that was weeks ago.

this morning the lid fell off and hit the 2 toes to the right of my big toe, leaving an immediate bruise and worse still, thwarting my plans for wearing my heeled boots that, when accompanied by dangly earrings, make me feel beautiful.

that was about two hours ago, and my toe is still throbbing, begging me to sit down and elevate it for at least the rest of today if not the week. but first: i’ve donned my walking shoes, loosely laced them up, and am heading to the store to buy a brand new, ordinary, everyday, one-roll-only toilet paper holder. the other one will be in the yard sale corner by lunch.

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his and hers

for litterbox duty, i have an entire wardrobe of sunday dresses:

• pretend i’m looking for buried treasure (without a map) (but then it’s a relatively small area to cover) as i poke around with the scoop.
• think how much better it will smell - how nice it will be to breathe. (this is one the dog won’t play along with because, for reasons i hope i never understand, the dog finds it aromatic.) (and i swear the cats torment me and entice the dog by not bothering to cover up some deposits.) (or maybe they’re just especially proud of those. who knows?)
• imagine i’m ridding my entire life of the stinky, undesirable messes caused by other people: just scooping them out, bagging ‘em, and tossing them in the garbage can to be hauled off way far away.
• and when in my more-calvinistic frame of being, nothing will work but to think about how good it’s going to feel to finish and check this off the list.

this morning ritual is quite the event for the cats, too, who magically appear to watch and lament, “you’re not getting rid of that, are you? it’s a part of me. oh, really. how could you?” [emphasis theirs] then, in one of the few bonding moments between them, one cat turns to the other and says “can you believe she’s throwing that away?”

once scooping is finished, i sweep around the litterbox. i have actually considered getting one of those small kiddie swimming pools to use as a litterbox in hopes of containing the litter spray. no matter how deep the litterbox, no matter how large the litterbox, those cats just flat out prefer the corners. (either that or i’m right: they have a sadistic streak.)

what about lidded litterboxes, you ask? forget about it. my cats won’t even think about using those. “too confining”, they say. or “it’s dark in there.” and the ever popular “i would NEVER” delivered in the i-am-a-cat-so-i-don’t-have-to-justify-this-to-you manner.

one cat even had the audacity to refuse to use the lidded litterbox on the grounds that he was actually helping me. seems he was operating under the grossly delusional idea that i needed something to do. (but now that i think about it, he could’ve been sincere. i mean, given that the only exercise my cats get is watching me work.)

once our daily family ritual is complete and everything put back in its place, the animals are worn slap out. the dog stretches out within 2 feet of wherever i am. and when she’s really tired, she stretches out on my feet so she can sleep soundly, assured that i can’t move without her knowing about it.

one cat (the black one) runs to claim his chair (the white one) (the only piece of light-colored furniture in the entire house, of course). the pastel tabby (i think they call it) retires to the bed where she contorts, preens, and sheds as much fur as possible.

all of them settle down eventually, resting up for another big day tomorrow.

and who says we don’t live lives right smack dab on the edge . . .

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first thing every morning

waterfalls, a reminder of how storms in other places can have far-reaching effects

colorful leaves, a reminder how it is possible for people of different backgrounds, ages, and experiences can come together beautifully

hungry butterflies, a reminder to see opportunities to feast in what might look like complete chaos

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nature’s sticky notes

and i need to cut that out - stop it - cause i tell you what: my field may be a touch on the overgrown side (some days more than others) and there may be the occasional fence that must be dealt with but that’s no reason to overlook, to slight, to ignore the outbursts of laughing daisies.

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self-seeding

today befuddlement has retreated, allowing pathways to possibilities . . . roads that deliver to blurry, indecipherable destinations but, hey, at least there’s an opening:

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openings

usually.

but this morning i’m pondering My Purpose In Life, and i declare: i wish somebody would just tell me. send me an email. give me a call. draw me a picture. i want to open up the mailbox to an envelope with the return address “your life”.

i don’t mind filling out a short questionnaire if that’ll help. what the heck: i’ll even commit to a double-sided questionnaire cause i’m feeling generous.

or desperate.

today’s search for MPIL has taken me to various blogs recommended by google, and really, they’re all saying the same thing but in different wordclothing . . . overcome your fears. be courageous. think positive. believe in yourself. abundance. attraction. development, as in the personal variety. that age-ole exercise keeps cropping-up: visualize your life as you want it to be.

and here, my friends, we arrive at our first roadblock: i’m just not real sure what i want my life to look like.

thinner, sure.

right now my hair is fine. (just got it done 2 days ago. a new gal did it, and she was fearless . . . which means she created a virtual masterpiece atop my head, if i do say so myself.)

more money would be nice, of course.

i sure would enjoy a few extra hours in each day.

you see part of the problem by now: specificity. or, more to the point, the lack thereof.

i’ve never been much of a quantifying kind of gal, but we all know that goals must be quantifiable to be of any good whatsoever. thinner: how much? more money: how much? and so on and so forth. at least that’s what They All tell us about goals.

pushing goals and familiar maxims aside, i tried writing a little ditty for my kids, something to convey what i consider to be The Most Important Things In Life. thought that might ignite or at lease enkindle something. but - you guessed it - i can’t begin cause i can’t think of one thing i consider to be All That Important.

i tried the ole’ write your own obituary/create your own tombstone exercise with the same result: i don’t know. i just don’t know.

is it hormones that have caused this way of thinking? do i have a untilnow-unrecognized problem with commitment? have i picked up a dreaded bad habit along the way? is my desk in the wrong place? do i need to dress like i’m working on Something Important, and if so, what shall i put on?

i USED to be able to do things like write a mission/purpose statement. i USED to be able to say This Is Important, Pay Attention. but somewhere along the way i kinda’ gave up such clear and specific ways of thinking in favor of . . . well, i guess it was just easier given all i had to think of/deal with/take care of. and apparently That Kind Of Thinking stuck.

so what’s a girl to do with this sort of invasive befuddlement?

sigh.

guess the only thing to do is sleep in my Miss Scarlett pajamas tonight and get up in the morning humming “fiddle-dee-dee” and “with god as my witness” and maybe even the occasional “oh, but i love you, rhett darling” as i make my way back to the computer, sit myself down, and see what comes out the ole’ fingertips.

now i’m going to take myself in there and watch the olympics because like miss scarlett: “i can’t think about that any more right now. if i do, i’ll go crazy. i’ll think about it tomorrow.” and hopefully, tomorrow the befuddlement of today will be a mere snippet of memory that gets added to the mix.

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MPIL or Bust

i did not inherit the cooking gene. (those who know me and read this blog are nodding their heads vigorously in agreement and shouting “we know, we know.”)

well, yesterday we needed to (a) use the potatoes that we couldn’t leave in the pantry when we head home and (b) test out the new vent hood (the one that will send the air OUTSIDE and AWAY instead of blowing it right back INTO the kitchen where it was to start with) mr. thrillenity had just installed (as evidenced by the dusty fingerprints):

being a two-birder from way back, i peeled those potatoes, floured them, and fried them just the way i’ve seen mother do so many times before . . . and i do mean JUST the way i’ve seen her do so many times before.

creativity can be messy - we all know that - and so can cooking, especially for those who, like my mother, approach cooking with reverence and as a creative act. me, i tend to focus more on keeping things neat to reduce the amount of time and effort needed to clean-up afterwards. i try not to make a mess, cleaning-up as i go. cooking is something i HAVE to do.

but not yesterday.

the plan was to cook just like mother does, and i stuck to the plan, without regard for future clean-up. without regard for losing cooking oil or flour. i cooked like i had an entire staff of cleaner-uppers who would take care of everything when i was finished. i flat-out cut loose, stayed in the moment while cooking those potatoes, and not only did i thoroughly enjoy cooking (most likely a first for me), we all enjoyed The Best Potatoes Ever. (except for the ones mother cooks, of course.)

so am i a cooking convert? will i work menus and grocery shopping forays into my weekly schedule? will i don my apron and cook happily ever after? nah. i’m over it now.

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delicious creativity

but right this very, i find myself thinking about how 35 years ago we didn’t have computers that facilitated conversations like this. we had newspapers, but not everybody could pen and publish an article a day, sending it out into the consciousness of who knows who. we had magazines, but that didn’t exactly allow one to write an in-the-moment article, deadlines being what they are and all.

i have just, at the urging of slug, set myself up on twitter. i never had an interest in myspace, preferring to spend the time feathering my physical nest over an online nest. i did set up a facebook account once . . . then deleted it in less than 24 hours.

see, i tend to be a private person. in my family that surely has threads of italian and greek somewhere (i suppose i’m getting close to the age where i’m supposed to research such things, but honestly, i’m hoping a cousin will take up an interest and make copies), i am a veritable recluse. blogs are much more my speed: write it, hit send, then go on about my business. myspace and facebook overwhelm me. (involuntary shudder occurs.)

twitter is designed to send out periodic updates throughout the day about where you are and what you’re doing. i harbor no illusions that anybody really CARES about what i’m doing, thinking, saying, seeing, smelling, sensing, traveling, etc., but in the scant 2 days i’ve been a registered password-carrying tweeter, it holds a rather romantic appeal for me: sending tweets - even thinking about tweeting - grounds me. keeps me conscious, anchors me in the present . . . even if only 140 characters’ worth.

and while i haven’t found anybody other than my son to “follow” (another involuntary shudder occurs, but for reasons i won’t go into right here, right now), i imagine that twitter could be a digital representation of collective consciousness - perhaps even jung’s collective unconscious. reading tweets could digitally track tipping points, a term made popular by malcolm gladwell. a theory i’ve long believed in and actually witnessed a few times.

i’m sure there are other potential uses: tracking someone; throwing someone off track; marketing . . . the list is long. but for now, i’m all wrapped up in my selfishly romantic notion of twittering as a way of slowing down and paying closer attention as i romp through the next 35 years. if you’re interested (or even just remotely curious), you can find me here. and if you decide to twitter, be sure to let me know so i can pay closer attention to what you’re paying closer attention to.

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togetherness . . . in oh so many ways

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no lions and tigers, though

i worked within the “limits” of the trip, changed the camera settings, and snapped from the passenger’s side rolled-down window. lots of wide open gorgeous spaces between california and colorado. plenty of room to think and breathe and realign life to nature . . .

every now ‘n then it’s good to just let go, grow wild, and see what pops up:

sometimes we have to balance important things like restraint and romp; think and feel; up and out; grow and stay . . .

but always, always we remember that occasionally we wind up with the most fodderful surprises when we forget about the rules and take the shot anyway . . .

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from the side of the road