Hi friends, tonight after attending a beach wedding we went with another couple to this twirly restaurant. That's right, you sit up very high on top of a hotel and the whole room spins. And that is why the restaurant is called SPINNERS. Now I am very sick. I have motion sickness, you know, of every description. This was like a mild version of the Mad Tea Cups at Disney World, or whatever they're called. But it was enough. It seems to take an hour to twirl around the room completely, but I could watch the moving floor tiles we at our dining table were situated on pass the stationary floor tiles along the edges, under the windows. Every few minutes you passed yet another paper pinned to the wall that told you how far away you were from, say, Timbuktu. 8 million miles. By the time you circled around, you knew exactly how many miles you were away from every place on the planet. Very educational. The whole point of Spinners is so you can admire the view of all of St. Petersburg and miles around, the beaches, the parking lots, the whole ball of wax. The only problema is that we were looking at the view in the dark of night. So we saw lots of lights, like across the street BEACH MART was lit up. It was great.
One little thing before I go crazy. See, the thing about procrastination is that when you are finally FORCED to do despised job because the last grain of sand is fixing to drop, then it's even less fun, if that is possible, and it is, than if you'd done it right away. Because you're thinking the whole time, Wow, if I had done this earlier, I could be sitting here watching a movie right now or sipping a malt with the satisfaction the work was completed in a sensible and timely fashion. And then the chore is even more gruesome. I finished the pains. It wasn't as gruesome as the first night, for some reason unknown to me. Maybe because my neck is crunched out from crunching like chewing on Cap'n Crunch sounds. Did that make sense? Housework is hardly for delicate flowers like myself and my friends. It makes my fingers swell, too.
I want to wake up tomorrow and do everything in my life differently. All the little nagging things, they gotta go. You know, kick to the curb all the junk that gives you that sinking feeling and do only the stuff that gives you the good vibes.
Mike wore his $5 silk jacket from the Driftwood yard sale to the wedding. He looked smashing. He had the jacket dry-cleaned first, which spunked it up. This was the PERFECT beach wedding. Clear skies, breezes blowing in. And when the sun set, there was a shapely cloud on the horizon and it was all outlined in orange. It was stunning. And then a full moon came out. I'm happy for everyone who worked so hard on this. THEY did not procrastinate. THEY can rest easy tonight.
Okay, I'm worthless. Eating while twirling is a very poor idea. See you tomorrow.
KEM
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Recently, dust and I have become better acquainted. I am SURE now that there is NO END to the dust in the world. It's like water, which evaporates and then comes back as rain (thank goodness). Dust goes on your rag and then out the sewer pipes via your washing machine. But it is VERY clever, it comes back. How, I don't know. But it does. It just does. Rats.
You ask, How have you become better acquainted with dust? I'll tell you how. Because the roofer, turned pressure washer, pressure washed our filthy black little house. He's going to paint everything white on the house, which is all the trim. We have French doors and windows. They are considered white, although before the pressure wash, that was very questionable. Black comes to mind. After the wash they looked more gray. So I took it upon myself to go out and give them the onceover with a toothbrush, spray bottle of diluted vinegar and rags, baby, rags. I believe in painting CLEAN surfaces, although my friend is in favor of painting on top of the dirt because then you have more texture and interest. I think I've mentioned this before, when DTD'S old bedroom got painted. But then again, maybe not, as the bedroom was painted right before my blog began. I feel like I've been blogging from the womb, but in truth, I've just passed the two month mark. At any rate, I am not a Texture woman. I am a Plain Jane woman and require SMOOTH surfaces. Please, don't even get me started on the subject of Cottage Cheese Ceilings. You will be VERY SORRY if you do. Just ask my brother-in-law.
So, of course, I'm really talking about DIRT. Wet dust. Gross. I still don't know why God didn't say DIRT instead of DUST when he made us. Definitely, the grime on the MULTIPLE panes of French glass is DIRT. Then, with one little spray of wet, it turns to mud. I'm telling you, I had a ball doing this in the wee hours. So far I've cleaned 55 little pains . . . I mean panes. That took me from midnight to 2 AM, something like that. Well, that was 45 pains. Today when the painter showed up, well, he'd been there a few minutes, I gave him a little speech, I know I'm a pane, I mean pain, but I have to clean all the wood on the French stuff before you paint, I'm sorry, but I just HAVE to. He said, Great, have fun. I'm glad he didn't march off the property in a huff, assuming (see below) that I thought I could top his pressure wash. He is very nice. Well, so last night I also cleaned the front door, which is a SMART door, and I was SMART to pick it out. It also has 15 panes, but they are not pains, because they are sandwiched in-between two big sheets of glass. So, it LOOKS like panes, but it's not . . . not exactly. You just squirt your vinegar and wipe in one easy fell swoop. Mental note . . . when I build dream cottage, ALL windows and doors shall be this way. Today I cleaned the French door in the master bedroom, the one that leads to nowhere, to the blue yonder sky (refer to earlier blog). It was a ROYAL 10 PAINS to scrub because it was EGGSTRA dirty.
Now, if all this isn't bad enough, tonight I get to wash another 50 pains. I wanna cry. In fact, last night I DID cry. Doors and their jams have so many SURFACES, go examine a French door, if you're unfortunate enough to have one. I'm not the type to leave any of these surfaces neglected, orphaned. If Uncle Pete were around, he's say, Kathryn, you make such a BIG DEAL out of everything. Well, there is one thing I have had to let slide, and that is the ledges on the trims of the regular windows. See, the painter beat me to it, he went ahead and painted some of those ledges, before I showed up with my vinegar, before I delivered my CLEAN FREAK talk. Dadgum. So now I will have to allow all the rest of those ledges to be texturized with dirt as well. So they will all match. I am left choiceless in the matter. I wouldn't want unmatched window ledges, would you? He pressure washed them, but I've read where nothing but soap and a brush will REALLY clean. Mike wishes I hadn't read that. But I did. I'm going to write a book, By All Means, SWEAT the Small Stuff. The painter said something really funny today, but I can't remember what. Rats.
Then to top off all this sadness, I see an article in the paper today about PROCRASTINATION, which I am obviously engaging in right this moment, blogging instead of washing. My Webster tells me that the "P" word means "to defer action; delay." And "to put off till another day or time." That's how I've always understood it. The article today, titled "Read this now, not later" was written by Marvin Walberg. He used a different Webster which said "P" means "to put off intentionally and habitually the doing of something that should be done." Wow. That sounds so much more menacing, criminal even, than my pleasant "defer, delay, put off till another day." My Webster definition sounds like you're simply off to a tea party. It even rhymes. His definition make one feel characterless and spineless. That "one" would be I. Marvin continues with HIS definition. He harshly admonishes, "Get to know what that word (the "P" word, of course) means and how it applies to your life . . . I don't care who or what you are, if you can call yourself a "P" . . . you will miss goals and quotas. You will attain less than your capability. YOU WILL SUFFER" (capitals, mine). He says, Just do it (whatever you need to be doing), like Nike. Just do it -- now. Then he blabs about familiarizing ourselves about the word "Assume" and likewise applying that word to our lives, or rather unapplying it, so we can reach our potential. Did you know we shouldn't assume anything?? If we do "it will hold us back." Marvin is very scary. Does this mean that if I "P" washing my pains and "assume" the magic little fairy will wash my pains for me while I am in dreamy slumber, that I will awake to disappointement, to dirty pains that still need washing and I am still the one who is going to have to do it?? I guess so, because Webster says "assume" means "to pretend to have or be; to take as granted or true." And fairies ain't true, at least not in my experience. Rats. Wowsers, I suppose I've lived my whole life just supposing. Weird. Hey, "suppose" strikes me as a funny word. Say it out loud a few times.
The bottom line, according to Marvin, "Get "P" and "A" out of your life now!"
Okay, I have to go out in the dark and wash the wood around the panes. Otherwise, not only will I awaken to dirt, but painted over dirt. Can't have that. Once though, when the upstairs bathroom was being redone, I was too doggone tired to wipe the baseboards, I just GAVE UP. It looks okay, but I still think about it, What sinister dirt is buried beneath that glossy paint?
Weirder than Usual,
KEM
You ask, How have you become better acquainted with dust? I'll tell you how. Because the roofer, turned pressure washer, pressure washed our filthy black little house. He's going to paint everything white on the house, which is all the trim. We have French doors and windows. They are considered white, although before the pressure wash, that was very questionable. Black comes to mind. After the wash they looked more gray. So I took it upon myself to go out and give them the onceover with a toothbrush, spray bottle of diluted vinegar and rags, baby, rags. I believe in painting CLEAN surfaces, although my friend is in favor of painting on top of the dirt because then you have more texture and interest. I think I've mentioned this before, when DTD'S old bedroom got painted. But then again, maybe not, as the bedroom was painted right before my blog began. I feel like I've been blogging from the womb, but in truth, I've just passed the two month mark. At any rate, I am not a Texture woman. I am a Plain Jane woman and require SMOOTH surfaces. Please, don't even get me started on the subject of Cottage Cheese Ceilings. You will be VERY SORRY if you do. Just ask my brother-in-law.
So, of course, I'm really talking about DIRT. Wet dust. Gross. I still don't know why God didn't say DIRT instead of DUST when he made us. Definitely, the grime on the MULTIPLE panes of French glass is DIRT. Then, with one little spray of wet, it turns to mud. I'm telling you, I had a ball doing this in the wee hours. So far I've cleaned 55 little pains . . . I mean panes. That took me from midnight to 2 AM, something like that. Well, that was 45 pains. Today when the painter showed up, well, he'd been there a few minutes, I gave him a little speech, I know I'm a pane, I mean pain, but I have to clean all the wood on the French stuff before you paint, I'm sorry, but I just HAVE to. He said, Great, have fun. I'm glad he didn't march off the property in a huff, assuming (see below) that I thought I could top his pressure wash. He is very nice. Well, so last night I also cleaned the front door, which is a SMART door, and I was SMART to pick it out. It also has 15 panes, but they are not pains, because they are sandwiched in-between two big sheets of glass. So, it LOOKS like panes, but it's not . . . not exactly. You just squirt your vinegar and wipe in one easy fell swoop. Mental note . . . when I build dream cottage, ALL windows and doors shall be this way. Today I cleaned the French door in the master bedroom, the one that leads to nowhere, to the blue yonder sky (refer to earlier blog). It was a ROYAL 10 PAINS to scrub because it was EGGSTRA dirty.
Now, if all this isn't bad enough, tonight I get to wash another 50 pains. I wanna cry. In fact, last night I DID cry. Doors and their jams have so many SURFACES, go examine a French door, if you're unfortunate enough to have one. I'm not the type to leave any of these surfaces neglected, orphaned. If Uncle Pete were around, he's say, Kathryn, you make such a BIG DEAL out of everything. Well, there is one thing I have had to let slide, and that is the ledges on the trims of the regular windows. See, the painter beat me to it, he went ahead and painted some of those ledges, before I showed up with my vinegar, before I delivered my CLEAN FREAK talk. Dadgum. So now I will have to allow all the rest of those ledges to be texturized with dirt as well. So they will all match. I am left choiceless in the matter. I wouldn't want unmatched window ledges, would you? He pressure washed them, but I've read where nothing but soap and a brush will REALLY clean. Mike wishes I hadn't read that. But I did. I'm going to write a book, By All Means, SWEAT the Small Stuff. The painter said something really funny today, but I can't remember what. Rats.
Then to top off all this sadness, I see an article in the paper today about PROCRASTINATION, which I am obviously engaging in right this moment, blogging instead of washing. My Webster tells me that the "P" word means "to defer action; delay." And "to put off till another day or time." That's how I've always understood it. The article today, titled "Read this now, not later" was written by Marvin Walberg. He used a different Webster which said "P" means "to put off intentionally and habitually the doing of something that should be done." Wow. That sounds so much more menacing, criminal even, than my pleasant "defer, delay, put off till another day." My Webster definition sounds like you're simply off to a tea party. It even rhymes. His definition make one feel characterless and spineless. That "one" would be I. Marvin continues with HIS definition. He harshly admonishes, "Get to know what that word (the "P" word, of course) means and how it applies to your life . . . I don't care who or what you are, if you can call yourself a "P" . . . you will miss goals and quotas. You will attain less than your capability. YOU WILL SUFFER" (capitals, mine). He says, Just do it (whatever you need to be doing), like Nike. Just do it -- now. Then he blabs about familiarizing ourselves about the word "Assume" and likewise applying that word to our lives, or rather unapplying it, so we can reach our potential. Did you know we shouldn't assume anything?? If we do "it will hold us back." Marvin is very scary. Does this mean that if I "P" washing my pains and "assume" the magic little fairy will wash my pains for me while I am in dreamy slumber, that I will awake to disappointement, to dirty pains that still need washing and I am still the one who is going to have to do it?? I guess so, because Webster says "assume" means "to pretend to have or be; to take as granted or true." And fairies ain't true, at least not in my experience. Rats. Wowsers, I suppose I've lived my whole life just supposing. Weird. Hey, "suppose" strikes me as a funny word. Say it out loud a few times.
The bottom line, according to Marvin, "Get "P" and "A" out of your life now!"
Okay, I have to go out in the dark and wash the wood around the panes. Otherwise, not only will I awaken to dirt, but painted over dirt. Can't have that. Once though, when the upstairs bathroom was being redone, I was too doggone tired to wipe the baseboards, I just GAVE UP. It looks okay, but I still think about it, What sinister dirt is buried beneath that glossy paint?
Weirder than Usual,
KEM
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Hi. Mike asked me today if I told you all about my Basil plant. No, I did not. I told you about everyone else's in creation Basil plants. Completely forgot about mine. But I will tell you about it tomorrow.
I found out that it's not that I CAN'T do housework. It's that I DON'T do housework.
That's all folks!
KEM
I found out that it's not that I CAN'T do housework. It's that I DON'T do housework.
That's all folks!
KEM
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
For the Love of Basil
B, B, B, B, B . . . Bay, Bay, Bay, Bay, Bay . . . Baze, Baze, Baze, Baze, Baze . . . Bazl, Bazl, Bazl, Bazl, Bazl . . . BASIL!!! Folks, it's BASIL, BASIL, BASIL, BASIL, BASIL!
YES! BASIL is the NEW American Pastime. I found this out because I bought a clam shell of Basil, back when I was making that good zucchini soup. It was lovely, vivid green Basil, huge, beautiful leaves neatly stacked in the little plastic snap box. I used a few leaves right away, but then you know the story . . . it got buried in the fridge. It was forsaken and forgotten. Until I wanted to make zucchini soup again. So I dug out the little clam shell. Now, all of a sudden, the Basil was a purplish color sort of blending in with the original dark green color. You know how FRAGILE Basil is. It's so SENSITIVE. It punishes you for any physical contact, even the most delicate whisper of a touch, by turning pitch black on the spot. But really, I had left my Basil alone, abandoned, if you will. It was hibernating. I was confused because the leaves still looked perky, they weren't black and curling on the edges or anything. Yet they were definitely changing color. Green . . . purple green . . . purple. Then what's next?? Black, of course. And you know how well black-spotted leafy greens and I get along. Not very.
However, things changing to another color CAN happen and still be okay. Take DTD'S eyes. She was born in NC and she came with a set of VERY BIG, VERY BLUE, VERY, VERY BLUE eyes. She had these big BLUE eyes until age 5. That's when we moved to Florida. Then one day I woke up and DTD'S eyes had turned a pretty shade of medium green. Well, I'll be. I was worried at first. I was under the impression that a baby's blue eyes could, and very likely would, change colors, but a 5 year old's?!?!? Boy, what's wrong with her eyes?, I thought. Nothing, apparently. They've stayed green, they've stayed big, they've stayed perfectly useful, and people comment on those gorgeous green eyes (allow a poor mother to brag) all the time. Remember the clerk in the health food store wanting to photograph her eyes? I think that was in my very first blog :)) At any rate, DTD did not get her eyes from me. Mine are brown, small and ordinary. But I CAN see. I can see BETTER with glasses.
So, other things change color, too, like my green shirt's unfortunate meeting with Barkeeper's Friend. But I don't like the idea of food changing color. Do you? Unless a green pear turns yellow, something like that. But I don't care for an old casserole growing green mold, do you? I had mixed emotions about the Basil. It honestly didn't look scary or anything, but it certainly wasn't Green-green anymore. I'm sensing a recurring theme here, and it has to do with the color green.
So, when in doubt, GOOGLE! So, I Googled "Basil turning dark." Listen up, all this hogwash about Baseball being America's pastime, FORGET IT. Baseball is pulling the wool over our eyes. BIG TIME. Boy, we fell hard for that one. America REALLY has a fixation with BASIL, a TOTAL fascination. Really, get with the times. Baseball is a weary afterthought, a mere gnat on the sleeve, compared with Basil. If you don't believe me, in .21 seconds Google presented 1, 430,000 references for "Basil turning dark." Apparently I'm not as nutty as I thought. All of America is completely nuts. I'm just one little soul of 1.5 million people innocently asking, Why does my fresh Basil turn black?
So, I checked some of the websites, and if you need a good laugh, you should check them, too. We are so in love with Basil it isn't even funny. We have an insatiable curiosity about EVERYTHING Basil. We are eating, breathing and living Basil and we care about nothing else . . . NOTHING. I don't know how we have time to do anything else at all. There is even a Basil doc of sorts. She's an Expert with a capital E, a SCHOLAR, and she can tackle YOUR Basil problems. She welcomes THE MOST BIZARRE questions ever. You want an education?, she will gladly indulge you. She has a glorious dry wit, too.
Trust me, people pamper and fret over their beloved Basil plants. They buy them, plant them, nurture and coddle them, study them, fuss at them and then sorrowfully record their demise. They express undying devotion to their pets and contact the doc if things are not looking well. And trust me, things are not looking well. Basil can not only turn black, it can turn every color God ever created, red, yellow, brown, white, silver, gray, lime green and even bleached. It's leaves can roll (ha, there we go again with ROLL, visit yesterday's blog), curl, wilt, wrinkle, bubble, blister, bump, singe, crust, mat, concave, zigzag, fade, fall off and even "reduce to lace." It's stems can spindle-ize, swirl, deform, toughen, blacken (of course) and come up woody. It's roots can rot and wither. Basil can be home to bugs, worms of various colors including shiny black (of course), spiders, small flies, mites, caterpillars, slugs and animals. This wisp of an herb can come down with more diseases than we thought plantly possible, mold, mildew, fungus, bacteria, slime, scale, fuzz, even sunburn. Basil can sport colorful spots, dots, bumps, nodes, webs, circles, cotton threads, eggs, turds, splotches, sap, yellow sticky traps and yes, even dandruff. Powdery substances, too. There are virtually no limits to the predicaments Basil plants fall prey to, and consequently, so do you.
People worry if their Basil is going to make it. The good doc says, "Don't worry, maybe it's transplant shock." They want to know, "Why doesn't the plant seem to want to take off?" Or confess, "It is slowly sinking groundward." "My Basil is slender, not bushy," they scratch their soiled foreheads. They further declare, in disbelief, "The plant did fabulously for a couple of weeks." They exist in a state of dread and fear because they are murdering the prized Basil bush their granny brought from Italy a hundred years ago. They beg for remedies and dutifully apply the advice granted, the Doc rarely found stumped. Everything from garlic spray to insecticidal soap to consulting a psychic, it's all in a good day's work. Why do these methods fail?, they wail. They want to know how come their Basil tastes woody or pepperminty. Basil lovers everywhere master the art of pinching leaves and cajoling their babies back to health. People describe things in funny ways, too, like the leaves have "tiny little black (of course) spots and then I noticed larger spots about the size of a pinhead." Or mystery insects as "long grasshopper shaped bugs no larger than 1/4 inch long." In short, America's Basil "is washed out and wimping out on leaf production." Frantic gardeners everywhere sign their desperate, though grateful, emails to the Basil M.D.'s, Yours Sincerely. And I think it's safe to say that the joy is abundant when a Basil pet is revived to it's former fluffy self.
Okay, I saved the best for last. How 'bout this? "My plant is being attacked by something. Little black poppy seed like things (a cross between poppy seeds and toasted sesame seeds) are all over the leaves." Or, someone complains he has a "clear, sappy, sticky type water thing on some of the leaves." No problem, "the sap is excrement from the scale, it's called honeydew." Now that honeydew is a thing of my past. And my personal favorite, "Hundreds of thousands of tiny egg or bumpy things are exploding out from inside the stem." Pinch, the Doc, I guess, "wishes she could have seen that spectacle." So do I.
Okay, so remember, I'm trying to find out if I can go ahead and use my formerly-green-now-purple Basil. Then I see on Google, My purple Basil is turning green :( OKAY! I GIVE UP THE GHOST! I'm worried about my green Basil turning purple, and she's worried about her purple Basil turning green. Isn't that the honest-to-goodness limit?? A happy solution for all might be that we should just switch Basil. TA-DA! BTW, I only grazed the surface of Basil, the Bottomless Pit. And, in case you're wondering, I USED MY PURPLE BASIL. It was the best. Oh, and along the way I discovered you can vote YES or NO on Cilantro, "the most offensive food known to man."
KEM, who is not forgetting to plant her different varieties of Basil 500 feet apart so they won't cross-pollinate, thank you very much. Note: Material and quotes loosely collected from apinchof.com, your wealth of Basil knowledge, I say. Pinch is Sandra Bowens. Other websites offer similar general knowledge of Basil.
YES! BASIL is the NEW American Pastime. I found this out because I bought a clam shell of Basil, back when I was making that good zucchini soup. It was lovely, vivid green Basil, huge, beautiful leaves neatly stacked in the little plastic snap box. I used a few leaves right away, but then you know the story . . . it got buried in the fridge. It was forsaken and forgotten. Until I wanted to make zucchini soup again. So I dug out the little clam shell. Now, all of a sudden, the Basil was a purplish color sort of blending in with the original dark green color. You know how FRAGILE Basil is. It's so SENSITIVE. It punishes you for any physical contact, even the most delicate whisper of a touch, by turning pitch black on the spot. But really, I had left my Basil alone, abandoned, if you will. It was hibernating. I was confused because the leaves still looked perky, they weren't black and curling on the edges or anything. Yet they were definitely changing color. Green . . . purple green . . . purple. Then what's next?? Black, of course. And you know how well black-spotted leafy greens and I get along. Not very.
However, things changing to another color CAN happen and still be okay. Take DTD'S eyes. She was born in NC and she came with a set of VERY BIG, VERY BLUE, VERY, VERY BLUE eyes. She had these big BLUE eyes until age 5. That's when we moved to Florida. Then one day I woke up and DTD'S eyes had turned a pretty shade of medium green. Well, I'll be. I was worried at first. I was under the impression that a baby's blue eyes could, and very likely would, change colors, but a 5 year old's?!?!? Boy, what's wrong with her eyes?, I thought. Nothing, apparently. They've stayed green, they've stayed big, they've stayed perfectly useful, and people comment on those gorgeous green eyes (allow a poor mother to brag) all the time. Remember the clerk in the health food store wanting to photograph her eyes? I think that was in my very first blog :)) At any rate, DTD did not get her eyes from me. Mine are brown, small and ordinary. But I CAN see. I can see BETTER with glasses.
So, other things change color, too, like my green shirt's unfortunate meeting with Barkeeper's Friend. But I don't like the idea of food changing color. Do you? Unless a green pear turns yellow, something like that. But I don't care for an old casserole growing green mold, do you? I had mixed emotions about the Basil. It honestly didn't look scary or anything, but it certainly wasn't Green-green anymore. I'm sensing a recurring theme here, and it has to do with the color green.
So, when in doubt, GOOGLE! So, I Googled "Basil turning dark." Listen up, all this hogwash about Baseball being America's pastime, FORGET IT. Baseball is pulling the wool over our eyes. BIG TIME. Boy, we fell hard for that one. America REALLY has a fixation with BASIL, a TOTAL fascination. Really, get with the times. Baseball is a weary afterthought, a mere gnat on the sleeve, compared with Basil. If you don't believe me, in .21 seconds Google presented 1, 430,000 references for "Basil turning dark." Apparently I'm not as nutty as I thought. All of America is completely nuts. I'm just one little soul of 1.5 million people innocently asking, Why does my fresh Basil turn black?
So, I checked some of the websites, and if you need a good laugh, you should check them, too. We are so in love with Basil it isn't even funny. We have an insatiable curiosity about EVERYTHING Basil. We are eating, breathing and living Basil and we care about nothing else . . . NOTHING. I don't know how we have time to do anything else at all. There is even a Basil doc of sorts. She's an Expert with a capital E, a SCHOLAR, and she can tackle YOUR Basil problems. She welcomes THE MOST BIZARRE questions ever. You want an education?, she will gladly indulge you. She has a glorious dry wit, too.
Trust me, people pamper and fret over their beloved Basil plants. They buy them, plant them, nurture and coddle them, study them, fuss at them and then sorrowfully record their demise. They express undying devotion to their pets and contact the doc if things are not looking well. And trust me, things are not looking well. Basil can not only turn black, it can turn every color God ever created, red, yellow, brown, white, silver, gray, lime green and even bleached. It's leaves can roll (ha, there we go again with ROLL, visit yesterday's blog), curl, wilt, wrinkle, bubble, blister, bump, singe, crust, mat, concave, zigzag, fade, fall off and even "reduce to lace." It's stems can spindle-ize, swirl, deform, toughen, blacken (of course) and come up woody. It's roots can rot and wither. Basil can be home to bugs, worms of various colors including shiny black (of course), spiders, small flies, mites, caterpillars, slugs and animals. This wisp of an herb can come down with more diseases than we thought plantly possible, mold, mildew, fungus, bacteria, slime, scale, fuzz, even sunburn. Basil can sport colorful spots, dots, bumps, nodes, webs, circles, cotton threads, eggs, turds, splotches, sap, yellow sticky traps and yes, even dandruff. Powdery substances, too. There are virtually no limits to the predicaments Basil plants fall prey to, and consequently, so do you.
People worry if their Basil is going to make it. The good doc says, "Don't worry, maybe it's transplant shock." They want to know, "Why doesn't the plant seem to want to take off?" Or confess, "It is slowly sinking groundward." "My Basil is slender, not bushy," they scratch their soiled foreheads. They further declare, in disbelief, "The plant did fabulously for a couple of weeks." They exist in a state of dread and fear because they are murdering the prized Basil bush their granny brought from Italy a hundred years ago. They beg for remedies and dutifully apply the advice granted, the Doc rarely found stumped. Everything from garlic spray to insecticidal soap to consulting a psychic, it's all in a good day's work. Why do these methods fail?, they wail. They want to know how come their Basil tastes woody or pepperminty. Basil lovers everywhere master the art of pinching leaves and cajoling their babies back to health. People describe things in funny ways, too, like the leaves have "tiny little black (of course) spots and then I noticed larger spots about the size of a pinhead." Or mystery insects as "long grasshopper shaped bugs no larger than 1/4 inch long." In short, America's Basil "is washed out and wimping out on leaf production." Frantic gardeners everywhere sign their desperate, though grateful, emails to the Basil M.D.'s, Yours Sincerely. And I think it's safe to say that the joy is abundant when a Basil pet is revived to it's former fluffy self.
Okay, I saved the best for last. How 'bout this? "My plant is being attacked by something. Little black poppy seed like things (a cross between poppy seeds and toasted sesame seeds) are all over the leaves." Or, someone complains he has a "clear, sappy, sticky type water thing on some of the leaves." No problem, "the sap is excrement from the scale, it's called honeydew." Now that honeydew is a thing of my past. And my personal favorite, "Hundreds of thousands of tiny egg or bumpy things are exploding out from inside the stem." Pinch, the Doc, I guess, "wishes she could have seen that spectacle." So do I.
Okay, so remember, I'm trying to find out if I can go ahead and use my formerly-green-now-purple Basil. Then I see on Google, My purple Basil is turning green :( OKAY! I GIVE UP THE GHOST! I'm worried about my green Basil turning purple, and she's worried about her purple Basil turning green. Isn't that the honest-to-goodness limit?? A happy solution for all might be that we should just switch Basil. TA-DA! BTW, I only grazed the surface of Basil, the Bottomless Pit. And, in case you're wondering, I USED MY PURPLE BASIL. It was the best. Oh, and along the way I discovered you can vote YES or NO on Cilantro, "the most offensive food known to man."
KEM, who is not forgetting to plant her different varieties of Basil 500 feet apart so they won't cross-pollinate, thank you very much. Note: Material and quotes loosely collected from apinchof.com, your wealth of Basil knowledge, I say. Pinch is Sandra Bowens. Other websites offer similar general knowledge of Basil.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
How does S & S, Short and Sweet, sound for tonight? Right about my regular blogging time, the electricity snapped off. I got to play Pioneer Woman and wash the dishes by flashlight. Let me tell you something, it is very difficult to roll hairs off the bed by flashlights. That's right, I was wielding two flashlights PLUS the masking take roll. Hmmm. ROLL is the Word of Late. We've been rolling off roofs, rolling hair, rolling in shame and other applications of the word, but I do not have time to go play word seek with past posts right now.
Today was exciting. The dishwasher repair man came. What it cost us to fix the dishwasher door FOR THE SECOND TIME, could have been better spent going to hear Yo-Yo Ma play his cello tomorrow night. SUPER RATS! Yeah, our dishwasher door is HEAVY. Every once in a while the cable mechanism that supports the door goes SNAP! It's a DREADFUL sound, and you have NO IDEA what it is or from whence it came. But then suddenly the dish door weighs in at about 500 pounds. It's our model, the door is heavy to start with and if the cables are defunct, well, just forget it. One morning I FORGOT about the cables and nongingerly opened the door and it slipped out of my hand and crashed down with a thud, like a body falling off a roof. Well, that kindness made the door not want to close at all, so I had to hoist and jiggle it into place and hope for the best. We'll see how long the repair lasts THIS TIME.
I'm so glad I saved all the cute cards and letters from long ago. HOWEVER, I didn't save everything and I'm just sicker than sick that I threw out three friends' letters, bundles of them. One girl I knew in school starting in about 4th grade. Actually, our parents had been friends forever. Her mother was a bridesmaid in my mother's wedding. She was one hilarious person. HILARIOUS. Why I EVER parted with those letters I'll never know. I even remember when and where. Standing in the carport of my first little house, overwhelmed with JUNK. My husband's great aunt had given us all kinds of her old stuff and we simply had nowhere to keep it and wouldn't have wanted to keep it if we were in the storage business. Probably I was trying to apply decluttering principles and just look where it got me. I threw the baby out with the bath water. A HUGE loss. The other two people were former boys who liked me. One young man I met as a counselor at camp, and the other boy was from college. They were funny beyond words. My mother and I used to reread some of the letters and simply exhaust ourselves with laughter. In a weak moment I must have thought, Well, they aren't in the picture anymore. BIG MISTAKE to throw those out. BIG. But hey, what's done is MORE than done. Maybe one day I'll write about all the funny people who have graced my life.
Okay, so in view of my opening sentence, I'll just share a few funnies. My nephew made a birthday card for me one time. It was a work of art, he drew waterfalls, trees, mountains. Dinosaur stickers were climbing the mountain, which I believe was an errupting volcano as red sparks were spewing out the top, despite a dinosaur with spikes decorating the ridge of his back and tail standing squarely on the peak of the mountain. He seems quite unconcerned, casual even. Maybe he is up there to extinguish the fire by pure body mass?? The whole mountain is red, actually, and dinosaurs are climbing up it anyway, undeterred. Another couple of dinos are climbing a tree, one is even climbing the waterfall. There are prehistoric animals of every description roaming the earth, and no repetition, either. On the front of the card, To Aunt Kathy. Love, Nephew. A different scary beast sits atop each word. Inside is all the glorious colorful artwork with the words, Hope You have a DINOMITE Birthday! I THINK SO, how could I NOT, after loving this card. Oh, I just now see a green heart, a rhinoceros creature is sniffing it. There are a couple of mystery things. Two little red boxes with black strings. Not sure about those, one is up in the tree. And a similar brown box with yellow stuff coming out the top. Actually, that appears to be sitting on top of a big toothy lizard-dino, a crown? Another reptile is perched on a . . . I don't know what . . . it looks like a black . . . I don't know what. I need to consult my nephew right away.
DTD used to write me lovely little things. One note says, Dear momy, I wove you. Your the best. Thank you for me! Kiss kiss. Kiss kiss. It's decorated with a beautiful flower, hand-colored, you know, pink petals coming out of a yellow center, with a vivid green stem and leaves. It reminds me of a kindergarten program I was in. Some of us had to dress up as flowers, our faces were the yellow center, which I don't know what's that called, I've blocked it permanently from my memory because of association. The costumes were elaborate with green petals (you heard me) winging out from our headgear. And we had to wear green tulle skirts and green tights. Green tee shirts, too. Just a ball of green. It was humiliating. It was torturous. I look like one little cross flower in the pictures.
DTD also writes, Dear Mommy or tooth fairy, I can't find my tooth so I'm putting a different one. I hope that's o.k. Love, DTD. She tapes a baby tooth to the paper and draws an arrow. Save it, she says. Well, she probably figures if she could lose, really LOSE, as in can't find, one tooth, she might could very well lose, as in can't find, a second tooth, so it might be prudent to have a spare on hand for emergencies. Well, I saved it, the tooth is sitting right in front of me.
Bee was DTD'S very close childhood friend. DTD to Bee: Bee, please play with me today. It hurt my feeling win you did not want to play with me in p.e. And played with Kirsten and Casey. And did not pick me for the game in p.e. And would not take me to the offcie. But I will for give you if you are sorry. From: DTD. Bee sends the note back with an "I will" and an "I am." Meaning, I'm sure, she WOULD play with DTD and she WAS sorry. I like how DTD communicates, very forthright.
KEM, who has never figured out how to pack light, how do you think she is going to blog S & S?
Today was exciting. The dishwasher repair man came. What it cost us to fix the dishwasher door FOR THE SECOND TIME, could have been better spent going to hear Yo-Yo Ma play his cello tomorrow night. SUPER RATS! Yeah, our dishwasher door is HEAVY. Every once in a while the cable mechanism that supports the door goes SNAP! It's a DREADFUL sound, and you have NO IDEA what it is or from whence it came. But then suddenly the dish door weighs in at about 500 pounds. It's our model, the door is heavy to start with and if the cables are defunct, well, just forget it. One morning I FORGOT about the cables and nongingerly opened the door and it slipped out of my hand and crashed down with a thud, like a body falling off a roof. Well, that kindness made the door not want to close at all, so I had to hoist and jiggle it into place and hope for the best. We'll see how long the repair lasts THIS TIME.
I'm so glad I saved all the cute cards and letters from long ago. HOWEVER, I didn't save everything and I'm just sicker than sick that I threw out three friends' letters, bundles of them. One girl I knew in school starting in about 4th grade. Actually, our parents had been friends forever. Her mother was a bridesmaid in my mother's wedding. She was one hilarious person. HILARIOUS. Why I EVER parted with those letters I'll never know. I even remember when and where. Standing in the carport of my first little house, overwhelmed with JUNK. My husband's great aunt had given us all kinds of her old stuff and we simply had nowhere to keep it and wouldn't have wanted to keep it if we were in the storage business. Probably I was trying to apply decluttering principles and just look where it got me. I threw the baby out with the bath water. A HUGE loss. The other two people were former boys who liked me. One young man I met as a counselor at camp, and the other boy was from college. They were funny beyond words. My mother and I used to reread some of the letters and simply exhaust ourselves with laughter. In a weak moment I must have thought, Well, they aren't in the picture anymore. BIG MISTAKE to throw those out. BIG. But hey, what's done is MORE than done. Maybe one day I'll write about all the funny people who have graced my life.
Okay, so in view of my opening sentence, I'll just share a few funnies. My nephew made a birthday card for me one time. It was a work of art, he drew waterfalls, trees, mountains. Dinosaur stickers were climbing the mountain, which I believe was an errupting volcano as red sparks were spewing out the top, despite a dinosaur with spikes decorating the ridge of his back and tail standing squarely on the peak of the mountain. He seems quite unconcerned, casual even. Maybe he is up there to extinguish the fire by pure body mass?? The whole mountain is red, actually, and dinosaurs are climbing up it anyway, undeterred. Another couple of dinos are climbing a tree, one is even climbing the waterfall. There are prehistoric animals of every description roaming the earth, and no repetition, either. On the front of the card, To Aunt Kathy. Love, Nephew. A different scary beast sits atop each word. Inside is all the glorious colorful artwork with the words, Hope You have a DINOMITE Birthday! I THINK SO, how could I NOT, after loving this card. Oh, I just now see a green heart, a rhinoceros creature is sniffing it. There are a couple of mystery things. Two little red boxes with black strings. Not sure about those, one is up in the tree. And a similar brown box with yellow stuff coming out the top. Actually, that appears to be sitting on top of a big toothy lizard-dino, a crown? Another reptile is perched on a . . . I don't know what . . . it looks like a black . . . I don't know what. I need to consult my nephew right away.
DTD used to write me lovely little things. One note says, Dear momy, I wove you. Your the best. Thank you for me! Kiss kiss. Kiss kiss. It's decorated with a beautiful flower, hand-colored, you know, pink petals coming out of a yellow center, with a vivid green stem and leaves. It reminds me of a kindergarten program I was in. Some of us had to dress up as flowers, our faces were the yellow center, which I don't know what's that called, I've blocked it permanently from my memory because of association. The costumes were elaborate with green petals (you heard me) winging out from our headgear. And we had to wear green tulle skirts and green tights. Green tee shirts, too. Just a ball of green. It was humiliating. It was torturous. I look like one little cross flower in the pictures.
DTD also writes, Dear Mommy or tooth fairy, I can't find my tooth so I'm putting a different one. I hope that's o.k. Love, DTD. She tapes a baby tooth to the paper and draws an arrow. Save it, she says. Well, she probably figures if she could lose, really LOSE, as in can't find, one tooth, she might could very well lose, as in can't find, a second tooth, so it might be prudent to have a spare on hand for emergencies. Well, I saved it, the tooth is sitting right in front of me.
Bee was DTD'S very close childhood friend. DTD to Bee: Bee, please play with me today. It hurt my feeling win you did not want to play with me in p.e. And played with Kirsten and Casey. And did not pick me for the game in p.e. And would not take me to the offcie. But I will for give you if you are sorry. From: DTD. Bee sends the note back with an "I will" and an "I am." Meaning, I'm sure, she WOULD play with DTD and she WAS sorry. I like how DTD communicates, very forthright.
KEM, who has never figured out how to pack light, how do you think she is going to blog S & S?
Monday, October 26, 2009
Dirty Scampy Squirrel
Just so you know, the roof, which we started 40 years ago, is finished. Except for the "shed", which is attached to the house. And painting some new wood trim, which roofer said would be "black" in one month if we didn't paint it "right now." I've got to tell you, HALLELUJAH! I thank the dear Lord that it didn't rain the whole week. The one day it barely sprinkled, the roofer didn't show. The weather was cool enough. No one fell off a roof. And, of course, the roofer actually showed up most days, was a superb craftsman AND ALSO a very nice guy. Yes, a new roof under such unprecedented circumstance calls for celebration. Now I can't wait for it to rain just so I can FEEL what it's like to be leak-free. NO MORE nightmares! Of course, don't get too excited. Pretty soon the same guy is coming back to sand and paint the eaves. Then my worries will go into overdrive -- man on ladder, way up high in sky, up and down ladder every few seconds, I picture it. Well, some of my friends and I have decided that owning a house is SO much responsibility, from the inside out. My, but I need to learn to CHILL!
The whole thing was . . . you guessed it, EXHAUSTING. Today I tried to nap, which didn't work out too well, what with the automatic weapon they employed, I think it's called a Nail Spitter. It had a spiffy little repetitive rhythm: Pow . . . PowPowPow . . . Pow . . . Pow. Somehow I slept through some of it . . . I think. Finally, I had a dream. The roofers were on the verge of finishing up and it started to sprinkle. My niece and nephew showed up in their bathing suits and turned the wet slick new roof into a Slip 'N Slide or a water park or something, careening over the peaks, scraping themselves on the rough shingles, abandoning themselves to reckless fun. It drove me and my over-taxed nerves to distraction, we nearly rolled off the roof ourselves. Then a big burly guy from the crew came over to where I was standing on the roof. He pointedly asked, throwing a wet towel on all the hilarity, You're going to tip the roofer, right? I pointedly asked back, Ummm, what do people usually tip him? He answers, "Well, $200 is nearly to be scoffed at. $500 is good. Plus, this roofer is the best, he is better than the top-of-the-line master craftsmen they use on all the home improvement TV shows." WOW! So, that was the end of my nap, I woke with a start and ran downstairs to tell Mike to be sure and tip the roofer $500. Really, I think this dream was fairly mild considering the relentless staccato nail punches "lulling" me to "sweet" sleep. You can be sure Mike did not tip the roofer $500.
My sister emailed me about a recent post on how my "energy" shake has the opposite desired effect. She writes:
I had a healthy smoothie today with an energy enhancer and immediately following had to go to bed for the rest of the day. lol
I completely understand exhaustion.
I'm telling you, when James Linn eventually threw in that stamina towel over opposing electing the president (read one of my first posts), it was like throwing a pebble in Lake Michigan. The ripples are still rippling. I see it this way -- maybe Uncle Linn's more immediate descendants still claimed some JLinn strength, though to a lesser degree. Because just as the ripples from a stone splashed in water get weaker and weaker the farther removed they are from the point of plunk, so the spunk in Mr. Linn's family is fading away, generation by generation. By now, we are operating on a ghost of a ripple, 250 years of gradual "vitality depletion." This simply explains everything, like why my sister was bedridden upon consuming an energy shake. Yes, the Linn Stamina is at the end of the line. The "stamina" (if you can call it that) my sister and I "possess" bears a mere shadow of a resemblance to the hearty original . . . a mere.
Tonight I was sorting through some of my writing which was written by a former version of myself, me when I was a kid. Okay, so that made precious little sense, I can't think tonight, IS IT ANY WONDER?? I came across some of these papers when I found DTD'S and stepson's essays on ice cream flavors, well, each child's own personal flavor, the "only one" in the world. When I wrote (see above) about painter on ladder in the sky, it reminded me of a poem I wrote in the 5th grade, which poem, actually, I did not come across tonight.
I love to go to the ocean blue,
Then to the prairie sweet with dew.
I love to go to the mountains tall,
And listen to the birdies call.
For God made it all.
Well, I need to find the exact words, but that's what I remember. I think I left out something, like the meat, ya think??
But here's a poem, boy, this one is really gonna grab ya! Word perfect, too. I was 11 when I stunned the world with this bit of brilliance.
Dirty Scampy Squirrel (margins intact, well, forget that, computer "fixes" my margins when I press PUBLISH POST)
I scamp from tree to tree
As dirty as can be
I never think of washing
So I just keep on sloshing
People never look at me
Because of shock that they
might see
And that is why they call
me dirty scampy squirrel
Doesn't that just SCREAM future Poet Laureate Noble Prize Winner?? Do you think kids today are more sophisticated? Maybe a little bit?? Also, I am amused that I "found" this poem two days after, which was two days ago, our local squirrel hit the pavement, you know, dropping like a bomb when tiny branch he was scampering on snapped off of oak tree, way up high. That WAS a shocking squirrel, and no doubt a dirty little slosher, too, who would never DREAM of bathing. But he got MY attention, the scamp surely did.
One more . . . for tonight. Be sure and come back tomorrow when I can "regale" you, ahem, with more of the same. This one I wrote to my granny. The printing looks like I was 9 or 10 when I wrote it. The spelling is ageless. Compare my spelling to DTD'S ice cream essay. Note as well the punctuation. Draw your own conclusions.
DEAR GRANNY
I LOVE (underlined) YOU lots of KISSES (underlined)
I am giving you a little FROG (underlined) to put on your
coat or dresser I hope you like it I made
it at BROWNIS (underlined) that wite stuff under
the pinecone is cotton to keep it from
sliping off when I glued it. They were supost
to be earings-but mommy dose not where them
and I wanted to make something for you
so here is a pinecone cotton earing for you. and letter
HAPPY MOTHERS DAY
LOVE Kathy
"Best Granny in the world"
Honestly, if I didn't grow up to be the spittin' image of my former self. You DID notice the capitalizations and underlinings (these days, of course, I go with BOLD)?? AND, I went "quotation marks" happy tonight only to discover I quoted "Best Granny in the world" DECADES ago. Well, that COULD have been subliminal, as I DID read the letter to granny a few hours prior to composing this blog.
Heading for potato chips and sour cream,
KEM
The whole thing was . . . you guessed it, EXHAUSTING. Today I tried to nap, which didn't work out too well, what with the automatic weapon they employed, I think it's called a Nail Spitter. It had a spiffy little repetitive rhythm: Pow . . . PowPowPow . . . Pow . . . Pow. Somehow I slept through some of it . . . I think. Finally, I had a dream. The roofers were on the verge of finishing up and it started to sprinkle. My niece and nephew showed up in their bathing suits and turned the wet slick new roof into a Slip 'N Slide or a water park or something, careening over the peaks, scraping themselves on the rough shingles, abandoning themselves to reckless fun. It drove me and my over-taxed nerves to distraction, we nearly rolled off the roof ourselves. Then a big burly guy from the crew came over to where I was standing on the roof. He pointedly asked, throwing a wet towel on all the hilarity, You're going to tip the roofer, right? I pointedly asked back, Ummm, what do people usually tip him? He answers, "Well, $200 is nearly to be scoffed at. $500 is good. Plus, this roofer is the best, he is better than the top-of-the-line master craftsmen they use on all the home improvement TV shows." WOW! So, that was the end of my nap, I woke with a start and ran downstairs to tell Mike to be sure and tip the roofer $500. Really, I think this dream was fairly mild considering the relentless staccato nail punches "lulling" me to "sweet" sleep. You can be sure Mike did not tip the roofer $500.
My sister emailed me about a recent post on how my "energy" shake has the opposite desired effect. She writes:
I had a healthy smoothie today with an energy enhancer and immediately following had to go to bed for the rest of the day. lol
I completely understand exhaustion.
I'm telling you, when James Linn eventually threw in that stamina towel over opposing electing the president (read one of my first posts), it was like throwing a pebble in Lake Michigan. The ripples are still rippling. I see it this way -- maybe Uncle Linn's more immediate descendants still claimed some JLinn strength, though to a lesser degree. Because just as the ripples from a stone splashed in water get weaker and weaker the farther removed they are from the point of plunk, so the spunk in Mr. Linn's family is fading away, generation by generation. By now, we are operating on a ghost of a ripple, 250 years of gradual "vitality depletion." This simply explains everything, like why my sister was bedridden upon consuming an energy shake. Yes, the Linn Stamina is at the end of the line. The "stamina" (if you can call it that) my sister and I "possess" bears a mere shadow of a resemblance to the hearty original . . . a mere.
Tonight I was sorting through some of my writing which was written by a former version of myself, me when I was a kid. Okay, so that made precious little sense, I can't think tonight, IS IT ANY WONDER?? I came across some of these papers when I found DTD'S and stepson's essays on ice cream flavors, well, each child's own personal flavor, the "only one" in the world. When I wrote (see above) about painter on ladder in the sky, it reminded me of a poem I wrote in the 5th grade, which poem, actually, I did not come across tonight.
I love to go to the ocean blue,
Then to the prairie sweet with dew.
I love to go to the mountains tall,
And listen to the birdies call.
For God made it all.
Well, I need to find the exact words, but that's what I remember. I think I left out something, like the meat, ya think??
But here's a poem, boy, this one is really gonna grab ya! Word perfect, too. I was 11 when I stunned the world with this bit of brilliance.
Dirty Scampy Squirrel (margins intact, well, forget that, computer "fixes" my margins when I press PUBLISH POST)
I scamp from tree to tree
As dirty as can be
I never think of washing
So I just keep on sloshing
People never look at me
Because of shock that they
might see
And that is why they call
me dirty scampy squirrel
Doesn't that just SCREAM future Poet Laureate Noble Prize Winner?? Do you think kids today are more sophisticated? Maybe a little bit?? Also, I am amused that I "found" this poem two days after, which was two days ago, our local squirrel hit the pavement, you know, dropping like a bomb when tiny branch he was scampering on snapped off of oak tree, way up high. That WAS a shocking squirrel, and no doubt a dirty little slosher, too, who would never DREAM of bathing. But he got MY attention, the scamp surely did.
One more . . . for tonight. Be sure and come back tomorrow when I can "regale" you, ahem, with more of the same. This one I wrote to my granny. The printing looks like I was 9 or 10 when I wrote it. The spelling is ageless. Compare my spelling to DTD'S ice cream essay. Note as well the punctuation. Draw your own conclusions.
DEAR GRANNY
I LOVE (underlined) YOU lots of KISSES (underlined)
I am giving you a little FROG (underlined) to put on your
coat or dresser I hope you like it I made
it at BROWNIS (underlined) that wite stuff under
the pinecone is cotton to keep it from
sliping off when I glued it. They were supost
to be earings-but mommy dose not where them
and I wanted to make something for you
so here is a pinecone cotton earing for you. and letter
HAPPY MOTHERS DAY
LOVE Kathy
"Best Granny in the world"
Honestly, if I didn't grow up to be the spittin' image of my former self. You DID notice the capitalizations and underlinings (these days, of course, I go with BOLD)?? AND, I went "quotation marks" happy tonight only to discover I quoted "Best Granny in the world" DECADES ago. Well, that COULD have been subliminal, as I DID read the letter to granny a few hours prior to composing this blog.
Heading for potato chips and sour cream,
KEM
Sunday, October 25, 2009
All I Really Want In Life
Psalm 142:5 (New Living Translation)
David is in a cave hiding from Saul, who is on a rampage to kill David. David feels completely overwhelmed and forsaken by man. He pours out his complaints to God, pleading for God's mercy, that God would rescue him.
"Then I pray to you, O Lord. I say, "You are my place of refuge. You are all I really want in life."
"You are all I really want in life." May we grow in that direction.
KEM
David is in a cave hiding from Saul, who is on a rampage to kill David. David feels completely overwhelmed and forsaken by man. He pours out his complaints to God, pleading for God's mercy, that God would rescue him.
"Then I pray to you, O Lord. I say, "You are my place of refuge. You are all I really want in life."
"You are all I really want in life." May we grow in that direction.
KEM
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