On the Cover of the Rolling Stone

The slumber party with my girlfriends Sunday night was a blast. It was a long night of fun and frivolity, which included a whole lot of this:

And it proved several things, mostly that I can only dream of being a rock star.

But also:

A. Despite my lifelong desire to sing like Aretha Franklin and the numerous hours I spend practicing in the car, I cannot carry a tune, even if it’s in a five gallon bucket with a handle that is duct taped to my fingers.

B. I do NOT know the words to Roxanne.

C. The room isn’t big enough for me to get enough distance between me and the TV in order to read those fuzzy Roxanne lyrics rolling across the screen.

D. I should not be allowed to sing Roxanne ever again, unless it’s in the confines of the shower or my vehicle. Even then, it’s iffy. I hurt my own ears.

E. Alex Van Halen need not worry about me taking over his drumming job. I sound nothing like him. I do, however, look as ragged as he does if I stay up way past my bedtime.

F. I CAN play the drums to We Are The Champions, but as Teen Angel says that’s just, Boom, Boom, Thud over and over again.

G. Lord have mercy, I cannot party like a rock star as I do not bounce back from staying up until 3:30am as quickly as I used to.

H. The only chance I have at working in a rock band is to be one of those backup girls who is just supposed to snap her fingers and look good. And frankly, at age 40-something…any career based on looks is not a wise move. But we can all dream can’t we?

It's Good to Catch up With Old Friends

There I was putting on my rolled up jeans and new Sperry Topsiders this weekend and I shouted, "Hello 1980! I haven't seen you in forevah!! Have you seen my friend Big Shoulder Pads?" Sigh. I've missed them all so.

Proof We Are Not Pretentious People

We really know how to make people feel welcome in our home. Friday night, janjanmom and her lovely youngin's came by to bring me a cake the eldest had made that day. Look! Isn't it cute?

Let's not talk about how fast it took me to eat it once I got over cutting into the lovely decorations. Thank goodness we got the TV hooked up in front of the treadmill. Otherwise, it would have been a weekend of staring at that Norman Rockwell print.

Anyway, I was giving janjanmom a tour of the new house, and I was all blah blah new lighting this and yak yak counter tops that. I walked into the dining room to show her the cute little Hula Girl napkins Teen Angel got me for Christmas when I stepped in the biggest dog turd ever. It appears the dog had NOT endured my marathon trip to the grocery store and the beauty shop Friday as well as I had thought and he had pooped in the dining room. To make matters worse, I accidentally sent some of it rolling underneath the hutch, where it now sits waiting for me to find the yardstick to fish it out from under there. Nice. I'm sure she failed to notice much of anything else on the tour because her head was probably screaming, "She had dog poop in her dining room!" the whole time.

Now, fortunately janjanmom is a down to earth, understanding person who has three children and a big dog, so she's dealt with a little poop in her time. However, that doesn't make me feel any less embarrassed about the whole thing. It will give us a good laugh in the coming years. When we're old, wearing gold shoes and playing Bingo, she can lean over to me and cackle, "Hey, remember that time the dog crapped in your dining room and you kicked that turd under the hutch?" We'll laugh and wheeze and wonder out loud why the kids don't come to see us more often.

In the meantime, please know dear readers that you are welcome in my home anytime and you definitely won't have to worry about using the right fork or a tea towel between dinner courses. You might however, want to watch where you step. Now, about that yardstick.......

Tidbits From the Island of Hula

-It has finally warmed up here to the forties. Thank heavens. I was getting tired of chipping the frozen snot off my face after my midday runs.
-Speaking of running, I spit on myself Tuesday while running. There's a trick to getting rid of the excess saliva while on the run., and I screwed it up big time. Jim Croce was right when he said you don't spit into the wind.
-Every month I get together with girlfriends and play Bunco. Which means we roll dice for three hours as an excuse to eat decadent desserts and dish about hormones, husbands and mothers-in-law. Sunday night is our annual Bunco slumber party. It may or may not include adult beverages and karaoke. If you hear dogs howling in the middle of the night, don't worry. They're just hearing me sing.
-Did you hear that Teddy Pendergrass died? Oh, the memories of the 80's his music brings back.
-We cook for Mama J. and Papa T. each night, and Papa T. likes simple food. We found out this week he does NOT like pasta with clam sauce or vegetarian patties made from black eyed peas. We also found out that clams stink up the house.
-We are apparently out of air freshener.
-The good news is I have cobbled together enough Christmas money and leftover lunch money to buy that camera lens I want. The bad news is you will be subjected to my learning curve with the new lens.
-We have to take Papa T. to the doctor's office tomorrow for lab work. Pray for us brothers and sisters. It could be a long afternoon.
-And mama called me today on my cell phone to ask me if I had bought that new cell phone yet. She said she wanted to find out if my cell number had changed. Doy.

Giggle of the Day

On the morning commute I had my iPod on "Top 25 Songs". I never use that setting. Apparently, number 4 in my iPod library of most listened to songs is the Reverend James Cleveland's Get Right Church. Number 5? Joan Jett's Do You Want To Touch Me. I giggled so hard the guy in the big beer truck next to me at the stoplight looked at me like I was crazy.

Seasons in the Sun

When I went searching for winter beauty shots Saturday, I immediately headed for the wildlife refuge near my house. I’m guaranteed to find some great nature subjects there, plus it’s a very soothing place to be. It’s quiet. There’s rarely any traffic, and I can stumble around the edges of the refuge without getting shot for trespassing on private property. People are very funny about having their property photographed, and there are a lot of gun owners around these parts. I spend a lot of time in ditches on public right of ways.

The refuge was beautiful in its winter dusting of snow. The sun shined brightly on the sparkles of crystal, and the snow had gone untouched except for the occasional deer tracks. My boots left the only mark of man, and I tried to step lightly. It seemed wrong to disturb the snow there. It was just a beautiful place to be, despite the frigid temperatures. I felt very close to God, and not just because I was praying for warmth.

I always find something new there to capture with the camera, but I especially like to revisit certain spots to catch a plant or patch of water in the different seasons. I enjoy seeing how things change from season to season. See?

The boat on the pond in the spectacular fall sun.
And again in the winter, covered in snow.

The fluttering leaves on the trees around the pond in October.
And the papery bare branches in January.

There’s more. Like that patch of standing water. Fall.
Winter.

The fences that surrounds it. Fall.
Winter.

I could do this all day. Fall goldenrod.
Winter goldenrod.

And my favorite. My beloved sunflowers. I have three seasons of these. Summer.
Fall.
And winter.

Cool. I must admit, this whole process has given me a better appreciation for winter. I'm not ready to say I like winter. I'm just tolerating it a whole lot better than I did last year because I'm pausing to examine it closely. I’d like to have photos of a few of my favorite "refuge" subjects in all four seasons, so I can display them in some way in my house. I need two more seasons. I can’t wait for spring. But I've gotta get some better boots.

Thank Goodness for Under Armor

Our temperatures were in the single digits this weekend, with wind chills at the bottom of the thermometer. It was cold enough to stick your tongue to a flag pole. If you were so inclined. I was not. In fact, I wasn’t in the mood to do much of anything this past weekend. I just wanted to huddle inside in front of the fireplace with Ford County and let John Grisham amuse me between bowls of homemade soup. However, the light layer of snow kept teasing me with its glistening little wisps, fluttering around the yard and gleaming in the sun like Hollywood made for movie snow, all the time whispering, “Wienie”. Sometimes we get only one snow a winter, and even though it was butt freezing cold, I was afraid I’d miss my only opportunity this year for snow pictures, so I pulled on three layers, a hat, gloves and boots and headed for the door with my camera. And my cell phone in case I fell in a wet ditch and needed someone to pull me out before my core body temperature dropped to sixty degrees.

I’m sometimes jealous of folks like A New England Life, who seem to be surrounded by photogenic scenery such as bridges and gristmills that lend themselves to beautiful snow covered landscapes. We just don’t get that kind of snow around here, and this is farm country, so historic buildings are rare in my neighborhood. However, this is a beautiful part of the country, and I like sharing it with you. That way if you never get to Kentucky you’ll know that there’s more to us than the stereotypes you see in the movies and that one tornado victim with no teeth the reporters always find for national news stories. This, my dear readers, is my community in January’s frosty squeeze.