For those of you slogging with me through the wasteland between winter and spring, these are my weapons of choice for the assault against the drudgery.
Sight
Everything outside is ugly, so we mark our computer desktop with something beautiful.
http://www.superbwallpapers.com/movies/the-hobbit-the-desolation-of-smaug-26198/
And then we browse on Pinterest and look at gardening ideas.
http://www.pinterest.com/chevroletmama/
Smell
We continue burning the pine-scented candles that we bought at the after-Christmas sale to save for next holiday season. It's okay, we can buy more next holiday season.
And then we browse on Pinterest and find ways to make good-smelly things.
http://www.pinterest.com/pin/534028468286073093/
Sound
We keep youtubing The Gael, written by Dougie Maclean and featured in the Daniel Day-Lewis movie The Last of the Mohicans.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_R7bJahcwc
Or Victor de Andres' rock version of the same, with a little Pirates thrown in for good measure.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTDrl6i3FBA
And then we browse Pinterest while the music soaks into us.
Taste
The holidays are over so we're not supposed to eat anything yummy anymore, except we sneak many additives into the coffee that we're not supposed to be drinking either.
We sip it while we browse Pinterest for healthy recipes that taste good, as if such a thing existed.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeremy_Renner
Touch
We wear lotion to hydrate our crackly winter knuckles, and we need to buy some from
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Simple-Joys-Antiques-Gifts/111714792266463?ref=profile
And then we browse Pinterest for homemade lotion recipes and tutorials.
http://www.pinterest.com/search/pins/?q=homemade%20lotion
How do YOU do it? What do YOU do to get rid of the funk of this non-season? Spill to me your secrets. Don't leave me in this alone!
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
The Part I Don't Love
Every time the season changes I think, "This is my favorite time of year!" I love watching the green infiltrate the inert world in the spring. I love living my life outdoors during the summer. I love the warm hues and tastes of the fall. I love the radiance of the snow through the winter.
Except right now. There's a mini-season between winter and spring that is my unfavoritest time of year. After the last snow and before the new life, there is only ugly. The sparkle of Christmas is all boxed up, the earth is lifeless, the sky and the ground are the same color: dead. The outdoors is dirty and it's too cold to wash. The Precious is cranky. Lefty is quiet. Angel Doll is preoccupied. Pixie keeps flying into the window glass in a vain attempt to flee to a warmer climate with the rest of her kind. Hunneypunkin hibernates. Jeremy Renner is happy to live in Cali.
I'm restless and irritable and the money is gone. There is no attention span. I want colors. Flavor. Heat. Fire! Music. Beauty. Life. I want to pick lunch from the garden. I want ultravioletness. I want New Zealand.
We carry on, zombie-like, waiting for Genesis. It's too long till Easter. I need resurrection.
Except right now. There's a mini-season between winter and spring that is my unfavoritest time of year. After the last snow and before the new life, there is only ugly. The sparkle of Christmas is all boxed up, the earth is lifeless, the sky and the ground are the same color: dead. The outdoors is dirty and it's too cold to wash. The Precious is cranky. Lefty is quiet. Angel Doll is preoccupied. Pixie keeps flying into the window glass in a vain attempt to flee to a warmer climate with the rest of her kind. Hunneypunkin hibernates. Jeremy Renner is happy to live in Cali.
I'm restless and irritable and the money is gone. There is no attention span. I want colors. Flavor. Heat. Fire! Music. Beauty. Life. I want to pick lunch from the garden. I want ultravioletness. I want New Zealand.
We carry on, zombie-like, waiting for Genesis. It's too long till Easter. I need resurrection.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Oh To Be a Dwarf
The Precious insisted that I go see The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug before it left the theater, lest I break my record of having seen all the Lord of the Rings & Hobbit films on the big screen. It was a magnificent idea, so Pixie and I, along with besties danilb https://www.blogger.com/profile/14147195839561049985 and Munchkin, spent a magnificent hundred and sixty-one minutes gazing upon the magnificent Richard Armitage in his magnificent portrayal of the magnificent Thorin Oakenshield. Studmuffin alert! You kinda wanna sink your fingers into that luxurious hair and climb up his braids and bite him on the lip. Admit it, ladies of America, you're all thinking it. I'm just the only one with enough judgement lapse to say it out loud. The whole thing is so red-blooded, you keep expecting Jeremy Renner.
I got to thinking, watching those rock-dwellers with their fabulous manes trekking through the perilous terrain, that the poor gents needed a girl along on that trip to help with the cooking and to babysit Bilbo. All of us who have ever left the youngsters home with Dad (speaking of lapses in judgment) know that you need a girl for childcare. How many times and how many ways can you lose a Hobbit for crying out loud? Strap that little dude to your back and get hiking already!
Couldn't I watch the movie like a normal individual? Nope. I just can't stop being the Mama, and analyzing what an easier time those adorable sirs would have had of it, had I been there to manage their affairs and help spank the bad guys. And just think how perfectly I, with my impressive lineage of excessive hair, would fit in with an amassment of dwarves. I'd never have to use a razor again, and my tweezers could be reserved for slivers.
I got to thinking, watching those rock-dwellers with their fabulous manes trekking through the perilous terrain, that the poor gents needed a girl along on that trip to help with the cooking and to babysit Bilbo. All of us who have ever left the youngsters home with Dad (speaking of lapses in judgment) know that you need a girl for childcare. How many times and how many ways can you lose a Hobbit for crying out loud? Strap that little dude to your back and get hiking already!
Couldn't I watch the movie like a normal individual? Nope. I just can't stop being the Mama, and analyzing what an easier time those adorable sirs would have had of it, had I been there to manage their affairs and help spank the bad guys. And just think how perfectly I, with my impressive lineage of excessive hair, would fit in with an amassment of dwarves. I'd never have to use a razor again, and my tweezers could be reserved for slivers.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Chimney Sweep
It was Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. night and The Precious made a motion, which I seconded, to have a fire in the fireplace. I like fire. So The Precious built a nice big crackly one, and we turned off the lights and settled in for a visit with Phil Coulson (his first name is Agent), while the Lady of the House watched over her kittens in front of the TV.
About fifteen minutes into the show, a sudden large dark mass of slobbery shag dropped out of nowhere smack-dab in the middle of the room. It took a few seconds to figure out that it was a cat. A long-haired cat. Definitely not a house cat. In fact, it wasn't even our cat. Everybody started talking.
"Who is that?"
"It's that stray!"
"What in the world is wrong with it?"
"Why is its face all icky?"
"How did he get in here?"
"Did somebody leave the back door open?"
"He just jumped out of the fireplace!"
"How do we catch him and get him out of here?"
"He's covered in soot!"
"Is he bloody?"
"It's slobber, his lungs are burned!"
Just then the Lady of the House noticed our unexpected guest, and she didn't waste time asking questions. She simply unleashed an assault. Agent Coulson was drowned out by clouds of ash, clumps of fur, and screams of animals. Poor Mark Sinclair Vincent St. Agnes von Lichtenschtein got caught in the crossfire, which gave the chimney sweep a split-second to seek refuge down the hall under Lefty's bed.
Hunneypunkin began hollering instructions that nobody heard. Lefty intercepted the Lady of the House and managed to shut her with her children in the utility room without losing any blood or limbs. Angel Doll and Pixie spirited Mark Sinclair Vincent St. Agnes von Lichtenschtein away to the safety of the princess chambers. I Googled "how to treat smoke inhalation in cats" while The Precious held his head and rocked himself and shouted, "Stupid cats, we're missing Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.!"
Someone managed to get the stray back outside, where he apparently got enough rest and fresh air to recover even without my internet knowledge. There's a grate over the chimney now to prevent further incidents. We've had a cat in the chimney before, but not during fire season. http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/10/chewables-thinks-hes-spaniard.html It took a day or so to get all the sootprints cleaned up and the smoky smell out of the bedroom.
We missed most of the show that night, but it's not that big of a deal. We can always catch up online or wait for a rerun. Now if I had missed an episode where Jeremy Renner had made a guest appearance as The Hawk, that would have been a real burn.
About fifteen minutes into the show, a sudden large dark mass of slobbery shag dropped out of nowhere smack-dab in the middle of the room. It took a few seconds to figure out that it was a cat. A long-haired cat. Definitely not a house cat. In fact, it wasn't even our cat. Everybody started talking.
"Who is that?"
"It's that stray!"
"What in the world is wrong with it?"
"Why is its face all icky?"
"How did he get in here?"
"Did somebody leave the back door open?"
"He just jumped out of the fireplace!"
"How do we catch him and get him out of here?"
"He's covered in soot!"
"Is he bloody?"
"It's slobber, his lungs are burned!"
Just then the Lady of the House noticed our unexpected guest, and she didn't waste time asking questions. She simply unleashed an assault. Agent Coulson was drowned out by clouds of ash, clumps of fur, and screams of animals. Poor Mark Sinclair Vincent St. Agnes von Lichtenschtein got caught in the crossfire, which gave the chimney sweep a split-second to seek refuge down the hall under Lefty's bed.
Hunneypunkin began hollering instructions that nobody heard. Lefty intercepted the Lady of the House and managed to shut her with her children in the utility room without losing any blood or limbs. Angel Doll and Pixie spirited Mark Sinclair Vincent St. Agnes von Lichtenschtein away to the safety of the princess chambers. I Googled "how to treat smoke inhalation in cats" while The Precious held his head and rocked himself and shouted, "Stupid cats, we're missing Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.!"
Someone managed to get the stray back outside, where he apparently got enough rest and fresh air to recover even without my internet knowledge. There's a grate over the chimney now to prevent further incidents. We've had a cat in the chimney before, but not during fire season. http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/10/chewables-thinks-hes-spaniard.html It took a day or so to get all the sootprints cleaned up and the smoky smell out of the bedroom.
We missed most of the show that night, but it's not that big of a deal. We can always catch up online or wait for a rerun. Now if I had missed an episode where Jeremy Renner had made a guest appearance as The Hawk, that would have been a real burn.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Obituary
Chewables http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/10/chewables-thinks-hes-spaniard.html and his sister Princess were born on Memorial Weekend. Their mother, Moreo, took an inadvertent trip to the landfill on a trailer full of rubbish the very next day, and though we tried, we were never able to retrieve her. So Chewables, Princess, and the rest of their brothers and sisters were fostered by a neighbor cat who had just had new babies, on the condition that when the kittens were old enough, all the cats including the mother would move to our place.
When the combined litter was old enough, they did indeed move to our place. Their mother didn't like it here and kissed them all goodbye, and one by one the kittens moved away too, except for Chewables and Princess. After a year or so, even Princess left to seek her fortune, but Chewables remained.
Chewables was a ladies man and he, like Abraham of the Bible, became the father of many. Truth be told, he was eventually the father of all the ladies, at which time he went to the vet. You know, to be tutored. After tutoring, Chewables became the caretaker of all our other cats. He bathed them, played with them, babysat them, and taught them how to hunt. When we brought Wild One home from Grandpa's farm on Father's Day, Chewables both tamed and befriended him. Chewables and Wild One were best friends until the day Chewables died. Until today.
The Precious found Chewables this morning, lying on the patio outside our back door. No blood, no marks, no broken bones. He looked like he was sleeping, but with his eyes open. We picked him up and held him. We tried to be tough and cool but we just cried like girls. (We girls did, anyway. The boys just took off with shovels.) We were still able to curl him up and snuggle with him. But this was the only time we ever held him when he didn't purr.
You weren't old enough to die, Chewables. What happened to you? You weren't sick. Did you jump off someplace too high, as you were so fond of doing, but this time hit your head? We will miss you. The other cats will miss you. Jeremy Renner would have liked you a lot. I don't care what anybody says, I believe that all pets go to heaven.
When the combined litter was old enough, they did indeed move to our place. Their mother didn't like it here and kissed them all goodbye, and one by one the kittens moved away too, except for Chewables and Princess. After a year or so, even Princess left to seek her fortune, but Chewables remained.
Chewables was a ladies man and he, like Abraham of the Bible, became the father of many. Truth be told, he was eventually the father of all the ladies, at which time he went to the vet. You know, to be tutored. After tutoring, Chewables became the caretaker of all our other cats. He bathed them, played with them, babysat them, and taught them how to hunt. When we brought Wild One home from Grandpa's farm on Father's Day, Chewables both tamed and befriended him. Chewables and Wild One were best friends until the day Chewables died. Until today.
The Precious found Chewables this morning, lying on the patio outside our back door. No blood, no marks, no broken bones. He looked like he was sleeping, but with his eyes open. We picked him up and held him. We tried to be tough and cool but we just cried like girls. (We girls did, anyway. The boys just took off with shovels.) We were still able to curl him up and snuggle with him. But this was the only time we ever held him when he didn't purr.
You weren't old enough to die, Chewables. What happened to you? You weren't sick. Did you jump off someplace too high, as you were so fond of doing, but this time hit your head? We will miss you. The other cats will miss you. Jeremy Renner would have liked you a lot. I don't care what anybody says, I believe that all pets go to heaven.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Adventures in Packing a Lunch
Once upon a season of life when I was employed and Hunneypunkin was un, Hunneypunkin would assign the packing of my lunch for work to one of the children, the night before. It was a nifty little way of using up dinner leftovers and including The People in my work life at the same time.
I enjoyed opening my lunch when I got to work to see what The People had sent for me. Sometimes there would be a napkin in my lunch bag, with a note written on it with permanent marker by Angel Doll. If there were no leftovers from last night's dinner, there would be a sandwich, maybe peanut butter with honey or our own homemade jam. But usually there would be something I could put in the microwave (God bless my aunt for buying me one because the office didn't have one). I might have a slice of pizza wrapped in foil, or a bowl of spaghetti.
I learned to peek in my lunch before I left home though, when I opened my lunch one day and there was only a tiny bowl of plain white rice. I poked around the office to see if there was anything, anything at all, I could add to the rice. Coffee creamer...sugar...hmm. Nope, three bites of plain white rice was what I had for lunch. Bless their little hearts, Daddy had said, "Pack the dinner leftovers for Mama's lunch for tomorrow," and that's all that was left.
Now, Hunneypunkin is employed and I am un, and Hunneypunkin assigns the packing of his own lunches to The People every night. They generally do a great job, and they know his routine. Make three sandwiches and stick them in the fridge, fill three wide-mouth water bottles with ice and stick them in the freezer. Then in the morning, Hunneypunkin fills his bottles of ice with tea and puts them in his lunch bag with his sandwiches from the fridge.
We did have to remind The People once that after they made the sandwiches, they should put them into sandwich bags before refrigerating them. Also that the sandwiches should indeed be refrigerated after being put into sandwich bags. We learned that the sandwiches should be made early in the evening, so The People aren't so sleepy they forget to put the lunchmeat in the sandwiches. Someone had to be reminded once that the ice in the water bottles wouldn't stay frozen unless the water bottles were put in the freezer. Only once did Hunneypunkin simply forget to take his sandwiches out of the fridge before taking his lunch bag out the door. Who knew we could find so much humor in the simple act of packing lunch?
This blog post contains no reference whatsoever to Jeremy Renner.
I enjoyed opening my lunch when I got to work to see what The People had sent for me. Sometimes there would be a napkin in my lunch bag, with a note written on it with permanent marker by Angel Doll. If there were no leftovers from last night's dinner, there would be a sandwich, maybe peanut butter with honey or our own homemade jam. But usually there would be something I could put in the microwave (God bless my aunt for buying me one because the office didn't have one). I might have a slice of pizza wrapped in foil, or a bowl of spaghetti.
I learned to peek in my lunch before I left home though, when I opened my lunch one day and there was only a tiny bowl of plain white rice. I poked around the office to see if there was anything, anything at all, I could add to the rice. Coffee creamer...sugar...hmm. Nope, three bites of plain white rice was what I had for lunch. Bless their little hearts, Daddy had said, "Pack the dinner leftovers for Mama's lunch for tomorrow," and that's all that was left.
Now, Hunneypunkin is employed and I am un, and Hunneypunkin assigns the packing of his own lunches to The People every night. They generally do a great job, and they know his routine. Make three sandwiches and stick them in the fridge, fill three wide-mouth water bottles with ice and stick them in the freezer. Then in the morning, Hunneypunkin fills his bottles of ice with tea and puts them in his lunch bag with his sandwiches from the fridge.
We did have to remind The People once that after they made the sandwiches, they should put them into sandwich bags before refrigerating them. Also that the sandwiches should indeed be refrigerated after being put into sandwich bags. We learned that the sandwiches should be made early in the evening, so The People aren't so sleepy they forget to put the lunchmeat in the sandwiches. Someone had to be reminded once that the ice in the water bottles wouldn't stay frozen unless the water bottles were put in the freezer. Only once did Hunneypunkin simply forget to take his sandwiches out of the fridge before taking his lunch bag out the door. Who knew we could find so much humor in the simple act of packing lunch?
This blog post contains no reference whatsoever to Jeremy Renner.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Warring With Hunneypunkin (Or, Magicking Weeds Into Bacon)
Hunneypunkin wants to spray weeds. The problem is, he doesn't. (Did I already tell this story? I don't remember.) Now I understand that all spring long, when the weeds are sweet and adorable just like all babies, it's either windy or raining or both and you can't spray the weeds in the wain and rinnd. By the time the spring windses and rainses are gone, the weeds have all turned into big people. Then, since there are no more rainsies and windsies, Hunneypunkin sprays weeds. Guess what we have then? An acre of big, ugly deadness. Yuck!
I don't like weed spray because it stinks and I'm sure it's poisonous for plants and people and animals and water and ozone and other neat stuff. I also don't like weeds because they mess with my favoriter plants. So my solution is for Hunneypunkin to pull, shovel, pick, or hoe the weeds. The problem is, he doesn't. Plan B would be for Jeremy Renner to do it, but he lives too far away. Besides, then there would be a big pile of dead weeds and they'd have to be burned or hauled off to the landfill or sneaked into the neighbor's yard, and that's just too much work. Plus then if the neighbors return the favor, you're back at square one.
Hunneypunkin and I have had a habit of spiritedly debating the Spray-Versus-Pull Weed War at least three times every spring and twice during summer. We've made it a tradition, kind of like Christmas only without the snow, candies, gifts, carols, stockings, good cheer, or eggnog.
This year, however, we came up with a different option: pigs. We tossed a few oinkers in a pen out back. I worked up the ambition to pull weeds myownself, and don't you know those hogs are pretty happy about eating their green leafies. It's a pretty decent solution. Hunneypunkin doesn't have to spray, dig, pull, pick, OR burn, I can feel all green and environmental, my yard looks pretty nice, I get a little exercise, and when the winter comes and the weeds are no more, we'll have bacon. You KNOW how I feel about bacon.
I don't like weed spray because it stinks and I'm sure it's poisonous for plants and people and animals and water and ozone and other neat stuff. I also don't like weeds because they mess with my favoriter plants. So my solution is for Hunneypunkin to pull, shovel, pick, or hoe the weeds. The problem is, he doesn't. Plan B would be for Jeremy Renner to do it, but he lives too far away. Besides, then there would be a big pile of dead weeds and they'd have to be burned or hauled off to the landfill or sneaked into the neighbor's yard, and that's just too much work. Plus then if the neighbors return the favor, you're back at square one.
Hunneypunkin and I have had a habit of spiritedly debating the Spray-Versus-Pull Weed War at least three times every spring and twice during summer. We've made it a tradition, kind of like Christmas only without the snow, candies, gifts, carols, stockings, good cheer, or eggnog.
This year, however, we came up with a different option: pigs. We tossed a few oinkers in a pen out back. I worked up the ambition to pull weeds myownself, and don't you know those hogs are pretty happy about eating their green leafies. It's a pretty decent solution. Hunneypunkin doesn't have to spray, dig, pull, pick, OR burn, I can feel all green and environmental, my yard looks pretty nice, I get a little exercise, and when the winter comes and the weeds are no more, we'll have bacon. You KNOW how I feel about bacon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)