Week One of November has slithered past quickly.
Not sure what is the latest status on the Healthcare bill. But I hope we've bought some time to defeat it. Last I heard, 40 pro-life Democrats were undecided, possibly going to vote against Pelosi/Obama's bill if language allowing for government-paid abortions was not struck down. As you probably know, we, the ordinary American taxpayers, will be funding abortion if this bill passes and is signed into law. Not only that, but those opting for the government plan will be forced to pay an additional premium for abortion. This is unreal. It will be the most significant curse to the unborn since Roe vs. Wade. Please, call your representatives and voice support for our most vulnerable citizens.
I THANK GOD for godly men and women who are courageous, leading the charge and STANDING UP for the unborn. Just recently a woman in Planned Parenthood switched gears. She saw firsthand, one time too many, a real live babe in the womb being viciously murdered through abortion. She is now throwing her efforts into saving the lives of the unborn, and in doing so a huge burden has rolled from her shoulders. Abortion clinic profits are down due to the economy, a silver lining of the recession. This Healthcare bill amounts to another bailout, one for the abortion industry. Evil is at work, trying to railroad the passage of this immoral bill. Make no mistake.
I don't know how I, in good conscience, could continue to pay my taxes if this is the state of affairs. Time to research countries where the government forbids abortion. PLEASE pray for God to intervene in this pending tragedy. God, have mercy on us all and may true justice prevail.
KEM
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
There Are 100 Minutes In An Hour
Hi, this is a 10 Minute Blogging Unit. I am distressed to report that I have come down with a nasty sinus infection. It's just so unbelievable. I think it came from using ancient and not-my-usual-brand of salt packets (because I was out of good old SinuCleanse, so I had to dig up something from the way back of the cabinet). Mike says it's because I stay up all night. Or, also, Mike and I have our own separate Nose Watering Pots and I wrote a "K" on mine in blue permanent magic marker. Well, the "K" has since vanished in the dishwasher, it's out floating in Tampa Bay somewhere. Mike really doesn't use his pot much, but he has used it three times. So a few days ago I had to blindly pick which pot is mine. Maybe I used his pot and that's why I'm sick. The directions clearly say, Each to his own pot. Not that Mike is so dirty and germy, it's more that I'm so SENSITIVE. OR, maybe it was picking up back exercising again, the exercises are so strenuous and draining. Maybe it's because the nice roofer is STILL HERE. Or eating out could do it, right? Or my PEP drink (I'll be glad whenever that stuff runs out). Or WHO KNOWS what it was. Regardless, I felt this infection coming on yesterday, the good old Run-Over-By-A-Truck Sensation, which is unmistakable. Just call me FLAT KATHY. Then, this morning, at 12:00 noon sharp, right on cue when the alarm clock went off, the other vulgar symptoms of a sinus infection came to light (think Green Production, I tell you, green is the color, even my birthstone). Shed a few tears for me, will you?
I have 4 minutes left on my Blogging Unit. I will use it to tell you that I can't do math. I really can't. It hit me in 11th grade when we began doing these Wretched Word Problems. My brain cannot cough up the Necessary Main Element for solving a Word Problem, which would be LOGIC. Just like my CT scan told me I don't have forehead sinuses, so a simple KEM scan of a Word Problem (good name for them, they ARE a PROBLEM) tell me I don't have Logic Brain Cells. It's foolproof and scientific. I try. I fail. Nope, I simply cannot plug numbers into X, Y and Z.
So, of course when I said last night I was going to do a 120 Sleep Unit, that is not what I meant. It was totally incorrect. 120 Sleep Units, at 10 minutes each, materializes to 20 hours of sleeping. Mike was incredulous when he read that, because 20 hours of sleep for even me sounded rather scary. I really should have said I was sleeping for 72 Units, which, I hope, is 12 hours. See, I was thinking there were 10 Units to an hour. I'll blame it on the onset of sinus trouble, which scrambles my No-Logic brains. Normally, 54 Units of sleep is just right, but with Sinus-Mack barreling toward me I was allowing for 72 Units.
Okay, it just took me so long to figure all this math out that my 10 Minute Blogging Unit has now expired, in fact it has now become a 12 Minutes Unit, and I must bid you Farewell.
The Loose Unitizer,
KEM
I have 4 minutes left on my Blogging Unit. I will use it to tell you that I can't do math. I really can't. It hit me in 11th grade when we began doing these Wretched Word Problems. My brain cannot cough up the Necessary Main Element for solving a Word Problem, which would be LOGIC. Just like my CT scan told me I don't have forehead sinuses, so a simple KEM scan of a Word Problem (good name for them, they ARE a PROBLEM) tell me I don't have Logic Brain Cells. It's foolproof and scientific. I try. I fail. Nope, I simply cannot plug numbers into X, Y and Z.
So, of course when I said last night I was going to do a 120 Sleep Unit, that is not what I meant. It was totally incorrect. 120 Sleep Units, at 10 minutes each, materializes to 20 hours of sleeping. Mike was incredulous when he read that, because 20 hours of sleep for even me sounded rather scary. I really should have said I was sleeping for 72 Units, which, I hope, is 12 hours. See, I was thinking there were 10 Units to an hour. I'll blame it on the onset of sinus trouble, which scrambles my No-Logic brains. Normally, 54 Units of sleep is just right, but with Sinus-Mack barreling toward me I was allowing for 72 Units.
Okay, it just took me so long to figure all this math out that my 10 Minute Blogging Unit has now expired, in fact it has now become a 12 Minutes Unit, and I must bid you Farewell.
The Loose Unitizer,
KEM
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Becoming An LU, Lady of Units
Every year my neighbor hosts a sensational Valentine's Party for her friends. She has a very fun collection of friends. Last year in all the chit-chat, a lady announced that she does Units. All ears perked up. What are Units?, you may ask, as did we. Units are how she manages her time. Like say she needs to pay the bills, she will designate a Bill Paying Unit. Or maybe she must eat lunch, PRESTO!, a Lunch Unit. I think this motivates her to get things done, if not completely organized. Doesn't breaking your time into Units sound so impressive? It would seem anyone accomplishing Units should get PAID for it, Paid by the Unit. I am now not only a Box Gardener, I ama Proud Professional Unitizer. I knew something fabulous was coming on the heels of turning into A Gardener, didn't I even just say so LAST NIGHT, wondering what it could be? Well, now I know. And so do you. Does anyone want to become a Professional Unitizer with me??
I said recently on a blog that I was going to zap my life into order by moving the day along at 1/2 hour increments (which I'm sorry to report has not happened yet, I hurt my foot). But now, since I recall all this Unit jazz, I'm going to do Units instead. And I'm going to do 10 Minute Units. That might make me a Little Dizzy, but it goes like this. Say I want a Piano Practice Unit. ANYONE can do 10 Lousy Minutes, right? So, after 10 Minutes, if it still Feels Good, I can tack on an additional 10 Minute Piano Practice Unit. If it Feels Crummy, I can switch to a More Agreeable Unit like a Throw In a Load of Laundry Unit or Fold the Clothes Unit or Load the Dishwasher Unit or Tackle the Messy Paper Pile on the Counter Unit or Read the Newspaper Unit or Sort Photos Unit or Tweeze Nose Hairs Unit. Do ya foller?
Or maybe a Unit is Severely Dreaded, a Less-than-Zero Fun Unit, like Dusting or Swiping Baseboards (I wish someone would Swipe Mine, as in Carry Them Out of the State). Well, again, even the Faintest Amongst Us can last 10 Minutes Swishing a Dustcloth. SURELY WE CAN. I know this is Very Elementary, my dear Watson, but I shall experiment and see how I make out. Maybe a 15 Minute Unit is more Reasonable. Because I have been comprehending recently, even before I remembered This about Units, that 30 minutes of back exercise is Overkill, but that's how long it takes to run through all the different exercises. SOOOO, me says to meself, Why not do noon, evening and midnight 10 Minute Sessions instead? That would be less exhausting, better for the back and accomplish the whole routine, just not all at once. TA-DA! So last night I did 10 Minutes, it went by lickety-split. This afternoon I checked the clock and launched into my second 10 Minute Session, now Unit. And when I checked the clock again, HARK!, 13 minutes had zipped by. So, isn't this happy news? 10 Minute Units are NOTHING. They are Minuscule and Palatable. We are going to be so Productive we won't know what to do with ourselves, what with all the extra time doing Units is going to allow us. Hmmm, does this smack of being Too Good to Be True??
Oh, and another Merit of Small Units. Even if you get interrupted or somehow blow your Current Unit, you get a New Chance in about 30 Seconds. Sweet. Really, I can't imagine any drawbacks to UNITS! Friendly and Benign, that's Units in a Nutshell. My, but i've Gone Capital Crazy Tonight.
So anyway, since I have to go to bed now, I shall neatly schedule 120 Sleep Units. WOW, isn't that crazy? Doing 120 of Anything makes me feel like a Regular Ball of Fire. I shall let you know how my Performances of Units pan out. I can see it now, A Daily Box Gardening Unit. This is going to make me feel So Good. The Possibilities for Units are Endless.
KEM of the Units
I said recently on a blog that I was going to zap my life into order by moving the day along at 1/2 hour increments (which I'm sorry to report has not happened yet, I hurt my foot). But now, since I recall all this Unit jazz, I'm going to do Units instead. And I'm going to do 10 Minute Units. That might make me a Little Dizzy, but it goes like this. Say I want a Piano Practice Unit. ANYONE can do 10 Lousy Minutes, right? So, after 10 Minutes, if it still Feels Good, I can tack on an additional 10 Minute Piano Practice Unit. If it Feels Crummy, I can switch to a More Agreeable Unit like a Throw In a Load of Laundry Unit or Fold the Clothes Unit or Load the Dishwasher Unit or Tackle the Messy Paper Pile on the Counter Unit or Read the Newspaper Unit or Sort Photos Unit or Tweeze Nose Hairs Unit. Do ya foller?
Or maybe a Unit is Severely Dreaded, a Less-than-Zero Fun Unit, like Dusting or Swiping Baseboards (I wish someone would Swipe Mine, as in Carry Them Out of the State). Well, again, even the Faintest Amongst Us can last 10 Minutes Swishing a Dustcloth. SURELY WE CAN. I know this is Very Elementary, my dear Watson, but I shall experiment and see how I make out. Maybe a 15 Minute Unit is more Reasonable. Because I have been comprehending recently, even before I remembered This about Units, that 30 minutes of back exercise is Overkill, but that's how long it takes to run through all the different exercises. SOOOO, me says to meself, Why not do noon, evening and midnight 10 Minute Sessions instead? That would be less exhausting, better for the back and accomplish the whole routine, just not all at once. TA-DA! So last night I did 10 Minutes, it went by lickety-split. This afternoon I checked the clock and launched into my second 10 Minute Session, now Unit. And when I checked the clock again, HARK!, 13 minutes had zipped by. So, isn't this happy news? 10 Minute Units are NOTHING. They are Minuscule and Palatable. We are going to be so Productive we won't know what to do with ourselves, what with all the extra time doing Units is going to allow us. Hmmm, does this smack of being Too Good to Be True??
Oh, and another Merit of Small Units. Even if you get interrupted or somehow blow your Current Unit, you get a New Chance in about 30 Seconds. Sweet. Really, I can't imagine any drawbacks to UNITS! Friendly and Benign, that's Units in a Nutshell. My, but i've Gone Capital Crazy Tonight.
So anyway, since I have to go to bed now, I shall neatly schedule 120 Sleep Units. WOW, isn't that crazy? Doing 120 of Anything makes me feel like a Regular Ball of Fire. I shall let you know how my Performances of Units pan out. I can see it now, A Daily Box Gardening Unit. This is going to make me feel So Good. The Possibilities for Units are Endless.
KEM of the Units
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Guess what? I am now A Gardener. Yes, in my mind, and presently in my body, I am A Gardener. It all started ages ago when I read in the newspaper how you should drive over the Sunshine Skyway Bridge to Ellenton and visit the people who will educate you on Box Gardening and then sell you a . . . Box Garden. A Box Garden is . . . ummm . . . a box in which you grow your garden, you know, lettuce and okra and patty pan squash. It's only around 3 feet long and a foot wide. It comes with fertilized dirt, a built in rubber pipe where you pour in your water and a plastic cover that the plants grow through . . . something like that. Folk, this is about my speed, because NO WAY in God's green earth am I going to drum up the ambition to take anemic Florida sand and nurse it into nutrient-rich, garden-growing soil. Or convert my table scraps (I don't have any) into a compost heap. Or stake out a big plot and till the land, and, in short, turn my backyard into a mini-Iverson's farm. NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS. So, since we are all talking about getting our life MANAGEABLE, a Box Garden would seem to fit the bill.
Along the way, you know, thinking about this, I've read where NOTHING tastes as good as your own just-picked produce, where you just sit down in the dirt and eat it right there on the spot. All of this, see, is whetting my appetite. Then last Sunday, Mike came home from church with one of those green plastic bags that's going to keep your greens green for a very long time. A wonderful couple in his church filled that bag with turnip greens, green onions, SPINACH, cucumber, kale, curly green leaf lettuce (or something), purple stuff, all kinds of other stuff, nameless to me, and, last but without question, America's Pastime, Which is Not Baseball but Starts with a "B". If you don't know what that is, then you have not been reading my blog, Naughty, Naughty. So I will tell you. BASIL. GOBS OF BASIL. GOBS OF PERFECT GREEN GORGEOUS BASIL. Black it was not. Listen, making a salad out of these flawless greens was pure delight. No time wasted tearing off the brown spots. What brown spots? When I took my first bite, HELLO???, I thought I had just died and gone to Michigan. It tasted just EXACTLY like the earth of Iverson's Farm smelt. I'm telling you, grocery store vegetables have long lost their "just picked" scent a month of Sundays ago. They left it on some truck 49 states back. Or in some behemoth packing house two months of Sundays before that. This FRESH and SCRUMPTIOUS salad just gave me a whole new lease on life, that's all.
So, of course I had to call my friend and say, Hello?, we are coming to see your magnificent garden. Turns out most of her stuff was grown in Box Gardens, of which she has many. She had, naturally, more Basil than anything, supporting my Basil Theory IN FULL. Her Basil was going wild, Baby, growing lush and tall and proud. SHE won't be needing to phone the Basil Hotline anytime soon. Quite the contrary, desperate Basil Failures everywhere should be calling HER! Oh man, Connie grows tomatoes, broccoli, cabbage, carrots, celery, green beans, radishes, etc. Her yard boasts lemon trees, even Ponderosa lemons, key limes, limes, mangoes, papaya, figs (bless her), avocadoes, oranges, grapefruit, tangerines, etc. Oh for Pete's sake, she grows darling little bananas, you ought to taste her wholesome banana bread with chocolate chips. I tasted the whole loaf in two days flat. It was breakfast, lunch and dinner, six consecutive meals and snacks in-between. I'm not kidding. Ask Mike.
So then, after I got to twist off my own personal cucumber right off the vine, Connie invited me to go with her to Ellenton so I can get my own Box Garden and become A Box Gardener. She will help me. It's going to happen, People. I promise you. My life has just been Revolutionized. No telling what is next. First A Gardener, then A ________. Wow, I shall fill in that blank with . . . WHAT??
Of course, not too long ago I bought a Basil plant. I forgot to tell you about it. See, I really wanted to buy just some Basil leaves, but the store only had Basil in a pot. It was not a selection of very robust plants, so I picked what did not appear to be the runt of the litter. I promptly came home and plucked every last leaf off for my recipe. Maybe you aren't supposed to do that?? Even though the tag strongly urged leaf plucking. Remember, when I do something, I do it thoroughly. So, really, though, you can't blame my thoroughness this time, there were so few leaves to begin with. At any rate, I was left with a bare naked thin stick of a Basil plant. Very unnatural looking indeed. So, the plant sat on the kitchen counter until one day I thought it might enjoy a little sunshine out on the deck. A few new modest (runty) leaves came out, nothing to write home about. I tried to keep it watered, but the water just ran right through and out the bottom of the pot. Then it came back inside where it suffered total neglect, and one day the stem had bowed itself over, as if in pain. It was broken . . . as in, SNAP. Next thing you know, the stem turned into brown straw. And that, my dears, was the end of the Basil plant. I certainly expect to have better luck with my Box Garden.
I am VERY happy to announce that I just noticed a comment on one of my posts. A comment from a complete and total stranger. This is a GENUINE FIRST. How fun is that, a person out in the whole wide world actually glancing at my blog? I call it THE SPREAD. It was a REAL thrill and it came from a very polite young man who has blogs on Boston Red Sox Sweatshirts and Callaway Golf Bags. He says, "Thanks for sharing that! Nice post. I just glanced through it." I responded, "Yeah, well, I get a little carried away. Thanks for glancing and commenting." See, this is how the modern world works. See, I got a little smart and am in the process of going back and LABELING my posts. This is very time consuming and precludes any and all housework, eating, sleeping, whatever. There is a box by the post to insert your labels and everything. And there is a box (word of the night) to type a Title, too. Now, when I type CREST WHITESTRIPS into the label box, someone who might be fishing around for information on tooth whitening, like this poor unsuspecting young man, might just happen upon my blog. Don't ask me how this connection really works, 'cause it's all a gray dense fog to me, a path of mystery. All I know is that an unknown-to-me Boston Red Sox fan glanced at an unknown-to-him blogger's Whitestrips post, and now we we can't say we've never heard of each other. GO FIGURE. My, but it's a brand new world.
I hope DTD will be impressed with this, that someone in her age bracket could say something nice to me, a used up old horse. He was being nice, right? Oh no, what if it's all a joke? Maybe he LOATHED my blog and was being facetious. I am so ULTRA paranoid. When DTD was a silly school age girl, maybe a preteen, DPD, I took her and her silly best friend to Target. We wound up in the hotdog stand. The girls wanted Icees. This turned into a spectacle because the cashier was silly enough to give them an empty cup. The girls go to the Icee machine and start pulling levers and layering in the different flavors. In short order they are filling the cups to overflowing -- and in complete hysterics. I'm sitting at a table across the way, shaking my head, marveling. The girls look over to make sure they have an audience. They do. But I'm NUMBED OUT and incapable of action. The head shakes send them into renewed fits of hysteria. I don't want to quench the spirit, but I have a feeling I'm a pitiful, incompetent parent. So, a teenage boy who was sweeping the floor said to me, Those are lucky girls. Hmmm. What was THAT supposed to mean? I couldn't take it at face value because he said it with just a smidge of sarcasm, I think. This will be one of those things I'll never know for sure. Was he saying they really were lucky girls to have a "laid-back" (she gave up) Mom, one who wasn't toasting her wig over a little spilt Icee? OR, was he deeply disgusted that I wasn't jumping up to impose order and discipline, you know, throw a wet blanket?
Okay, I have decided the nice Whitestrip commenting young man was sincere. Why look a gift horse in the mouth, right? But I still don't know about the Target busboy. He gave me a not-so-great feeling, or I self-imposed the feeling, which was akin to flat sails. I should have said, YOUNG MAN, and just exactly what do you mean by THAT? Then I would have known. But a little too late, eh?, and so life goes on.
Meanwhile, I THANK HEARTILY all my friends who have posted comments on the blog. It is very pleasant, for sure, to know this little blog is not just between me and my computer screen. Others of my friends have encouraged me through emails, for which I am equally grateful. And my sister through texts, too. You are most kind.
Move Over, Mr. McGregor,
KEM
Along the way, you know, thinking about this, I've read where NOTHING tastes as good as your own just-picked produce, where you just sit down in the dirt and eat it right there on the spot. All of this, see, is whetting my appetite. Then last Sunday, Mike came home from church with one of those green plastic bags that's going to keep your greens green for a very long time. A wonderful couple in his church filled that bag with turnip greens, green onions, SPINACH, cucumber, kale, curly green leaf lettuce (or something), purple stuff, all kinds of other stuff, nameless to me, and, last but without question, America's Pastime, Which is Not Baseball but Starts with a "B". If you don't know what that is, then you have not been reading my blog, Naughty, Naughty. So I will tell you. BASIL. GOBS OF BASIL. GOBS OF PERFECT GREEN GORGEOUS BASIL. Black it was not. Listen, making a salad out of these flawless greens was pure delight. No time wasted tearing off the brown spots. What brown spots? When I took my first bite, HELLO???, I thought I had just died and gone to Michigan. It tasted just EXACTLY like the earth of Iverson's Farm smelt. I'm telling you, grocery store vegetables have long lost their "just picked" scent a month of Sundays ago. They left it on some truck 49 states back. Or in some behemoth packing house two months of Sundays before that. This FRESH and SCRUMPTIOUS salad just gave me a whole new lease on life, that's all.
So, of course I had to call my friend and say, Hello?, we are coming to see your magnificent garden. Turns out most of her stuff was grown in Box Gardens, of which she has many. She had, naturally, more Basil than anything, supporting my Basil Theory IN FULL. Her Basil was going wild, Baby, growing lush and tall and proud. SHE won't be needing to phone the Basil Hotline anytime soon. Quite the contrary, desperate Basil Failures everywhere should be calling HER! Oh man, Connie grows tomatoes, broccoli, cabbage, carrots, celery, green beans, radishes, etc. Her yard boasts lemon trees, even Ponderosa lemons, key limes, limes, mangoes, papaya, figs (bless her), avocadoes, oranges, grapefruit, tangerines, etc. Oh for Pete's sake, she grows darling little bananas, you ought to taste her wholesome banana bread with chocolate chips. I tasted the whole loaf in two days flat. It was breakfast, lunch and dinner, six consecutive meals and snacks in-between. I'm not kidding. Ask Mike.
So then, after I got to twist off my own personal cucumber right off the vine, Connie invited me to go with her to Ellenton so I can get my own Box Garden and become A Box Gardener. She will help me. It's going to happen, People. I promise you. My life has just been Revolutionized. No telling what is next. First A Gardener, then A ________. Wow, I shall fill in that blank with . . . WHAT??
Of course, not too long ago I bought a Basil plant. I forgot to tell you about it. See, I really wanted to buy just some Basil leaves, but the store only had Basil in a pot. It was not a selection of very robust plants, so I picked what did not appear to be the runt of the litter. I promptly came home and plucked every last leaf off for my recipe. Maybe you aren't supposed to do that?? Even though the tag strongly urged leaf plucking. Remember, when I do something, I do it thoroughly. So, really, though, you can't blame my thoroughness this time, there were so few leaves to begin with. At any rate, I was left with a bare naked thin stick of a Basil plant. Very unnatural looking indeed. So, the plant sat on the kitchen counter until one day I thought it might enjoy a little sunshine out on the deck. A few new modest (runty) leaves came out, nothing to write home about. I tried to keep it watered, but the water just ran right through and out the bottom of the pot. Then it came back inside where it suffered total neglect, and one day the stem had bowed itself over, as if in pain. It was broken . . . as in, SNAP. Next thing you know, the stem turned into brown straw. And that, my dears, was the end of the Basil plant. I certainly expect to have better luck with my Box Garden.
I am VERY happy to announce that I just noticed a comment on one of my posts. A comment from a complete and total stranger. This is a GENUINE FIRST. How fun is that, a person out in the whole wide world actually glancing at my blog? I call it THE SPREAD. It was a REAL thrill and it came from a very polite young man who has blogs on Boston Red Sox Sweatshirts and Callaway Golf Bags. He says, "Thanks for sharing that! Nice post. I just glanced through it." I responded, "Yeah, well, I get a little carried away. Thanks for glancing and commenting." See, this is how the modern world works. See, I got a little smart and am in the process of going back and LABELING my posts. This is very time consuming and precludes any and all housework, eating, sleeping, whatever. There is a box by the post to insert your labels and everything. And there is a box (word of the night) to type a Title, too. Now, when I type CREST WHITESTRIPS into the label box, someone who might be fishing around for information on tooth whitening, like this poor unsuspecting young man, might just happen upon my blog. Don't ask me how this connection really works, 'cause it's all a gray dense fog to me, a path of mystery. All I know is that an unknown-to-me Boston Red Sox fan glanced at an unknown-to-him blogger's Whitestrips post, and now we we can't say we've never heard of each other. GO FIGURE. My, but it's a brand new world.
I hope DTD will be impressed with this, that someone in her age bracket could say something nice to me, a used up old horse. He was being nice, right? Oh no, what if it's all a joke? Maybe he LOATHED my blog and was being facetious. I am so ULTRA paranoid. When DTD was a silly school age girl, maybe a preteen, DPD, I took her and her silly best friend to Target. We wound up in the hotdog stand. The girls wanted Icees. This turned into a spectacle because the cashier was silly enough to give them an empty cup. The girls go to the Icee machine and start pulling levers and layering in the different flavors. In short order they are filling the cups to overflowing -- and in complete hysterics. I'm sitting at a table across the way, shaking my head, marveling. The girls look over to make sure they have an audience. They do. But I'm NUMBED OUT and incapable of action. The head shakes send them into renewed fits of hysteria. I don't want to quench the spirit, but I have a feeling I'm a pitiful, incompetent parent. So, a teenage boy who was sweeping the floor said to me, Those are lucky girls. Hmmm. What was THAT supposed to mean? I couldn't take it at face value because he said it with just a smidge of sarcasm, I think. This will be one of those things I'll never know for sure. Was he saying they really were lucky girls to have a "laid-back" (she gave up) Mom, one who wasn't toasting her wig over a little spilt Icee? OR, was he deeply disgusted that I wasn't jumping up to impose order and discipline, you know, throw a wet blanket?
Okay, I have decided the nice Whitestrip commenting young man was sincere. Why look a gift horse in the mouth, right? But I still don't know about the Target busboy. He gave me a not-so-great feeling, or I self-imposed the feeling, which was akin to flat sails. I should have said, YOUNG MAN, and just exactly what do you mean by THAT? Then I would have known. But a little too late, eh?, and so life goes on.
Meanwhile, I THANK HEARTILY all my friends who have posted comments on the blog. It is very pleasant, for sure, to know this little blog is not just between me and my computer screen. Others of my friends have encouraged me through emails, for which I am equally grateful. And my sister through texts, too. You are most kind.
Move Over, Mr. McGregor,
KEM
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Hi, time is acclerating, I am living proof.
So today I said to Mike, Let's go eat lunch at Panera Bread. I like their tuna sandwich and tomato soup. I thought, Wonder who I will see at Panera that I know. St. Petersburg is a fairly large city, but it is really just like a small town. You simply CANNOT meet someone who doesn't have a connection to someone you know. It's kinda fun.
Well, another man was parking near me, we were parking at the same time. His pick up truck was decorated as though for a parade float. BILLY FOSTER FOR MAYOR signs were lined up all around the flatbed of the truck, is that what you call it? He had stickers, he had a hat, he had a shirt and they all loudly proclaimed one message and one message only, VOTE FOR BILLY. As we walked into Panera together I said, Are you thinking about maybe voting for Billy Foster? He grinned wide and said, Yes, I'm thinking about it, Billy and I went to law school together 25 years ago. Well, KEM has to top that. I said, Billy and I rode the school bus together in elementary school. So, we hoped and prayed Billy would win, as the polls were indicating a narrow race, surprisingly. We both expressed nervousness. Oh yes, the election is TODAY.
At Panera I saw April. April is a marvelous woman. You walk into her house and she has no material possessions. Just plain emptiness. It's striking. She has achieved what I only blab on about, living a life of simplicity, order, control, discipline. She is my MODEL. Once I asked her, HOW ON EARTH DO YOU ACCOMPLISH THIS?? She smiled and said, It's my job description and I love it. So every Friday she cleans her whole house from top to bottom. It's a piece of cherry cupcake. I mean it, her living room has a small sofa and chair, an empty coffee table and a lamp. That's it, Sisters. The kitchen has one thing on the counter, a toaster. This place is STREAMED-CLEAN LINES, it's full of CLEAR SPACE. It's a vacuum. You can breathe in the easiness of it all. I do know she allows her daughters to own things, so she's not insane or anything. Once I read a book about the Amish. This nonAmish lady stayed with some Amish families to see if she could figure them out. One kitchen she walked in was so pristine and sparsely furnished, with only the sun shining on the floor, that the lady got the most serene feeling in her whole life. PEACE, Baby, PEACE. Oh, and April personally exudes this joy and peace. I don't know if she reflects her home or her home reflects her, but it's a GOOD IDEA, either way.
Okay, so what happened next? OH. BAD NEWS. In Mike's Singing for Your Health class tonight, I was sitting at the piano admiring my brand new inky blue J. Jill cardigan. I saw a little teensy pull at the ribbed cuff of the sleeve. On the edge. Noticeable, more or less. It didn't bother me. UNTIL. Until I rolled back the cuff to examine it more closely. And what to my wondering eyes doth appear but a little hole? Now, this just kills me. I look over clothes like I look over lettuce . . . THOROUGLY. I make sure seams are matched and everything looks even. Come on, have you ever bought a pair of pants and one of the side seams twists to run down the front of the leg, instead of where it belongs? If you buy something like that it's a recipe for regret. It is for me. It's completely uncivilized that they pawn stuff like that on us poor gullible human beings. It's up to us to put a stop to it by DEMANDING quality goods. When I shop with my sister it falls to her to find cute things and to me to examine and compare and choose the best of the lot or size or whatever. Uh-oh, I'm gonna hear about this, just like hair. A NORMAL person just takes the first one and goes on their merry, (ignorantly) blissful way. Well, I picked out the very best sweater last night. Now it has to go back. It's going to be so embarrassing, but I HAVE to do it. And I need to do it soon because I don't want them to think I've been wearing the sweater for a week and then returning it. They'll think I ruined it, and I didn't, TRUST ME. This can only happen to me, because I'm so picky. You can't SEE the hole, but still, IT'S THERE. And who's to say it won't get worse? I will be interested to know how J. Jill handles this. Of course, if I WERE normal, I would pick the very first one and it would always be perfect because that would be poetic justice or something. I only find worms in my salad because I'm looking. People who don't look don't have worms. And if they do, they are none the wiser.
NOW. Now for the GREAT NEWS!!! Billy Foster is the proud new mayor of St. Petersburg. At lunch Mike and I discussed what might happen. I predicted, Billy Foster will win by 8 percentage points. This was a bold KEM declaration because the newspaper was insisting that the other candidate, whom I shall decline to mention by name and dispostion, was ahead in the polls by 5%. So, Billy won by 6%. KEM was close. And is VERY happy. Furthermore, I fully expect to wake up in the morning and read the final counts and Billy will have won by 8. I sincerely hope Billy's fabulous sister, Faye Ellen Foster, has come to town for the big celebration. You know about her if you have read one of my earliest blogs. I'm turning into a real pest, ain't I??
Well, that's all she wrote,
KEM
So today I said to Mike, Let's go eat lunch at Panera Bread. I like their tuna sandwich and tomato soup. I thought, Wonder who I will see at Panera that I know. St. Petersburg is a fairly large city, but it is really just like a small town. You simply CANNOT meet someone who doesn't have a connection to someone you know. It's kinda fun.
Well, another man was parking near me, we were parking at the same time. His pick up truck was decorated as though for a parade float. BILLY FOSTER FOR MAYOR signs were lined up all around the flatbed of the truck, is that what you call it? He had stickers, he had a hat, he had a shirt and they all loudly proclaimed one message and one message only, VOTE FOR BILLY. As we walked into Panera together I said, Are you thinking about maybe voting for Billy Foster? He grinned wide and said, Yes, I'm thinking about it, Billy and I went to law school together 25 years ago. Well, KEM has to top that. I said, Billy and I rode the school bus together in elementary school. So, we hoped and prayed Billy would win, as the polls were indicating a narrow race, surprisingly. We both expressed nervousness. Oh yes, the election is TODAY.
At Panera I saw April. April is a marvelous woman. You walk into her house and she has no material possessions. Just plain emptiness. It's striking. She has achieved what I only blab on about, living a life of simplicity, order, control, discipline. She is my MODEL. Once I asked her, HOW ON EARTH DO YOU ACCOMPLISH THIS?? She smiled and said, It's my job description and I love it. So every Friday she cleans her whole house from top to bottom. It's a piece of cherry cupcake. I mean it, her living room has a small sofa and chair, an empty coffee table and a lamp. That's it, Sisters. The kitchen has one thing on the counter, a toaster. This place is STREAMED-CLEAN LINES, it's full of CLEAR SPACE. It's a vacuum. You can breathe in the easiness of it all. I do know she allows her daughters to own things, so she's not insane or anything. Once I read a book about the Amish. This nonAmish lady stayed with some Amish families to see if she could figure them out. One kitchen she walked in was so pristine and sparsely furnished, with only the sun shining on the floor, that the lady got the most serene feeling in her whole life. PEACE, Baby, PEACE. Oh, and April personally exudes this joy and peace. I don't know if she reflects her home or her home reflects her, but it's a GOOD IDEA, either way.
Okay, so what happened next? OH. BAD NEWS. In Mike's Singing for Your Health class tonight, I was sitting at the piano admiring my brand new inky blue J. Jill cardigan. I saw a little teensy pull at the ribbed cuff of the sleeve. On the edge. Noticeable, more or less. It didn't bother me. UNTIL. Until I rolled back the cuff to examine it more closely. And what to my wondering eyes doth appear but a little hole? Now, this just kills me. I look over clothes like I look over lettuce . . . THOROUGLY. I make sure seams are matched and everything looks even. Come on, have you ever bought a pair of pants and one of the side seams twists to run down the front of the leg, instead of where it belongs? If you buy something like that it's a recipe for regret. It is for me. It's completely uncivilized that they pawn stuff like that on us poor gullible human beings. It's up to us to put a stop to it by DEMANDING quality goods. When I shop with my sister it falls to her to find cute things and to me to examine and compare and choose the best of the lot or size or whatever. Uh-oh, I'm gonna hear about this, just like hair. A NORMAL person just takes the first one and goes on their merry, (ignorantly) blissful way. Well, I picked out the very best sweater last night. Now it has to go back. It's going to be so embarrassing, but I HAVE to do it. And I need to do it soon because I don't want them to think I've been wearing the sweater for a week and then returning it. They'll think I ruined it, and I didn't, TRUST ME. This can only happen to me, because I'm so picky. You can't SEE the hole, but still, IT'S THERE. And who's to say it won't get worse? I will be interested to know how J. Jill handles this. Of course, if I WERE normal, I would pick the very first one and it would always be perfect because that would be poetic justice or something. I only find worms in my salad because I'm looking. People who don't look don't have worms. And if they do, they are none the wiser.
NOW. Now for the GREAT NEWS!!! Billy Foster is the proud new mayor of St. Petersburg. At lunch Mike and I discussed what might happen. I predicted, Billy Foster will win by 8 percentage points. This was a bold KEM declaration because the newspaper was insisting that the other candidate, whom I shall decline to mention by name and dispostion, was ahead in the polls by 5%. So, Billy won by 6%. KEM was close. And is VERY happy. Furthermore, I fully expect to wake up in the morning and read the final counts and Billy will have won by 8. I sincerely hope Billy's fabulous sister, Faye Ellen Foster, has come to town for the big celebration. You know about her if you have read one of my earliest blogs. I'm turning into a real pest, ain't I??
Well, that's all she wrote,
KEM
Monday, November 2, 2009
Tonight I was inspired to go get my free unmentionable from VS. Because it was the last day. Not that I should worry, as two more cards for two more free unmentionables arrived in the mail today. Still, who can pass up FREE? No matter how many you have accumulated at such an alarming pace, one for every day of the month, morning and evening . . . at least . . . they are definitely TAKING OVER THE WORLD. I think from now on I must stash away the new ones, with tags attached, for a women's shelter. For a long time, you know, you could only get bland white, beige, etc. But now you can get purty ones, so I got a purty one and now I don't want to stash it away. I want to keep it. I had to dig down in the drawer under the counter for my purty one, but I was rewarded. It's a light-ish background with irregular baby hearts stamped all over it. Okay, so why am I telling you all this?? Let's hope and pray no men are reading, except Mike, he doesn't count. Well, he COUNTS, you know what I mean.
I went to the fancy mall in Tampa so I could investigate J. Jill, a store I've never been in or ordered from, but that doesn't prevent them from mailing me a catalog every other day. Finally, the catalog said, SAVE $25 On Your Purchase At International Plaza. Well, I was curious because a few months ago I noticed this really great cardigan in the catalog. I mentioned it to CDW, and she said she loves J. Jill and furthermore she loves cardigans. She says cardigans are perfect to wear so you can shove up the sleeves and sit down and type on your computer. I thought that was very inspirational because sometimes I don't FEEL like sitting down and typing on my computer. So obviously if I had this cardigan with ribbed neck and sleeves, then I would always just run to the computer and type on it. But truly, I forgot about that sweater until the other day when there it was in the latest catalog, in the new winter colors. So, I wasn't about to forget about it again. Floridians NEED sweaters. Because all the businesses, especially restaurants, cater to the northerners and crank the air down to below freezing, you know, so the northerners can feel right at home (really, what's that all about??). So I and my thin, born and bred Florida blood walk into a restaurant and commence an evening of shivering misery in these ungodly frigid temperatures . . . if I don't have my toasty, trusty cardigan, that is. I had a friend once who got cold while we were eating and she opened her tiny purse and pulled out a tiny sweater that she had rolled up tinily in there. She held up the edge of the roll and it . . . unrolled. I thought it was hysterical. SHE knows all about the chill factor in Florida.
Well, anyway, I love shopping at night. No traffic, no crowds, no nothin'. This lovely young woman REALLY HELPED me. We decided the pale pink stuff which J. Jill is loving, which normally pink is the color for me, was looking like pajamas. I found a fabulous thin silk skirt on sale, but I looked like lumpy mashed potatoes in it. Thighs. I've had 'em since I was three years old in a bathing suit, pictures don't lie, unfortunately. No, this slinky skirt was for the young, smooth, toned and fabulous. We talked about new roofs, her granny had hers ripped off by a tornado, and that I was really a little old lady. She sang the praises of J. Jill's quality, These clothes won't be washed once and disintegrate. Good. Well, I ended up with an inky blue cardigan, just the one I wanted, ON SALE. Not much of a sale, but, still, ON SALE. Then, I bought a DRASTICALLY REDUCED pale blue chiffon kind of flowing dressy blouse. TOTALLY UNLIKE ME, I generally stick to T shirts, da plainah da bettah, but I decided to live a little. It fits JUST RIGHT. THEN. Then I saw something that slayed me dead right on the spot. It was a light-weight tweed jacket/coat. It was reduced but still plenty of moo-lah. I tried it on. Oh, boy. It fit like it was handtailored in Italy or somewhere just for me. And I didn't look lumpy in it. In fact, I looked fabulous in it. Well, I did. They only had one in my size left. It looked EXACTLY like what Audrey Hepburn would wear, no kidding. Very simple, very 1960ish. It is mid-thigh and has brown and blue woven together (hint, goes with blue chiffon blouse). There is a big button right under the collar (the rest of the buttons are hiding). The sleeves only come to the elbow. Really groovy. Well, suffice it to say, this is what Mike is giving me for Christmas. I KNOW I will wear it millions of times, it is so light and perfect and warm and cozy. See, then I opened a J. Jill credit card account, at the advice of my new friend, the sales girl. So I saved 20 additional %. I told the girl I shouldn't buy anything because . . ., but she said, You deserve it, and I said, You are SO RIGHT about that! And now J. Jill is my new favorite store. Not that that means very much, as I am not a shopper and rarely go to the mall, only thanks to VS for the free you-know-whats.
So, I was a totally bad girl tonight. Why is being bad so much fun? Except the part when you spot yourself in the full-length mirror in the dressing room, in just your VSs, which is even more alarming than, say, seeing yourself in thin silk skirt that reveals every crater and dip of your cellulite, which is like unto the moon's surface. Then you holler, TELL ME IT AIN'T SO, and sink into FDD, Full Delirious Denial.
When I checked Facebook tonight a friend "wonders if a person (herself, presumably) has too many things to do with a day off, will it mean nothing gets accomplished anyway, so the person should do nothing to start with...?" Someone, a guy, chimed in, IT'S ALL ABOUT MAKING YOURSELF A SCHEDULE AND STICKING TO IT! (Jeepers, Creepers!, KEM says, doesn't that sound just like a man?) So I chimed in, "Darlene, I would have to say that that is exactly what would happen to me, you're asking the wrong person :)" EVERY DAY I wake up wondering what Darlene wondered. DTD thinks I have EVERY day off since I don't work a 9 to 5 job. So this is all coming together and explains why I never get anything accomplished . . . because I have EVERY day off. I have to admit, if I worked at J. Jill, which I am now fantasizing about, then I would be on a shedule (isn't that how Mary Poppins says it?) and I would be forced to accomplish some things, like getting up and getting dressed and getting somewhere specific. Beyond that, is anyone's guess.
Well, I KNOW I need a shedule. I have even thought of making it a game, doing stuff in 1/2 hour increments. That would keep it lively enough, wouldn't it? A half hour is a mere one episode of Leave it to Beaver. It goes by FAST and it's gone and you're on to the new 1/2 hour. My mind can track for 30 minutes, surely, but that's about it. Doesn't this sound like fun? Changing your activity every quickie 1/2 hour? Honestly, I sound like a kindergartner. Listen, I know I'm not normal, a normal person wouldn't be writing a blog like this :o, now would she?
Well, really, I didn't have a thing to say tonight and wondered what on earth to mention. I mean, I have story ideas, but I didn't have the energy to convert the ideas to blank computer screen, which, by the way, is getting icier whiter every night. My eyes don't dig it. I mean, I didn't feel like writing a story, because just blabbing is much FASTER.
Okay, I might play my 1/2 hour game tomorrow. Except I have to go get a mammogram, see there's always something to arrest your plan before it can even wake up. Ha, ha, I was reading another Facebook friend's stuff and the discussion was Who is a Morning Person? (How does this stuff just fall into my lap, I'm telling you, little God gifts, this FB friend, someone I haven't heard from since boarding school days, is brand new as of today, and I read this, go figure.) One guy said his wife IS a morning person and her philosophy is if you sleep past sunrise you lose the day. Nothing like watching the sun rise or set, according to her. Well, I don't think I've found a day yet, then, in the last two decades. But Mike and I did go back to the beach the night after the wedding, we were so inspired, and watch the sun set, it was very life-giving. Jazzi LOVED scampering in the powdery white sand but she was afraid of the foamy waves. Jazzi made it tons of fun. Everyone who passed her smiled, whether they wanted to or not.
New Owner of Forbidden Fruit,
KEM
I went to the fancy mall in Tampa so I could investigate J. Jill, a store I've never been in or ordered from, but that doesn't prevent them from mailing me a catalog every other day. Finally, the catalog said, SAVE $25 On Your Purchase At International Plaza. Well, I was curious because a few months ago I noticed this really great cardigan in the catalog. I mentioned it to CDW, and she said she loves J. Jill and furthermore she loves cardigans. She says cardigans are perfect to wear so you can shove up the sleeves and sit down and type on your computer. I thought that was very inspirational because sometimes I don't FEEL like sitting down and typing on my computer. So obviously if I had this cardigan with ribbed neck and sleeves, then I would always just run to the computer and type on it. But truly, I forgot about that sweater until the other day when there it was in the latest catalog, in the new winter colors. So, I wasn't about to forget about it again. Floridians NEED sweaters. Because all the businesses, especially restaurants, cater to the northerners and crank the air down to below freezing, you know, so the northerners can feel right at home (really, what's that all about??). So I and my thin, born and bred Florida blood walk into a restaurant and commence an evening of shivering misery in these ungodly frigid temperatures . . . if I don't have my toasty, trusty cardigan, that is. I had a friend once who got cold while we were eating and she opened her tiny purse and pulled out a tiny sweater that she had rolled up tinily in there. She held up the edge of the roll and it . . . unrolled. I thought it was hysterical. SHE knows all about the chill factor in Florida.
Well, anyway, I love shopping at night. No traffic, no crowds, no nothin'. This lovely young woman REALLY HELPED me. We decided the pale pink stuff which J. Jill is loving, which normally pink is the color for me, was looking like pajamas. I found a fabulous thin silk skirt on sale, but I looked like lumpy mashed potatoes in it. Thighs. I've had 'em since I was three years old in a bathing suit, pictures don't lie, unfortunately. No, this slinky skirt was for the young, smooth, toned and fabulous. We talked about new roofs, her granny had hers ripped off by a tornado, and that I was really a little old lady. She sang the praises of J. Jill's quality, These clothes won't be washed once and disintegrate. Good. Well, I ended up with an inky blue cardigan, just the one I wanted, ON SALE. Not much of a sale, but, still, ON SALE. Then, I bought a DRASTICALLY REDUCED pale blue chiffon kind of flowing dressy blouse. TOTALLY UNLIKE ME, I generally stick to T shirts, da plainah da bettah, but I decided to live a little. It fits JUST RIGHT. THEN. Then I saw something that slayed me dead right on the spot. It was a light-weight tweed jacket/coat. It was reduced but still plenty of moo-lah. I tried it on. Oh, boy. It fit like it was handtailored in Italy or somewhere just for me. And I didn't look lumpy in it. In fact, I looked fabulous in it. Well, I did. They only had one in my size left. It looked EXACTLY like what Audrey Hepburn would wear, no kidding. Very simple, very 1960ish. It is mid-thigh and has brown and blue woven together (hint, goes with blue chiffon blouse). There is a big button right under the collar (the rest of the buttons are hiding). The sleeves only come to the elbow. Really groovy. Well, suffice it to say, this is what Mike is giving me for Christmas. I KNOW I will wear it millions of times, it is so light and perfect and warm and cozy. See, then I opened a J. Jill credit card account, at the advice of my new friend, the sales girl. So I saved 20 additional %. I told the girl I shouldn't buy anything because . . ., but she said, You deserve it, and I said, You are SO RIGHT about that! And now J. Jill is my new favorite store. Not that that means very much, as I am not a shopper and rarely go to the mall, only thanks to VS for the free you-know-whats.
So, I was a totally bad girl tonight. Why is being bad so much fun? Except the part when you spot yourself in the full-length mirror in the dressing room, in just your VSs, which is even more alarming than, say, seeing yourself in thin silk skirt that reveals every crater and dip of your cellulite, which is like unto the moon's surface. Then you holler, TELL ME IT AIN'T SO, and sink into FDD, Full Delirious Denial.
When I checked Facebook tonight a friend "wonders if a person (herself, presumably) has too many things to do with a day off, will it mean nothing gets accomplished anyway, so the person should do nothing to start with...?" Someone, a guy, chimed in, IT'S ALL ABOUT MAKING YOURSELF A SCHEDULE AND STICKING TO IT! (Jeepers, Creepers!, KEM says, doesn't that sound just like a man?) So I chimed in, "Darlene, I would have to say that that is exactly what would happen to me, you're asking the wrong person :)" EVERY DAY I wake up wondering what Darlene wondered. DTD thinks I have EVERY day off since I don't work a 9 to 5 job. So this is all coming together and explains why I never get anything accomplished . . . because I have EVERY day off. I have to admit, if I worked at J. Jill, which I am now fantasizing about, then I would be on a shedule (isn't that how Mary Poppins says it?) and I would be forced to accomplish some things, like getting up and getting dressed and getting somewhere specific. Beyond that, is anyone's guess.
Well, I KNOW I need a shedule. I have even thought of making it a game, doing stuff in 1/2 hour increments. That would keep it lively enough, wouldn't it? A half hour is a mere one episode of Leave it to Beaver. It goes by FAST and it's gone and you're on to the new 1/2 hour. My mind can track for 30 minutes, surely, but that's about it. Doesn't this sound like fun? Changing your activity every quickie 1/2 hour? Honestly, I sound like a kindergartner. Listen, I know I'm not normal, a normal person wouldn't be writing a blog like this :o, now would she?
Well, really, I didn't have a thing to say tonight and wondered what on earth to mention. I mean, I have story ideas, but I didn't have the energy to convert the ideas to blank computer screen, which, by the way, is getting icier whiter every night. My eyes don't dig it. I mean, I didn't feel like writing a story, because just blabbing is much FASTER.
Okay, I might play my 1/2 hour game tomorrow. Except I have to go get a mammogram, see there's always something to arrest your plan before it can even wake up. Ha, ha, I was reading another Facebook friend's stuff and the discussion was Who is a Morning Person? (How does this stuff just fall into my lap, I'm telling you, little God gifts, this FB friend, someone I haven't heard from since boarding school days, is brand new as of today, and I read this, go figure.) One guy said his wife IS a morning person and her philosophy is if you sleep past sunrise you lose the day. Nothing like watching the sun rise or set, according to her. Well, I don't think I've found a day yet, then, in the last two decades. But Mike and I did go back to the beach the night after the wedding, we were so inspired, and watch the sun set, it was very life-giving. Jazzi LOVED scampering in the powdery white sand but she was afraid of the foamy waves. Jazzi made it tons of fun. Everyone who passed her smiled, whether they wanted to or not.
New Owner of Forbidden Fruit,
KEM
Sunday, November 1, 2009
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