Pass the Rum Gravy, Cabbage, and Rolls

Truth be told, I haven't had rum in several years. In fact, the last taste of rum was gifted to me by a very dear friend. I don't there will be any rolls either. It has just occurred to me that I forgot to buy them and unless there is something vital that seems to have been forgotten as well, dinner will go on without them.

No biggie.



Yes, there will be a dinner. Poultry, dressing (not stuffing in my corner of the universe) macaroni and cheese, cabbage (two ways--with meat and without) and . . . I know I'm forgetting something, can't put my finger on it...oh well, point is, food.

And drink. And . . well, and . . . just . .

Truth be told I'm not feeling particularly festive. I'm trying for daughter's sake but my heart really isn't in it. But, there will be food and if the cabbage (both ways) and the macaroni and cheese are any indication it will be good. Maybe not great, maybe not amazing, but good. Okay, very good.

Damn, the gooey, cheesy . . good. Must stop tasting.

Truth be told, while not feeling particularly festive I do recognize there is much for which thanks should be given. And so I do give thanks for my decent health, the good health of the actor and his sister, the comfort of loving pets, shelter, food (damn, the gooey, cheesy . .) drink, other family, friends particularly those who have experienced a recent turn of (woot woot) events allowing for a sense of safety, security, inching toward home,  warming me all over.

Yes, there will be a dinner, the menu changed (slightly) to minimize the onslaught of memories.And while not feeling particularly festive, I am thankful to be here to be able to share a meal with my son and my daughter and to have connections with people who bring me great comfort and joy.

Peace to you.

Too Long

It was my intent to be back long before now. But the last couple of weeks have been, in a word, crappy. Without going into an inordinate amount of detail, which is torturous for me, just so you know, I'll just say fifty-three year old women should not be having periods. Okay, maybe I shouldn't speak (or type) for ALL fifty-three year old women. But, for sure and for certain THIS fifty three-year old woman should most definitely, absolutely, positively NOT be having a period. Ever again. Please. Thank You. 

Yes, yes, I should be careful of what I ask for. I could be trading one painfully, inconvenient, uncomfortable, mind-numbing, aggravating event for another. Still, I ask. 

The hereafter never-mentioned-again period is not (in and of itself) the only cause for crappy feelings over the past couple of weeks. There were the usual subjects; frustrations at work, weather, commuting debacles, minor household upheavals, my hair, the impending holidays, grief, wardrobe malfunctions (fucking socks) . . . quite possibly all exacerbated by . . . yeah, that. 

Overall crappy feeling aside, there were some inspirational touches, some, "I'm grateful to be here in this time, in the place" moments, some, "let's forge ahead" attitudinal brio, if you will. This video was such a touch. It is long but if you have or find the time, it is worth it.  

Aging in general and my aging specifically has been front and center these past couple of weeks and not in such a kind way, thanks to the screaming muscles and achy joints, among other things. The Fabulous Fashionistas came into my time and space and just the right time an space. 

The physical aches and pains are still in residence and seem destined to visit for quite a while longer. On the flip-side, the emotional crappy is lifting. Some. 

No Skirts, No Glory

6. Black pencil skirt

Versatile, stylish and surprisingly flattering, no matter what your size. Wear it to the knee (or slightly shorter if worn with black tights), and make sure it has a little stretch and some draping but is not tight. Pair with black tights and booties, or patent-leather pumps for night. Don't wear a flat shoe, but a mid-heel or high-heel pump, wedge shoe or boots.

See Figure 1: 

figure 1

Line item number six of ten, women aged 50 plus should have in their closet according to some AARP column writer. Noted.

 . . . and that is where it ends. I had a reaction to the AARP column and this item (in my closet) in particular immediately upon reading it. I began this post but couldn't get past the above noted point in fashioning a proper post. So, it sat in the drafts folder for day. For weeks.

Because I don't like trashing (except for spam or spam-like emails) here it is, in all its unfinished, lack luster glory. I may figure out how to say what I think I want to say.

Or not.

P. B. and C.

The Boys - couple years ago*

The boys have decided that I am their new best friend. They have made it their mission to break into my bedroom at 30 minutes prior to the crack of dawn each day for the past week.

During the week, the workdays it isn't a humongous deal since I'm up pretty early anyway but I'd still like the option of not having two sacks of fur scratching and cat-body knocking on the door--causing the larger bundle of fur (Cinnamon) pretending to be asleep on the other side of said door--to whimper and pounce around, making it near impossible to ignore the scratching and cat-body knocking.

Again, during the work week, not a humongous deal, but on the weekends? Large. Deal. Larger? the weekend where I was to have gained an hour of . . . if not, sleep then certainly rest.

My Saturday and Sunday mornings are designed (in my head) to be lazy, hazy risings. No alarms. No alerts. Letting the day unfold somewhat organically. After a trip outdoors to allow the puppy dog to do her puppy dog business, all bundles of fur are fed while coffee is brewing or water (for tea) is boiling. After all are settled, a cup is poured, and . . .  

This weekend, in addition to the hour (earlier) scratching and cat-body knocking the boys has made it their mission to sack out on top of my bed most of the day. Now, again, not a humongous deal because of course, I love the boys and as they are relatively small cats (compared to the good sized dog) and were not in the way. They also didn't make a nuisance of themselves. Much.

The problem with the boys deciding to be my new best friend and wanting (needing) to spend so much time with me, next to me, is . . . Cinnamon. She is extremely excited to play with her personal radio control pets. She is mostly frustrated because they (normally) spend so much time on their higher perches and when they are not on higher ground, they are shielded against her ministrations by myself or daughter--mostly.

Now, as the boys have spent so much time on the floor, or bed, just nearer to Cinnamon, that it has been . . . let's us just say,  the opposite of lazy, hazy.

All that said, I'm happy that Cinnamon likes to play with the boys, that the boys recognize what she's doing as play and that their interactions are of a mostly friendly nature. My concern is that she is so much larger and heavier that she might injure them without meaning to do so. Or that they (especially Pete) might become less than pleased with her attention and strike out.

I feel, however,  they are all coming to a meeting of the fur minds and working out an arrangement that suits them all.

My interests don't seem to be part of the overall negotiations.

Though, I must say,the loss of lazy, hazy aside, it is pleasant having so much company.

Mostly.