Winter Whining

I've had it with winter weather. Have you?


The past six or seven days have offered a preview of what Mother Nature has in store and I am ready!

• The night-time temperatures are high enough to prevent condensation from forming on the windows, then melting and, ultimately, dripping onto our window sills.
  
• I can actually get a vehicle washed and it stays clean.
  
• My SO and I have taken early-morning walks several days running now and it feels so good to be walking out-of-doors and giving the treadmill a well-deserved rest.
  
• Soup season is coming to an end, and, while I love creating 'scratch' soups, I am ready to take a break from the soup pot.

There is one thing I certainly will not miss! The cracks that come in my fingers from a combination of lack of moisturizer, the dry/cold air, and dried-out skin. These cracks can form in an instant and they are very challenging to close. Our household remedy is to use a form of 'liquid skin'. We've used so much of it this winter that I should recommend buying company stock to all of our friends. While 'liquid skin' is effective in healing these cracks, it stings like the dickens. While we are applying it, we try to 'open' the crack as wide as it can be opened, in order to get as much of the body-super-glue as possible into the crack. This usually results in hopping up and down, vigorously shaking the involved hand, or, in my case, saying my favorite word.

Yesterday, as if the giant crack on my thumb wasn't enough, I managed to get a paper cut as I was impatiently opening a letter. This paper cut is on the backside of a finger, right at the knuckle crease, which means that the cut is constantly being 'exercised'. I tried body-super-glue.......to no avail.....which only adds to my winter whining.

As I sit typing this posting, I am a perfect example of why winter should conclude....and quickly. I have body-super-glue on a thumb, a cumbersome and annoying band-aid covering the paper cut, and mole-skin on my foot, where my running shoes created a blister.

The funny-yet-sad fact is.....these are all just minor irritants and I know it!

Spring........where art thou?

Ancora imparo

Different Strokes For Different Folks

Remember the old adage, "different strokes for different folks"? That concept is playing out right before my very eyes.

Regular readers may recall that I blogged earlier about my SO and I 'working' a jigsaw puzzle together. We've been at this now for almost a week. The puzzle is Christmas-themed, with lots of reds from Santa's clothes, a ton of differing browns from Santa's giant knapsack, devilishly difficult braided rug multi-colored pieces, and an over-abundance of evergreen boughs and tree decorations - just to name a few of the challenges presented in this Sprinkbok puzzle. We are about two-thirds done with the puzzle and I can say that it has been relaxing, fun and very interesting.

While this has, for the most part, been an act of marital bonding, a few chinks in the matrimonial armor have occurred and, in the interest of the Freedom of Information Act, I'd like to present my side of the story.......FIRST.

We are working at a fairly large dining room table which has been perfect to lay out the pieces on, with plenty of room to work. Almost from the first night, we sort of, accidentally, settled into 'our chairs', with each of us returning to the same spot each time. It turns out that the lighting above the table problematically produces more glare from one angle (his) than the other (mine). "So", I helpfully suggested, "Get your sunglasses." Not good.

We have also discovered that we have differing working styles. (Why this should come as a surprise to anyone who knows us is a complete surprise to me.) He is very methodical in his approach and will spend.....in my humble opinion.....an inordinate amount of time looking for ONE piece. He is doggedly determined to ferret out this ONE piece and does so with an amazing amount of 'sticktuitiveness'. Unfortunately for me, after he has searched for the inordinate amount of time that I described, a conspiracy theory begins to formulate in his brilliant mind and he becomes convinced that I am either hiding this ONE puzzle piece, it has fallen on the floor and been kicked far away, or that the piece is missing and was never included in the box in the first place. A defective puzzle.

In fairness, I must tell you that he always finds his ONE puzzle piece.

I, on the other hand, seem to put a puzzle together via the shotgun approach. It is not unusual for me to have six or seven puzzle 'substations' going at one time. My mind has this need to accumulate pieces that, say, obviously go in the poinsettia section of the picture. I'll futz around with those, assembling as many as I can as rapidly as I can, then I move on to another section of the puzzle, let's say the doll in Santa's knapsack. And so it goes. I'm currently juggling sections of rug, knapsack, Santa's suit, poinsettia, and Santa's boots. I guess that we are like the tortoise and the hare, although I'm pretty sure that his slow-but-sure method results in his having completed more of the puzzle than I.

This style difference is also evident in interior painting and fishing. He can fish one hole all day long. Me? If the fish haven't bitten rabidly within the first fifteen minutes, I'm ready to move. When that doesn't happen, I get out my book and suntan lotion. The interior house painting I won't even begin to describe.

Different strokes for different folks. At least we are not boring.

Ancora imparo

Yo Momma, Too?

During a recent conversation among friends, we shared a laugh - actually quite a few - thinking about all of the wisdom our mothers had passed along to us. We decided to call them 'momisms'. You know, all of those little tips that moms universally seem to share, such as "always wear clean underwear because.........". All of us realized that, even at our ages, which ranged between fifty and probably early seventies, we still could hear our mothers' voices ringing clearly in our heads at various times. We realized that we never knew when a 'momism' would pop into our consciousness but that they did, on a regular basis.

One woman said that even though she would never think of leaving her house without every article of clothing changed from the previous day (get my drift?) her mother's voice was with her every morning as she dressed, exhorting her to "Put on clean undergarments!" Other exhortations the women remembered included "Be sure to walk with the sharp end of the scissors pointed down."; "Don't sit too close to the television. You'll go blind."; "Never cross your eyes. They'll stay that way."

I've tried to think of 'momisms' that I have shared with my own children but none come to mind. Of course, if I were to ask them, which I think I will, they would probably have a long list. I wonder if the 'momisms' have changed much through the generations? Obviously, the television's invention added a 'momism' that would have not been in existance prior to the boob-tube's entrance onto the American family's stage and, I'm certain that future generations will have 'momisms' that develop from inventions that we have never heard of. Something like, "Don't point that ray gun at Fluffy. He'll disappear!"

I hope that future Fluffys and Fidos live safe and lengthy lives. Who knows what legacies we moms have passed along to our children or future mothers will pass along to theirs?

Probably the most memorable 'momism' I carry with me to date has saved me from many a problematic moment:

"Don't eat yellow snow!" You shouldn't, either.

Ancora imparo

The Short End of the Stick

Needing to give equal time to an opposing thought, I'm dedicating this posting to short people everywhere........including myself.

Yesterday's posting dealt with the negative side of being 'vertically challenged' and I have spent a good deal of time, since, mulling in my mind why being short is a positive physical attribute. I'm sorry to say that my talking points are few in number and limited in scope.

Here's what I've come up with:

• I buy less fabric at the fabric store.
  
• It is easier for me to play hide n' seek with my grandchildren.
• I usually miss all of the overhanging tree limbs.
  
• I can find food faster in the refrigerator because it is at eye level.
• I can use shorter kayaks, skis, and dinghies.
• The bed sheets on a full-size bed fit over my head.
• When cheerleading, the shortest person usually ends up on top of the pyramid.
  

That was it. I'm embarrassed, though, to admit that I thought of even more reasons why being shorter is more vexing than being taller. Going to a theatre or attending a live performance usually results in seeing very little of the action on the screen or stage because, invariably, some taller (not too hard to imagine) person(s) sits directly in front of me. In fact, I think that taller people are automatically drawn to sitting in front of shorter people. Do we have neon signs above our heads?

My final protestation is that when traveling in a car with more than two passengers, the shorter person almost always ends up (albeit voluntarily) in the back seat so that the one with the longer legs, in front, can feel free to push the seat ALL the way back, thereby easing that person's discomfort. Hmmm.

I'm not bitter.......it is just that I had to wait until I was thirty-one years old to be tall enough to ride the attractions at Walt Disney World and Epcot Center. Until then, my taller friends just patted me on my head and said, "Don't worry. You'll grow someday." I did, but now as I age, my spine is compacting and I'm regressing, height-wise. Give me a few more years and I'll be four feet tall.

Argh!

Ancora imparo

Word Shortage? No Way!

I'm short. Sometimes my vertical status matches my temperament and my supply of common sense as well. Short people have been the brunt of jokes for centuries. I know Napoleon Bonaparte was short in stature and, I believe that Nero might have been also. Short people are frequent joke topics for stand-up comics, although perhaps less so since our society became so litigious. There is a famous song about short people, even entitled "Short People". The bi-line on this song is: "Short people got no reason to live." I have a tall friend who is always teasing me, saying, "Stand up."

I don't think there is a segment of our economy that understands nor properly targets 'short people'. The furniture industry certainly does not employ a single short person on any staff. As every vertically-challenged person can tell you or demonstrate, sofas and chairs are routinely designed with taller people in mind. If I sit down on ninety-five percent of furniture made today and attempt to place my feel flat on the floor, my rear-end will have slid a good six to ten inches forward - away from where the back meets the seat. If I place my rear-end up against where the back meets the seat, my legs will be in a perfect horizontal position with the floor. I look like Lily Tomlin's character "Edith Ann" when she sat in the giant rocking chair.

Grocery stores are not made for short people, either. I routinely have to climb on lower shelves or ask a taller person for assistance in order to reach an item on a top shelf. I'm still pretty good at jumping to grab a top-shelf item if it is even with the edge, but if the item has been shoved back from the edge of the shelf, forget it.

The automotive industry doesn't even recognize that short people exist. In order to comfortably reach the gas or brake pedals, I must position my driver's seat so close to the steering wheel that if my air bag ever inflates, I'm toast.

What started me on my tirade this morning was an advertisement for 'petite-wear' from a national clothing store. The garment industry must think that the only people who purchase clothing are at least five feet, seven inches tall and weigh one hundred and ten pounds or less. Even in petite lines, sleeve lengths can be ludicrously long and pant or skirt lengths can be laughingly disproportionate, too. The flyer I received featured models supposedly wearing petite-sized clothing with prints so large, a beached whale would look small in comparison.

So, to all the tall humans reading this that have the audacity to feel self-conscious about their height, whinest not, I say unto you.
I'm thankful that you are taller than I for you will be the one that I approach at the supermarket and say, "Pardon me. May I borrow your height for a moment?"

Tomorrow I'll blog about the benefits of being short. Until then, my thoughts will be in short supply.

Ancora imparo

Very Puzzling

It happened. Yesterday, I succumbed to the call of the unopened cardboard in our storeroom and opened a jigsaw puzzle box, unleashing the mystery known to others as 'puzzling'. During my earlier married years - BK (before kids) - I was an avid puzzler and several of our 'early married, shabby-style (no chic for us) pieces of artwork(?) on the walls were puzzles that I had completed, decoupaged (there's a seventies word), framed and hung. The framed puzzles matched perfectly with the style of furnishings throughout wherever we called home - apartments, duplexes, townhouses, and, finally, our first house that we built. My 'puzzling' career came abruptly to a self-decreed end when I knew I had to choose between the safety of our then three-year old daughter or the puzzle I was currently working on. The puzzle was a solid red circle, dubbed "Little Red Riding Hood's Hood". Each 'connection' took me about an hour and I had roughly fifteen pieces in place when our toddler-daughter became curious and rearranged the fledgling puzzle. After a milli-second of decision making, I collected the pieces and later gave the puzzle away. During our kids' later years, puzzles reappeared and family members would take turns at the puzzle table, each spying a hard-to-find piece, until it was assembled in total.

My choice, last night, was a Santa Claus-themed puzzle I selected because of the vibrant colors that I knew would be both vexing and challenging - just what my mind needed. The thousand-piece puzzle took a long time for me to lay out, the majority of the pieces needing to be turned over and I wanted to arrange them by either border-style or color family. After my back tired from three hours of bending over, I left the table and my SO took over. Later, in the middle of the night when events awakened us for about forty-five minutes, what did we do? We both ended up circling the puzzle table, gleefully proclaiming each connection that we made. Finally, common sense overcame our puzzle addiction and we returned to bed.

This morning, as we groggily stumbled from under the warmth of the covers, my SO and I looked at each other, laughed and just shook our heads. Our behaviors have long puzzled others, and now we, too, are 'puzzled'.

Ancora imparo

Scattered Thoughts

Today my brain's functioning reminds me of the scattered approach that NBC had to the coverage of the Olympics. I really enjoyed watching the Olympics, from time to time depending on the sport, but the shotgun approach selected in the control room only served to motivate me to channel surf at every opportunity. Constantly switching from sporting venue to sporting venue reminded me of what it would be like to be inside the brain of the brilliant Robin Williams on steroids.

I tried to bring my brain waves into some kind of focus, attempting to weed out the ancillary paths and divine those thoughts that would actually lead to some accomplishments this day. As this posting is being composed, this goal seems unlikely because my thoughts feel like a thousand hot air (pun intended) balloons that were just accidentally untethered with no operators in the gondolas. I'm banking on caffeinated coffee and, if that is ineffective, then a good pounding on the treadmill ought to help a little.

So where is my head?

Well, it is the first day of March and that feels really good. Daylight hours are increasing - although the government will soon take care of that, winter-weather days are truly numbered now, warmer temperatures may eliminate most of the accumulated snow in my neighborhood by the end of this week, and I should be able to walk outside soon without concern for 'black ice' spots.

That is where my 'head' is. My heart is in two places. TLV got a finger caught in the hinge side of a door yesterday and will, hopefully, see a hand surgeon today. My granny-instincts would like to have a hands-on experience but, fortunately his OG (other granny) can be with him today and he will be in the hands of many people who love him and will take good care of him. OG will be his granny-angel and I am thankful for that.

Another person, with whom I am very close, is experiencing heart-achingly difficult times right now and my ingrained instinct is to want to fix 'everything' but that is not possible, nor would it be in anyone's best interest. Watching someone you love experience pain, whether it be TLV's physical pain or my loved-one's pain of the heart, is gut-wrenchingly hard.

This is where prayer and the treadmill come in. Praying whilst pounding. Sounds like the best combination to me for now. If it brings any clarity of contemplation, you'll be the first to know.

Ancora imparo