Organic Enchanted Mushroom dark chocolate and Lone Canary Bird House red wine
(GL, 8/18/2009. Prevail.)
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
August 12, 2009, journal entry
August 12, 2009, five miles.
Luckily, I did not have to awaken at 3:30 in the morning to become beautifully rain-drenched as I now am.
I have just come inside at eight this evening, after feeling the thick stream-lets of rain pummel the ground and me in a magnificent late summer/precursor-to-fall warm storm that the farmgirl in me could smell was coming. My intimate friends and Goddesses know it is not uncommon for me to lie down in the green, green grass during a strong rain, no matter the time of day. There is just something about a summer rain that rustles the maple trees like cresting ocean waves, silences the summer insects that, in the morning, sound like the clicking spokes of a ten-speed bicycle, and quiets the birds’ song voices at the beginning of the storm though they quickly resume their hymn at its ending.
~
But the moths and the butterflies. I still wonder alongside my foxing copy of the children’s book, “Where Do the Butterflies Go when It Rains?” (May Garelick, 1961).
“As soon as the rain
stops raining so hard,
I’ll go quietly up to a tree.
And maybe I’ll find
a bird in that tree,
and I’ll see
what it does in the rain.
Maybe I’ll find
a butterfly, too.
Then I’ll know what IT does
when it rains.
But where can I look?
I’ve never seen a butterfly out in the rain.
Have you?”
~
Of course, my sons diligently ask me every time thunder burns and lightening blinds in the same way they remind me every morning to sunscreen my moth tattoo, “Mom, are ya gonna go out and lay in the rain again?”
~
I awoke early, my GrUBB (Grown Up BlackBerry) alarm chiming at five this morning. Time marches on, and the sun doesn’t peer over the horizon at this time like she did just a few weeks earlier, the days shortening, no longer long-limbed and stretching late into the evening. Coffee in hand, I debate an extra shirt for surely it must be cooler at this pre-autumn hour, its dark clouds threatening rain.
~
I don’t know how I will experience fall this year. Fall has been my favorite season thus far in Eastern Washington with her vibrant colors of gold, eggplant purple, deep forest green, crimson, chocolate brown, and burnt sienna, but this summer, I have experienced such a spectrum of emotions and meanings that I have attached to the varieties of lupine and lavender, ladybugs and ants, coyote and deer, sparrows and robins, beginnings and endings, gain and loss, that I am not sure how the transition of fall will feel.
~
But time steadily marches on. And although yesterday’s temperatures were in the 80’s and today’s in the 70’s, I didn’t feel the need to turn on the air conditioning in my rental car that needed the fresh air to rid its odor of a newly non-smoking motel room with cigarette smoke still trapped in its curtains.
~
The light also lays differently than it did just a week before, and I did notice acorns on the ground in New York City’s Central Park last week, acorns that to me are signs of good luck, plentiful enough to share with squirrels in their bounty. I expect in a few weeks, the rows of oak trees the boys and I counted earlier will begin to drop their acorns, the sounds of sizzling bacon surely awakening my stomach amid my right-brained half-marathon training. There will be so many from the 60-plus trees that I am sure that the squirrels won’t begrudge my collecting a few small bagfuls which I will place in clear-glass vases with pinecones and chestnuts, leaves and feathers, and put in my office as sculptures of found objects, which I do every year.
~
So, to prevail, I decide I MUST embrace the coming changing colors. Just as I experience the range of colorful emotions of the human condition, from happiness, joy, and laughter that well up like the bloom of insects in grasses upon each footstep, to their trusted and steady companions of sadness, grief, and sobs that burn hard from throat to chest.
And while I became drenched this evening, I thought how perfect it felt that at 5:30 this morning, when I went out on my right-brained run, after just 10 minutes, sure enough, I became drenched in a beautiful shower of streamlets. Just me and the raindrops.
(Although I am sure that the birds, butterflies, and moths were nearby, informing me that with this new season coming, I definitely will prevail.)
(LL, 8/12/2009. Prevail.)
Luckily, I did not have to awaken at 3:30 in the morning to become beautifully rain-drenched as I now am.
I have just come inside at eight this evening, after feeling the thick stream-lets of rain pummel the ground and me in a magnificent late summer/precursor-to-fall warm storm that the farmgirl in me could smell was coming. My intimate friends and Goddesses know it is not uncommon for me to lie down in the green, green grass during a strong rain, no matter the time of day. There is just something about a summer rain that rustles the maple trees like cresting ocean waves, silences the summer insects that, in the morning, sound like the clicking spokes of a ten-speed bicycle, and quiets the birds’ song voices at the beginning of the storm though they quickly resume their hymn at its ending.
~
But the moths and the butterflies. I still wonder alongside my foxing copy of the children’s book, “Where Do the Butterflies Go when It Rains?” (May Garelick, 1961).
“As soon as the rain
stops raining so hard,
I’ll go quietly up to a tree.
And maybe I’ll find
a bird in that tree,
and I’ll see
what it does in the rain.
Maybe I’ll find
a butterfly, too.
Then I’ll know what IT does
when it rains.
But where can I look?
I’ve never seen a butterfly out in the rain.
Have you?”
~
Of course, my sons diligently ask me every time thunder burns and lightening blinds in the same way they remind me every morning to sunscreen my moth tattoo, “Mom, are ya gonna go out and lay in the rain again?”
~
I awoke early, my GrUBB (Grown Up BlackBerry) alarm chiming at five this morning. Time marches on, and the sun doesn’t peer over the horizon at this time like she did just a few weeks earlier, the days shortening, no longer long-limbed and stretching late into the evening. Coffee in hand, I debate an extra shirt for surely it must be cooler at this pre-autumn hour, its dark clouds threatening rain.
~
I don’t know how I will experience fall this year. Fall has been my favorite season thus far in Eastern Washington with her vibrant colors of gold, eggplant purple, deep forest green, crimson, chocolate brown, and burnt sienna, but this summer, I have experienced such a spectrum of emotions and meanings that I have attached to the varieties of lupine and lavender, ladybugs and ants, coyote and deer, sparrows and robins, beginnings and endings, gain and loss, that I am not sure how the transition of fall will feel.
~
But time steadily marches on. And although yesterday’s temperatures were in the 80’s and today’s in the 70’s, I didn’t feel the need to turn on the air conditioning in my rental car that needed the fresh air to rid its odor of a newly non-smoking motel room with cigarette smoke still trapped in its curtains.
~
The light also lays differently than it did just a week before, and I did notice acorns on the ground in New York City’s Central Park last week, acorns that to me are signs of good luck, plentiful enough to share with squirrels in their bounty. I expect in a few weeks, the rows of oak trees the boys and I counted earlier will begin to drop their acorns, the sounds of sizzling bacon surely awakening my stomach amid my right-brained half-marathon training. There will be so many from the 60-plus trees that I am sure that the squirrels won’t begrudge my collecting a few small bagfuls which I will place in clear-glass vases with pinecones and chestnuts, leaves and feathers, and put in my office as sculptures of found objects, which I do every year.
~
So, to prevail, I decide I MUST embrace the coming changing colors. Just as I experience the range of colorful emotions of the human condition, from happiness, joy, and laughter that well up like the bloom of insects in grasses upon each footstep, to their trusted and steady companions of sadness, grief, and sobs that burn hard from throat to chest.
And while I became drenched this evening, I thought how perfect it felt that at 5:30 this morning, when I went out on my right-brained run, after just 10 minutes, sure enough, I became drenched in a beautiful shower of streamlets. Just me and the raindrops.
(Although I am sure that the birds, butterflies, and moths were nearby, informing me that with this new season coming, I definitely will prevail.)
(LL, 8/12/2009. Prevail.)
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Two Rituals of Forbearance
Ritual #1
Step 1: Place part of your index finger in your mouth up to the second joint, your palm facing outward, away from your face.
Step 2: Wrap your lips around your finger, making a firm seal allowing no air to escape; otherwise, you won’t be able to make the popping sound.
Step 3: Create a little suction in your mouth as though you are sucking on a straw. The breaking of the suction when you move your finger is the force that creates the popping sound.
Step 4: Quickly flip your finger outward toward your cheek. Let your finger slide along the inside your cheek and out your mouth.
Step 5: Let your finger break the seal you have created with your lips as your finger pops out your mouth. This will create a popping noise.
Step 6: Practice and repeat steps 1 through 5 until you have the motion down and can make the sound consistently.
This is the sound that resounded from my belly when my water broke with my first son 12 years ago today.
Ritual #2
Stand, my Son.
Know where North is and face it with confidence. I’m not speaking about thinking of confidence: I am talking about BECOMING confidence. May its cool breezes clear your mind, calm your spirit, present grace to you which you accept and offer to others.
May the fires of the South be welcome to ignite your passions and your will to persevere and to live, to continue to move forward in light through challenges that are certain to ebb and flow continuously in life.
May you lean into the Sunrise of the East as it greets you with the promises of a GOOD MORNING, a good morning that endures the entire day. Despite midday interruption, may you turn to yourself, reminding yourself that your GOOD MORNING can begin yet again in the afternoon sun and cloud.
And may the Sunset of the West give you comfort and restoration that allow you to stand in TRUTH. Within you is the energy, the ability you seek to find your pace, that JUST RIGHT pace that’s not too swift, yet not sluggish.
Breathe.
Breathe so you can feel the air run the full length, the full course of your lungs, from top to bottom. Breathe and know that no matter what comes your way, you shall still be centered. Should a force cut you in half, leaving you but a shadow of your old physical self, you shall still stand. Should a wind try to blow you down, you will bow to it and honor it, but you shall not break. Should acidity try to demolish your foundation, you shall, like the banyan tree, send new roots like sentinels, anchoring you once again. You will prevail. May you stand just a little taller today for this is your time and your space for forbearance.
My Son. You will prevail.
I love you.
May you have a blessed birthday.
(Goddess Mama, 8/2/2009.)
Step 1: Place part of your index finger in your mouth up to the second joint, your palm facing outward, away from your face.
Step 2: Wrap your lips around your finger, making a firm seal allowing no air to escape; otherwise, you won’t be able to make the popping sound.
Step 3: Create a little suction in your mouth as though you are sucking on a straw. The breaking of the suction when you move your finger is the force that creates the popping sound.
Step 4: Quickly flip your finger outward toward your cheek. Let your finger slide along the inside your cheek and out your mouth.
Step 5: Let your finger break the seal you have created with your lips as your finger pops out your mouth. This will create a popping noise.
Step 6: Practice and repeat steps 1 through 5 until you have the motion down and can make the sound consistently.
This is the sound that resounded from my belly when my water broke with my first son 12 years ago today.
Ritual #2
Stand, my Son.
Know where North is and face it with confidence. I’m not speaking about thinking of confidence: I am talking about BECOMING confidence. May its cool breezes clear your mind, calm your spirit, present grace to you which you accept and offer to others.
May the fires of the South be welcome to ignite your passions and your will to persevere and to live, to continue to move forward in light through challenges that are certain to ebb and flow continuously in life.
May you lean into the Sunrise of the East as it greets you with the promises of a GOOD MORNING, a good morning that endures the entire day. Despite midday interruption, may you turn to yourself, reminding yourself that your GOOD MORNING can begin yet again in the afternoon sun and cloud.
And may the Sunset of the West give you comfort and restoration that allow you to stand in TRUTH. Within you is the energy, the ability you seek to find your pace, that JUST RIGHT pace that’s not too swift, yet not sluggish.
Breathe.
Breathe so you can feel the air run the full length, the full course of your lungs, from top to bottom. Breathe and know that no matter what comes your way, you shall still be centered. Should a force cut you in half, leaving you but a shadow of your old physical self, you shall still stand. Should a wind try to blow you down, you will bow to it and honor it, but you shall not break. Should acidity try to demolish your foundation, you shall, like the banyan tree, send new roots like sentinels, anchoring you once again. You will prevail. May you stand just a little taller today for this is your time and your space for forbearance.
My Son. You will prevail.
I love you.
May you have a blessed birthday.
(Goddess Mama, 8/2/2009.)
Sunday, July 19, 2009
July 18, 2009, journal entry
July 18, 2009, nine miles.
I felt quite rested today after a good night’s sleep, ready for my GOOD MORNING run. No anxiety today about how I would feel following being rear-ended in a car collision or about careless drivers unaware of runners. I was ready to see SOMETHING…I WANTED to see something…but didn’t know exactly what, but knew I was excited in vivid anticipation to see what my open posture would bring me today. Sure enough, not two blocks into my run, exactly where I have found shells of blue- and white-ivity, observed the prematurely fallen, broken birdlet’s egg, and witnessed the sparrow’s ritual into her end-ness, on the side of the abandoned building of ceramics and furniture stacked high to the ceiling, a butterfly fluttered erratically, although he had a smoothness to his path, from tree, to bush, to weed, to air, to beyond the building. He was handsome in his assured and bold yellow-and-blackness, and after checking http://www.butterfliesandmoths.org/, I am only guessing that he is a western tiger swallowtail. I knew immediately that it was gonna be all about bugs and insects today! Oh, he was handsome, he was, and I had to pause out of reverence, though my muscles were not even closely warmed up, to take in the largeness of his beauty in a hot summer, late morning.
When I could see him no longer, I continued on, my eyes open to see not only birds and squirrels, but the insects and bugs in front of them. A mile further, I was approaching a path that takes me briefly into a wooded area when I saw a washer-and-thread shaped copper-penny-flash flit in front of me. I HAD to see what it was and followed its path, zigzagging in a way that would make the neighborhood human inhabitants wonder if they saw me, but I needed to see what this bug was. I hoped that it would land on a nearby tree branch but it chose a car directly in its path. A ladybug! Can you believe it?! A ladybug! A ladybug is not unfamiliar to me, but somehow, the direct sunlight shone on its wings, making it become some kind of magical fairy! A ladybug! How such an everyday bug could seem so extraordinary, so magical in the right light!
In the hot 85-degree temperatures, yards and gardens were bathed in water via sprinklers, but the grass was not the only grateful recipient. Birds also took advantage of the sprinkling waterfalls. What I think of as sparrows were flying through the sprays, walking on wet grass, playing like small children prancing about. I felt bad to have interrupted their play as they flew off as though heading south for the winter when I passed by them.
The lavender continues to bloom magnificently, offering its fragrance to any who will stop, absorb, and breathe. One gathering of blooms I saw hosted at least 50 bees with dragonflies flying about.
At the end of my run, I couldn’t bear to conclude this explorative journey, so I decided to maintain that open posture and see what six- and eight-legged creatures might cross my path for the rest of the day. I took the boys to the neighborhood pool where they swim and splash for hours, which is why I pack drinks and snacks for them. I sit under selected trees in my Rite-Aid folding chair or on the grass when I feel a need to stretch my legs. With my journal at hand and while reading a book that is fast becoming a favorite, in the league of Mary Oliver and Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, I became distracted by a bee’s travels as he walked from grass, to cement, to the plastic white lawn-furniture table’s leg, towards the sugary sweetness of my mango jet tea smoothie. I tapped the leg a few times, and, angrily, he jumped to the ground and scurried away. He did return, though, several times, like the magpie who stubbornly returns to my dog’s bowl full of chow, an easy meal had not been for the human blocking its path.
~
What are those tiny bugs called, I wonder? Those miniscule beings, minute, barely half a pencil point in width and maybe two millimeters long, that crawl on your skin? You are reading or otherwise occupied but you feel a pin prick or several, or the sensation of a sharp razor lightly brushing your skin. Just before scratching, you look down and see these critters and wonder, who are they?
~
In my Rite-Aid folding chair, another insect soon captured my attention. After bending down, I looked at a bug carrying a geometric pattern on its back with antennas curving like long, black eyelashes, and kneeled, observing, until two boys, probably between the ages of six to eight, strode by, wearing flipflops and swimming trunks in yellow colors and patterns reminiscent of the western tiger swallowtail butterfly. The ice machine at the pool is a source of fascination for kids, and these boys were not immune to its draw. Each grabbed a plastic cup seen at picnics, filled them with ice, and started back to the pool before being distracted by a movement in the brick pattern between the concrete of the outdoors lobby area and the fenced pool. Within the cracks was an ant, huge in their (and my) eyes, a centimeter long, so they stooped over, marveling at it, before being distracted by a bee just a few inches away. Remembering the sting of bees, they considered how their ice might affect the bee and started spitting the iced water in its direction. A lost ice cube was retrieved and returned to one boy’s mouth before he resumed his deliberate spitting. After several trips to the ice machine, a third boy joined them in their task, asking if the bee “can still use its stinger?”
They returned their attention to the bee, or where they thought the bee should be, and saw, much to their dismay, that it had fled. For fifteen minutes, until their dad announced it was time to leave, they combed the bricks, the cement, the grass for that ONE bee, different than others (they would know it if they saw it, they declared) like I combed the fur of my dog for ticks in those hot and humid Kentucky summers.
After a few hours, it was time to pack up, my boys’ goggles, towels, and sunscreen, and my books, journal, and smoothie cup. I felt content about the day, a very GOOD MORNING day for me. I liked being in a posture of receiving whatever nature may bring, a posture I name GRATITUDE.
Although I do wish I was more familiar with the names of butterflies, insects, and bugs. Could confidently identify the chittering of birds. Hmmm. Perhaps a trip to the bookstore is in order.
LL, 7/18/2009. Prevail.
I felt quite rested today after a good night’s sleep, ready for my GOOD MORNING run. No anxiety today about how I would feel following being rear-ended in a car collision or about careless drivers unaware of runners. I was ready to see SOMETHING…I WANTED to see something…but didn’t know exactly what, but knew I was excited in vivid anticipation to see what my open posture would bring me today. Sure enough, not two blocks into my run, exactly where I have found shells of blue- and white-ivity, observed the prematurely fallen, broken birdlet’s egg, and witnessed the sparrow’s ritual into her end-ness, on the side of the abandoned building of ceramics and furniture stacked high to the ceiling, a butterfly fluttered erratically, although he had a smoothness to his path, from tree, to bush, to weed, to air, to beyond the building. He was handsome in his assured and bold yellow-and-blackness, and after checking http://www.butterfliesandmoths.org/, I am only guessing that he is a western tiger swallowtail. I knew immediately that it was gonna be all about bugs and insects today! Oh, he was handsome, he was, and I had to pause out of reverence, though my muscles were not even closely warmed up, to take in the largeness of his beauty in a hot summer, late morning.
When I could see him no longer, I continued on, my eyes open to see not only birds and squirrels, but the insects and bugs in front of them. A mile further, I was approaching a path that takes me briefly into a wooded area when I saw a washer-and-thread shaped copper-penny-flash flit in front of me. I HAD to see what it was and followed its path, zigzagging in a way that would make the neighborhood human inhabitants wonder if they saw me, but I needed to see what this bug was. I hoped that it would land on a nearby tree branch but it chose a car directly in its path. A ladybug! Can you believe it?! A ladybug! A ladybug is not unfamiliar to me, but somehow, the direct sunlight shone on its wings, making it become some kind of magical fairy! A ladybug! How such an everyday bug could seem so extraordinary, so magical in the right light!
In the hot 85-degree temperatures, yards and gardens were bathed in water via sprinklers, but the grass was not the only grateful recipient. Birds also took advantage of the sprinkling waterfalls. What I think of as sparrows were flying through the sprays, walking on wet grass, playing like small children prancing about. I felt bad to have interrupted their play as they flew off as though heading south for the winter when I passed by them.
The lavender continues to bloom magnificently, offering its fragrance to any who will stop, absorb, and breathe. One gathering of blooms I saw hosted at least 50 bees with dragonflies flying about.
At the end of my run, I couldn’t bear to conclude this explorative journey, so I decided to maintain that open posture and see what six- and eight-legged creatures might cross my path for the rest of the day. I took the boys to the neighborhood pool where they swim and splash for hours, which is why I pack drinks and snacks for them. I sit under selected trees in my Rite-Aid folding chair or on the grass when I feel a need to stretch my legs. With my journal at hand and while reading a book that is fast becoming a favorite, in the league of Mary Oliver and Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, I became distracted by a bee’s travels as he walked from grass, to cement, to the plastic white lawn-furniture table’s leg, towards the sugary sweetness of my mango jet tea smoothie. I tapped the leg a few times, and, angrily, he jumped to the ground and scurried away. He did return, though, several times, like the magpie who stubbornly returns to my dog’s bowl full of chow, an easy meal had not been for the human blocking its path.
~
What are those tiny bugs called, I wonder? Those miniscule beings, minute, barely half a pencil point in width and maybe two millimeters long, that crawl on your skin? You are reading or otherwise occupied but you feel a pin prick or several, or the sensation of a sharp razor lightly brushing your skin. Just before scratching, you look down and see these critters and wonder, who are they?
~
In my Rite-Aid folding chair, another insect soon captured my attention. After bending down, I looked at a bug carrying a geometric pattern on its back with antennas curving like long, black eyelashes, and kneeled, observing, until two boys, probably between the ages of six to eight, strode by, wearing flipflops and swimming trunks in yellow colors and patterns reminiscent of the western tiger swallowtail butterfly. The ice machine at the pool is a source of fascination for kids, and these boys were not immune to its draw. Each grabbed a plastic cup seen at picnics, filled them with ice, and started back to the pool before being distracted by a movement in the brick pattern between the concrete of the outdoors lobby area and the fenced pool. Within the cracks was an ant, huge in their (and my) eyes, a centimeter long, so they stooped over, marveling at it, before being distracted by a bee just a few inches away. Remembering the sting of bees, they considered how their ice might affect the bee and started spitting the iced water in its direction. A lost ice cube was retrieved and returned to one boy’s mouth before he resumed his deliberate spitting. After several trips to the ice machine, a third boy joined them in their task, asking if the bee “can still use its stinger?”
They returned their attention to the bee, or where they thought the bee should be, and saw, much to their dismay, that it had fled. For fifteen minutes, until their dad announced it was time to leave, they combed the bricks, the cement, the grass for that ONE bee, different than others (they would know it if they saw it, they declared) like I combed the fur of my dog for ticks in those hot and humid Kentucky summers.
After a few hours, it was time to pack up, my boys’ goggles, towels, and sunscreen, and my books, journal, and smoothie cup. I felt content about the day, a very GOOD MORNING day for me. I liked being in a posture of receiving whatever nature may bring, a posture I name GRATITUDE.
Although I do wish I was more familiar with the names of butterflies, insects, and bugs. Could confidently identify the chittering of birds. Hmmm. Perhaps a trip to the bookstore is in order.
LL, 7/18/2009. Prevail.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Haiku 10
(Umbra.)
Wings in sustained flight
Clouds billow, copper and black
Choreography.
(Penumbra.)
Terrestrial wings
Flit over open flowers
A communion pose.
(Antumbra.)
Singularity
Shadows, light in perfect play
This is sacred space.
LL, 6/3/2009. Prevail.
Wings in sustained flight
Clouds billow, copper and black
Choreography.
(Penumbra.)
Terrestrial wings
Flit over open flowers
A communion pose.
(Antumbra.)
Singularity
Shadows, light in perfect play
This is sacred space.
LL, 6/3/2009. Prevail.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Growing up on GrUBB
Last week, I finally decided that I needed to grow up a bit and upgrade my old but beloved typewriter-era BlackBerry and settled on the new 8900 Curve Titanium. Quite simply, my old one was just not keeping up with what I needed in a career where technology is improving lives by leaps and bounds.
So I thought, let’s just do this! Intimidated, though, I mustered my courage by finding my most colorful scarf, throwing on as much jewelry as possible, and spraying myself with silvery glitter, which I found at the Display Shop here in Spokane where costumes and crafty items abound. (Why was I there, you ask? Shopping for tiaras, of course! I was preparing for Goddess Schawn’s birthday, and what Goddess birthday celebration is complete without tiaras?!?!)
Of course, I did seriously debate this purchase because I currently possess several technology needs, one of which is the CD/radio in my purple terp-mobile. In the past month, CD music listening has become quite the adventure in my car. I have had that CD player since I bought the car brand new a couple of years ago, and my folk and bluegrass music CDs I listen to now skip each time I hit a bump or pothole in the road. My boys and I have made it a game, though, for when I can see an upcoming opportunity…er…pothole, I warn them so we can holler out a vote, which song number we think the CD will skip to. Quite fun, casting votes in this way.
But the weekend prior to my growing-up decision, when I finished a solo drive to Sandpoint, just over an hour away, I noticed that the volume level was stuck at the rather loud volume I keep it at when it is just me in the car. OOPS! And, when my boys have been in my car, they haven’t necessarily been thrilled with this as I have been listening to Alison Krauss and Union Station. I can’t seem to convince them that there IS a difference between country music and bluegrass.
After listening to a dobra solo, my oldest said, “Mom, I STILL just don’t get that instrument.”
“Well, the banjo, then!” I offered. “Now THAT’S a happy instrument no matter how sad the song is!” I was thinking of Steve Martin, of course.
He resignedly responded with a heaving sigh, “I guess you can take the girl out of Kentucky, but you can’t take Kentucky out of the girl. Can we PLEASE just not listen to that corn-hoeing song? AGAIN?” (referring to “The Boy Who Wouldn’t Hoe Corn”).
“Hey! That’s a great idea! Let me find that one!” I happily responded, jabbing with both hands at my needing-to-be-replaced CD player.
Under his breath, he muttered, “He shoulda just done his chores THEN so then I wouldn’t hafta listen to it NOW.”
Ahem. ANYWAY. Properly glittered in Goddess-wear, I bounced into the T-Mobile store, and, upon the young man’s invitation, “Can I help you?” I said, “Why, yes! I am ready to grow up just a LITTLE bit and upgrade my old typewriter-era BlackBerry!”
“Can I see your ID?”
“Oh my! That is not an auspicious greeting,” I nervously said, hurriedly trying to brush the glitter from the counter.
He laughed. “No, when people upgrade, we always ask for ID to make sure they are who they are.”
“Well, there is no mistaking me! Here is my ID!” I said, showing him my license with a flourish that hid my huge sense of relief.
In the end, I got my GrUBB (GRown-Up-BlackBerry) replete with crayon-like instructions worthy of the Crayola 96-color-box on how to move from one BlackBerry to another.
But the lure of a new toy, especially one with lots of buttons, lights, and sounds, was just too tempting. So later that night, I found myself in quite the state of uncontrollable giggles when I was playing with my new GrUBB, and, having no idea what button, key, or function I hit, a female voice suddenly resounded from the device, announcing, “SAY A COMMAND!”
“PREVAIL!” I promptly commanded in response. Of course!
So somewhere, floating in my GrUBB like fairydust, is a command to PREVAIL. Where, I have no clue. I fear I am in over my head with my new technological gadget. I am truly afraid that at some point, the female voice will reemerge, commanding me to “STEP AWAY FROM THE GrUBB!”
Of course, I will have to follow her instructions. {Sigh.} At least until all the lights catch my attention again, and I start pressing buttons and keys, perhaps setting off all kinds of magical spells, sending the universe into chaos.
Now, I ask myself, should I upgrade the stereo system in my car? After all, I already DID upgrade my BlackBerry, glitter, crayons, and all. I AM growing up. Kind of. Sort of. In a way. Maybe?
Whew! I AM AT MY LIMIT! Too much technology and grown-up stuff! I will think about it TOMORROW! Off to the trampoline I go!
Whoo hoo! Goddess Schawn, let’s go prepare for Trampoline Jumping for 40-Year-Old Women, Instructional Video #2! Our audience awaits us!
LL, 7/1/2009. Prevail.
So I thought, let’s just do this! Intimidated, though, I mustered my courage by finding my most colorful scarf, throwing on as much jewelry as possible, and spraying myself with silvery glitter, which I found at the Display Shop here in Spokane where costumes and crafty items abound. (Why was I there, you ask? Shopping for tiaras, of course! I was preparing for Goddess Schawn’s birthday, and what Goddess birthday celebration is complete without tiaras?!?!)
Of course, I did seriously debate this purchase because I currently possess several technology needs, one of which is the CD/radio in my purple terp-mobile. In the past month, CD music listening has become quite the adventure in my car. I have had that CD player since I bought the car brand new a couple of years ago, and my folk and bluegrass music CDs I listen to now skip each time I hit a bump or pothole in the road. My boys and I have made it a game, though, for when I can see an upcoming opportunity…er…pothole, I warn them so we can holler out a vote, which song number we think the CD will skip to. Quite fun, casting votes in this way.
But the weekend prior to my growing-up decision, when I finished a solo drive to Sandpoint, just over an hour away, I noticed that the volume level was stuck at the rather loud volume I keep it at when it is just me in the car. OOPS! And, when my boys have been in my car, they haven’t necessarily been thrilled with this as I have been listening to Alison Krauss and Union Station. I can’t seem to convince them that there IS a difference between country music and bluegrass.
After listening to a dobra solo, my oldest said, “Mom, I STILL just don’t get that instrument.”
“Well, the banjo, then!” I offered. “Now THAT’S a happy instrument no matter how sad the song is!” I was thinking of Steve Martin, of course.
He resignedly responded with a heaving sigh, “I guess you can take the girl out of Kentucky, but you can’t take Kentucky out of the girl. Can we PLEASE just not listen to that corn-hoeing song? AGAIN?” (referring to “The Boy Who Wouldn’t Hoe Corn”).
“Hey! That’s a great idea! Let me find that one!” I happily responded, jabbing with both hands at my needing-to-be-replaced CD player.
Under his breath, he muttered, “He shoulda just done his chores THEN so then I wouldn’t hafta listen to it NOW.”
Ahem. ANYWAY. Properly glittered in Goddess-wear, I bounced into the T-Mobile store, and, upon the young man’s invitation, “Can I help you?” I said, “Why, yes! I am ready to grow up just a LITTLE bit and upgrade my old typewriter-era BlackBerry!”
“Can I see your ID?”
“Oh my! That is not an auspicious greeting,” I nervously said, hurriedly trying to brush the glitter from the counter.
He laughed. “No, when people upgrade, we always ask for ID to make sure they are who they are.”
“Well, there is no mistaking me! Here is my ID!” I said, showing him my license with a flourish that hid my huge sense of relief.
In the end, I got my GrUBB (GRown-Up-BlackBerry) replete with crayon-like instructions worthy of the Crayola 96-color-box on how to move from one BlackBerry to another.
But the lure of a new toy, especially one with lots of buttons, lights, and sounds, was just too tempting. So later that night, I found myself in quite the state of uncontrollable giggles when I was playing with my new GrUBB, and, having no idea what button, key, or function I hit, a female voice suddenly resounded from the device, announcing, “SAY A COMMAND!”
“PREVAIL!” I promptly commanded in response. Of course!
So somewhere, floating in my GrUBB like fairydust, is a command to PREVAIL. Where, I have no clue. I fear I am in over my head with my new technological gadget. I am truly afraid that at some point, the female voice will reemerge, commanding me to “STEP AWAY FROM THE GrUBB!”
Of course, I will have to follow her instructions. {Sigh.} At least until all the lights catch my attention again, and I start pressing buttons and keys, perhaps setting off all kinds of magical spells, sending the universe into chaos.
Now, I ask myself, should I upgrade the stereo system in my car? After all, I already DID upgrade my BlackBerry, glitter, crayons, and all. I AM growing up. Kind of. Sort of. In a way. Maybe?
Whew! I AM AT MY LIMIT! Too much technology and grown-up stuff! I will think about it TOMORROW! Off to the trampoline I go!
Whoo hoo! Goddess Schawn, let’s go prepare for Trampoline Jumping for 40-Year-Old Women, Instructional Video #2! Our audience awaits us!
LL, 7/1/2009. Prevail.
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