A Charmed Life

Through My Glasses, Dorkily

There used to be a time, back in the old days when I was young and nubile (read: not old and in possession of stretch marks), when the thought of being naked all morning was a good thing, and would lead to even more Good Things.  That era has passed.  Yesterday morning was indeed spent sans clothing, dripping wet and in various bodily contortions, but alas, I was alone, and the only thing I was trying to discover on my body was...my lost contact lens.

See, I have sort of a chip on my shoulder about my poor vision.  As I've mentioned in the past, I've been wearing glasses since the third grade (which unfortuntely intersected with my years of wearing orthopedic shoes).  My lenses are thick enough that I'm no longer allowed in the woods during fire season, lest an errant sunbeam spark a raging inferno.  As a result, the only glasses I own are more than six years old, and I wear primarily contact lenses.  However, I'm so cheezed off to have 20-700 vision in the first place (yes, your vision is just fine, you did read that correctly) that I cheap out and don't keep my prescription up-to-date and filled.  As a result, I'm constantly running out of lenses, and running into objects, whenever something happens to my very last pair.  

 

Which is the situation I found myself in yesterday.  I normally shower with my contacts already in, because I otherwise run the risk of flailing about blindly and wrapping myself into the shower curtain like a shroud.  However, little Ari, with her SuperPowers of Infection, had managed to poke me in the eye and give me yet another stye, so I decided to let the hot water treat it first and insert my lenses  afterwards.  Exit shower, spray curl stuff into hair, get out lens case, open right lens cap, and...FUMBLE.  Followed by "vamoose".  Naturally, I started out by searching the sink, then the countertop, then the floor.  Nada.  Next I checked every square inch of the towel I had wrapped around me.  Still nothing.  Had it perhaps fallen into my hair, which was at that moment drying into a crunchy, Jeri curl-like helmet around my head, not having had the benefit of being combed while it air-dried?  I leaned into the mirror to check, but with my it-only-works-for-tweezing-eyebrow-hairs super up-close nearsightedness, my nose bonked into the glass before I could tell if there was a contact lens clinging to my ringlets like dew on a shrub.  

 

With no luck on the sink, floor, countertop or hair, there was only one place left to check for the errant lens: my naked, shivering body.  They say "men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses", but let me tell you, if I could describe how I managed to twist mself to check every inch of my skin for that stupid contact, I'd have guys lined up three deep to buy me dinner.  Or maybe LASIK.  

 

Still nothing.  You always hear how hard it is to find a woman's G-spot, but I'll tell you one thing, my contact lens must be the smaller of the two.  (Frankly, I think I still made out pretty well on this deal, because I can *buy* contacts.  But I digress.)  So I repeated my search, over and over, to no avail, and all the while getting colder, more ticked-off, and oh yes, TRAPPED in the house, since my really old glasses are not sufficient to me to see well enough to drive in.  (They're just strong enough to enable me to find my contact lens case, provided I can find the glasses case in the first place.)  All told, I spent over an hour on my hands and knees in that bathroom, which is really not nearly as clean as I thought I'd kept it, once I got 2mm from the dirt on the floor.  I honestly don't know how I could have considered putting anything from that floor back into my eye, unless perhaps I was going to go for the "Buy one stye, get one free" look.

 

Finally, James got home, and for some reason didn't seem a bit fazed to find me looking like a cross between Roseanna Roseannadanna and Little RIchard (WHY??  Does my hair honestly look like this the rest of the time?), curls on end, tripping over the cats, and trying to to a web search for my optometrist with my nose tapping out the keystrokes.  He drove me to the optometrist's office, which I hadn't been to in over two years, where I implemented my Free Contact Lens Strategy.  Luckily, what I lack in vision I make up for with ingenuity and personal charm, so when the good doctor heard the words "I searched everywhere for that stupid lens, including underneath my breasts", she handed me a new one, no questions asked, despite my lack of current prescription.

 

I did learn my lesson, though, and had a new exam done today, and bought myself quite the pair of "sexy librarian" frames, to boot.  The optometrist started chuckling again as soon as she saw me, and I got another free pair of lenses, plus a bunch of samples.  The moral of this story?  Sometimes, it pays to make a spectacle of yourself ;)

 

Happy Weird Wednesday!

 

 

Whip Me, Beat Me, Make Me Use Canned Sauce

Last week, some time after coming up with the title of today's post, I made my first batch of homemade sauce in what seemed like forever, after months of relying on the inferior and/or disgusting canned interpretations that middle America is content to dump on their pasta.  Hey, when you're hungry, and you're lucky enough to live near a food bank, you eat what they give you.  However, *my* middle is not very American, apparently, and it's been squashing my little Sicilian soul to serve, much less consume, anything less than the sublime "sugo" that my dad taught me to make so many years ago. Canned sauce, to me, tastes like giving up.

It's been a rough ride, these last three years, since the last time this blog was updated regularly.  The adorable blonde moppet who appears so prominently in these pages is now a stunningly gorgeous first-grader, with golden braids nearly down to her waist.  Sephie is tanned, athletic and suprisingly muscular, mostly thanks to her dad, who's used his Time of Unfortunate UnderEmployment to teach her to hike, bike and swim. She's gone from being a late talker to being the sort of chatterbox suspected of having the ability to breathe through her ears.  That part is probably my genetic contribution, hard at work.  She's also an amazingly talented artist, although her flower pictures always seem to have a penis hidden somewhere in the blooms.  (I kid you not- as soon as I purchase a new computer to scan in her artwork, I will prove it!) Imagine Georgia O'Keefe if she'd worked for Disney, and you get the idea.

Dave, the ex-husband Formerly Known as Mr. Charming..is Dave. We split before our house in California sold, and managed to live together and sell it before moving to Colorado and THEN file for divorce.  The stress was unbelievable, of course- we did it the way we did because there was no way to calculate when our move was supposed to occur, and it made knowing whether we had to file with or without home ownership, and in what state, impossible.  However, by the time the divorce was finalized, we were good enough friends to go directly to brunch from the courthouse, and he was enough of a gentleman to treat, too.  We still drive each other nuts, but we're still friends, and staying that way. We trade recipes and funny YouTube videos, and I credit our friendship for how our daughter is turning out.  If and when Dave comes up in these pages, it'll just be as..Dave.  He's a straightforward kind of guy, so a lack of nickname seems more appropriate in this case.

 

Now onto the new cast of characters...enter "Cornell".  It's a nickname I called him in our early courtship, partly from envy of where he went to school, and partly because I have a deathly terror of being too mushy, even when I'm feeling mushy.  It seemed as good a blog alias as any, and I did ask his permission, first! I'll make this as brief as possible...we met, fell madly in love, he lost his job, I unexpectedly got pregnant, we got engaged, drove each other up the wall and down again, had a beautiful baby together, drove around those walls some more, and then had the most spectacularly awful breakup in my limited dating history.  We have a stunningly gorgeous 20 month-old daughter together, and we're trying to be friends again, for her sake, or maybe because if you ever truly loved someone, you'll at least always care about them.  If I'm still blogging 16 years and two months from now, I'll let you know how that part went.

And now I have another excuse to post Cute Baybee Pictures ad nauseam, again, at least when I get a decent computer again. Arianna, or Ari as she's usually called, was born on New Year's Eve of 2009, and has been a party animal ever since.  As in, on our most recent trip to Target, she patted her head in the lampshade aisle and said, "hat? HAT?!"  I can't make this stuff up, people.  Cornell's a very talented photographer, so the photos you'll be seeing of her in future will be a cut above (ok, several cuts above) the ones I took of baby Sephie.  Watermarked, too, since he does this on the side. If you're in the Denver/Boulder area and in need of a good photographer, feel free to hire him with confidence and thereby contribute to our daughter's college fund.)

 

Speaking of college fund..there is a character in the cast that I almost forgot to mention- Cornell's college-bound 16 year-old daughter. I don't have her permission to talk about her in my blog, so I won't, other than to say that I love the stuffing out of her, not the least for what a great big sister she was to both of my little girls.  In these pages, if I refer to her in passing, it will be with "BBS", for "Big BIG sissy", which is what I call her to Ari. 

 

And now last, but certainly not least, Da Moose. I can't take credit for that nickname, which is a moniker he received from an old girlfriend, which stands for "E. Norm Moose".  Get your minds out of the gutter, mine already lives there and is quite territorial ;) He's a retired Navy frogman and signalman, and has size 2X shoulders and knows how to use them.  Mostly for me sobbing on them, honestly, because I met him after my awful breakup that coincided with my father's passing.  I don't know why he's here (although, keep your eyes peeled for the mushy comment he's bound to leave even after I beg him not to), much less why he folds all my laundry into neat little rectangles (foreplay for a Virgo like myself) or makes me coffee every single morning.  It's probably my cooking, actually, since his job has him burning upwards of 4,000 calories a day.  In any case, he loves my girls, is best buds with Dave and gets along just fine with Cornell, and certainly seems to be completely content putting up with my nonsense, so...we got engaged last month. I'll feature Moose in his own post soon, since he more than deserves it :)

 

Back to the sauce.  Basically, I'm sick of the taste of giving up.  "Poor" does not mean "hopeless", "Un-wed Mother" does not mean "Candidate for Jerry Springer", and heartbroken does not mean broken beyond repair.  Yes, there are days, especially with my 40th birthday rapidly approaching, that I worry about not having such a charmed existence after all. Life lately has given me a fairly good whipping, but I've decided I'm too good to let it beat me. Next time it tries to bring me down, it's gettin' a face full of Ragoo, can and all.

 

Gotta work through the sad stuff before continuing on to happier things..next up, "Without a Song".

 

 

 

 

 

 

Home, Sweat, Home

Why am I writing this instead of soaking my tired muscles under a hot shower at this very moment? So that I can inform everyone reading this that please, for the love of pizza, if I ever try to relocate my belongs again (nobody say the "m" word, or imma jump off the balcony, and I live on the third floor now so that would smart some), you are to come over here and shoot me. Anyone who does not comply with this request will be pressed into service carrying ALL OF MY SHIT. Three days, 90+ degree temperatures, a pull-out couch, a stone kitchen table, and 15 hours straight of a migraine, and we're finally done, as of 9:30 PM. I think the last time I breathed or sweated this hard, I was having a great deal more fun! At least this place has A/C. Oh yeah..I've been living in a darling little 650 sq' Art Deco dollhouse since December. Great for a single Mama and her two baby girls, but not so big anymore when you add a Moose.. Oh yeah, again..not everyone knows who Da Moose is. Join us next time when I introduce the new cast members in "Whip Me, Beat Me, Make Me Use Canned Tomato Sauce".. 'Night all! P.S. To Wh-m It May Concern: thank You for my sweet, safe apartment all these months. It's been appreciated. P.P.S. Did you know, mosquitoes apparently like the taste of stress??

Time After Mime

Marcel Marceau died today at the age of 84.  A moment of silence, please.

Hair Today, Gone...Today?!

Cross your fingers for me!  After trying to grow my hair long for the past several years and ending up with nothing more than a fine frizzy snarl that only looks as long as it really is when it's soaking wet...I'm chopping it off.  I know, I know, I said "I want to grow old, I want to grow my hair long, I want to be Erma Bombeck".  Well, with the rate that cancer kills off the females in my family (at least on my mom's side), I'm not laying any bets on growing old anymore.  And like I said, the hair-growing project just isn't working for me anymore.  I'm getting the sense that the Universe would like me to  place all of my chips on just one bet, and frankly out of everything I want out of my life, I'll take a book or two with my name on the cover in lieu of anything else.  So, the picture of me on the inside back cover will have me in short hair ;)

Seriously, my hands are shaking just thinking about it...but I'm bored and tired and feeling old and ready for a change.  Which I will, of course, post later today, no matter how it turns out.  Truth in advertising and all that.  Here's hoping it doesn't turn out like the haircut Hobbes gave Calvin, because the one thing I refuse to wear is...a hat!  For everyone who didn't guess, that's the prop you'll never see me sporting again!

Enough procrastinating...see you later!

Later...

Before...

and after =)  I think it came out even cuter than the picture shows, so if I can get my photographer friend to take a better shot of me this afternoon I'll post that one.  I love it!  It looks just the same as it used to with my hair up, less the messy frizz and hair getting into my face.

Anyone want to trade some nice, gently-used barrettes for some more earrings?

Bar? None!

I am so utterly proud to announce that my youngest brother has passed the Florida Bar Exam and never, ever has to take it again!  It's been a very long and bumpy road for Bob, who went through a marriage, a divorce, and the illness and death of our mother, all while in law school.  He missed passing last year's bar by a @#$! four points and has been studying non-stop ever since, and it obviously paid off.  I couldn't be more overjoyed.

Somebody please tell me Mom knows about this.  I can't imagine that she doesn't.  And if anyone in the greater Orlando area needs an honest, upstanding attorney, shoot me an email, and I'll tell Bob to give you the Family discount ;)

Hope Gloats

Liar, liar, let's set all my "fat pants" on fire!  I realized today that I am once again "lying" about the weight on my driver's license...except, now I WEIGH LESS than it says I do.  In the words of Keanu Reeves, "Whoa".

I wonder if I should "lose" my driver's license.  Except that it's a pretty good picture of me.  With my luck, my new picture would make me look like Jay Leno like my first ever DL photo did.  I'll share that story sometime, so long as this "thin" thing keeps up!

It's a Girl! But, Not A Sissy Or Anything...

Your Brain is 80% Female, 20% Male

Your brain leans female You think with your heart, not your head Sweet and considerate, you are a giver But you're tough enough not to let anyone take advantage of you!

What Gender Is Your Brain?

Nightmare On My Street

The search for little Keithan Panyavong has ended.  This afternoon, his mother confessed to police that she had found him dead after overdosing him with medication for his fever, put his body in a garbage bag, and left it in a trash bin.  Police found the body this evening, in the 1600 block of Rock Springs Rd.

I don't even know what to say.  For my own part I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact the the trash bin in question is a quarter-mile from my house.  That mother had to drive directly past my street (our cross street is Rock Springs Rd.), with her dead little boy in a trash bag, past my house with my beautiful baby girl asleep in her crib like Keithan should have been, to deposit the corpse of her innocent child into the garbage can of some innocent family.  Who were probably worried sick like I was Sunday afternoon, listening to the helicopters overheard searching, and later on listening to the wind and rain and wondering how in the world a baby in his pajamas was going to make it through the night lost and alone.  It makes me want to vomit, especially when I think that tonight?  Is garbage night.  They might never have found him if she hadn't confessed when she did.

I know accidents can happen.  And it's beyond my worst nightmare to think of something not only happening to my own baby girl, but that it could happen to her due to some inattention or mistake on my part.  I think I would die of grief on the spot, or pray to.  All I can say is, I'm so sorry, Keithan.  I know you loved your mommy, and I'll pray for her, and give my baby extra kisses whenever I think of you.  Sleep well, little one.

Whiskers On Kittens

Serenity now!  Serenity now!  No?  How about now?  Please??

Well, at least I have a good reason for feeling under the weather the last few days.  I'd decided that I was tired of being on the anti-anxiety drug my doctor put me on while my mom was dying.  Nothing against using prescription antidepressants, but it had helped me all it could.  I'd talked to the doctor about it and while initially he said I didn't have to taper off the medication, since my dose was so low, he later suggested taking a half-dose for a week.  Well, I didn't feel like paying for a whole new bottle of pills, so I quit cold turkey.  Which is about how I feel, like a cold, dead turkey!  I'm nauseous, shaky, and have horrible nightmares. I woke up before dawn this morning because I screamed myself awake.

  Oh, well.  This is apparently normal and should clear up in a few more days.  Except that the stress is climbing this week...my Italian greyhound is going in for surgery for a large lump on his leg that we sure hope is a sebaceous cyst and not cancer.  And even better, a careless driver didn't see Dave on his motorcycle this afternoon and plowed into him from the side, sending him a** over teakettle.  He is fine, except for a small patch of minor road rash on his hip and a bruised foot, but the bike will need a new radiator and his helmet needs to be replaced. [Editor's Note: I've heard every possible motorcycle horror story, so no flaming, ok?]  I about lost it once I hung up the phone after getting that call.  The one time he wasn't wearing his special overpants, because he went to a job interview after work and didn't want to bother with carrying his gear, he gets hit, and while wearing dress pants to boot.  I got a little upset since he's always preaching (and to be fair, practicing what he preaches) about the importance of proper gear, and I felt that now that he's a dad, the risk that he took was unacceptable.  Then of course, I felt like a heel for getting angry when he could have been more seriously injured.  I'm sure when the story gets out among our friends and acquaintances, I'll be bombarded with everyone asking me why I don't ask him to give up motorcycling.  The answer is that it's Dave's very favorite thing, and I wouldn't be a decent friend, much less a wife, if I made him give up what he loved.  Besides, he'd probably then make me get rid of my cats!

So, in the spirit of making myself not feel "so bad" (as the song states), here are a few of my favorite things:

-Seph's hair when she first wakes up.
-the "murrph?" sound Angelo the Maine Coon makes when I call him.
-Pasta with homemade vodka sauce.
-Stand-up comedy.  I love to laugh even more than I love to eat!
-Long-nosed teddy bears.
-Dark chocolate with almonds.
-Bunches of daisies (I prefer them to roses).
-The smell of leather.
-Green eyes.  I thought about it and 8 out of 10 of my favorite friends have 'em.  The other two have brown eyes.  Weird, huh?  (OK, one of the friends is technically my ex sister-in-law, but she still counts as a best friend.  Family not included in the counting, or I'd have to add more.)
-Cashmere sweaters.  Not that I own one, or can afford to buy a good one, but I like to go to the department stores around the holidays and pet them =)
-Raccoons.  I read "Rascal" as a kid and always wanted my very own baby raccoon.  I used to collect them but lost most of mine during my divorce.
-Owls...don't remember why I started collecting them, but I have a great variety of them now.  And only my closest friends (and Dave!) are allowed to add to them so they're even more special.

OK, now I feel a little better.  Another most favorite thing is getting comments on my posts...so, if you lurk, or visit regularly, or even have come upon this blog by accident...how about saying hi and telling me about your favorite things??