVER seen. And that's saying some because you and I have seen MANY unbelievable photos of various planets, stars, bits of solar systems. This is a brand new photo taken by the Hubble Space Telescope. It shows 100,000 of the approximately 10,000,000 stars from the cluster Omega Centauri. The picture is dotted with tiny, shiny light specks in white and blue and shows scattered, larger, glowing lights in blue and red. The Times editorial said the "varying colors indicate their (the stars) life cycles." It looks like an artist took a black canvas and stippled sparkles all over it for a few days. It is utterly magnificent. I'm asking you, Is your life dull or a tad boring? Do you need to ratchet things up a notch? Are you seeking some sort of thrill? Then be your own best friend and track down this picture -- maybe through NASA? You won't regret it.
Space has always captivated me. Some experts try to relate the magnitude of it by making comparisons, like just one spectacularly enormous solar system, many light years across, would be a pin head in a football stadium. Don't quote me on that, but you get the idea. Then they tell you how to measure how far away the solar sytems, billions of them, are in light years. My mind cannot measure it. I cannot grasp, cannot go that deep; I am fitted to this earth, barely able to register in the simplest of terms our fantastic Milky Way. I thank the Lord for the gift of this photograph, because it steps in where words fail. In these perilous times, it's so great to have the technology that impresses upon us, in an unprecedented way, the majesty of God, the Creator of everything through Jesus Christ. In an age where many forget God, a photo like this takes our breath away, draws our attention to Who we need to focus upon. It's a comfort to be reminded that He changes not, and we, His handiwork, must bow before Him in worship. Oh, how glorious and awesome is our God. I praise His name forever.
“The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard. Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun, which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race. His going forth is from the end of the heaven, and his circuit unto the ends of it: and there is nothing hid from the heat thereof."
Psalm 19:1-6
KEM
I can't believe what I saw in the newspaper last night, when I was ready to trash a stack without peeking but peeking won out. SO THANKFUL I couldn't help myself. In Section A on the editorial page of the St. Petersburg Times, Friday, September 11, 2009, was THE MOST STUNNING picture of outer space I have EVER seen. And that's saying some because you and I have seen MANY unbelievable photos of various planets, stars, bits of solar systems. This is a brand new photo taken by the Hubble Space Telescope. It shows 100,000 of the approximately 10,000,000 stars from the cluster Omega Centauri. The picture is dotted with tiny, shiny light specks in white and blue and shows scattered, larger, glowing lights in blue and red. The Times editorial said the "varying colors indicate their (the stars) life cycles." It looks like an artist took a black canvas and stippled sparkles all over it for a few days. It is utterly magnificent. I'm asking you, Is your life dull or a tad boring? Do you need to ratchet things up a notch? Are you seeking some sort of thrill? Then be your own best friend and track down this picture -- maybe through NASA? You won't regret it.
Space has always captivated me. Some experts try to relate the magnitude of it by making comparisons, like just one spectacularly enormous solar system, many light years across, would be a pin head in a football stadium. Don't quote me on that, but you get the idea. Then they tell you how to measure how far away the solar sytems, billions of them, are in light years. My mind cannot measure it. I cannot grasp, cannot go that deep; I am fitted to this earth, barely able to register in the simplest of terms our fantastic Milky Way. I thank the Lord for the gift of this photograph, because it steps in where words fail. In these perilous times, it's so great to have the technology that impresses upon us, in an unprecedented way, the majesty of God, the Creator of everything through Jesus Christ. In an age where many forget God, a photo like this takes our breath away, draws our attention to Who we need to focus upon. It's a comfort to be reminded that He changes not, and we, His handiwork, must bow before Him in worship. Oh, how glorious and awesome is our God. I praise His name forever.
“The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard. Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun, which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race. His going forth is from the end of the heaven, and his circuit unto the ends of it: and there is nothing hid from the heat thereof."
Psalm 19:1-6
KEM
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