morning buns

Wet soggy Monday traffic jam.  8 a.m. meeting with a packed agenda and not enough time.  Zip through some proofs that look like hell.   Where is my original drawing?  What happened to the white space?  For the love of god, am I the only one that pays attention to scale?  This type is screaming so loud I can’t hear myself come unglued. 

Open a drawer and slam it shut.  Do it again to make sure someone heard me.  

Throw my head back to scream.  Decide to tear my hair out instead.  What is that on my head?  My god it feels like it belongs to a wild animal.  Don’t dare look in the mirror — I might slit my throat.

I — need — an — intervention.

Wait.  Just hold on.  I can do this —  I’ve got affirmations!

“I let go easily and with grace.” 

Again —

Ok — Again.

Oh no.  Not the bucket of water.  

Game over for this green witch today.

But tomorrow —

Tomorrow, will be different.  Tomorrow —

I will have morning buns. 

Yep.

Early risers need morning buns —

And I’m gonna get me some.

skirt raisin’

What? — WHAT?

It’s a famous fish come callin’ in the middle of the night. 

The Incredible Mr. Limpet (please god, no) on a special mission.

Cartoon in the boudoir — did I ask for this?

Ah — not quite what I meant by other fish in the sea.  But then you never know.  

Might be something here I need right now.  An answer to a question I’ve posed? 

Is that what it is?  Careful how you wish?

After all, that was the working title of this film.  

How I wish —  how I wish —

That it?  An affirmation (I have the most wonderful man in my life) gone wrong? 

I said ‘man’ not fish — ‘life’ not bathtub.

Fish got nice lips, at least.

I’ll raise my skirt to that.

10-foot tiara

A spankin’ new Minnesota Twins ball cap rides the head of the ex-nun formerly known as H.B. today.

Could be a ten-foot-tiara as far as I’m concerned.

Left the order in 1965, she said, because she wasn’t “good at obedience.”

Yep, doesn’t take more than a minute with her to know she’s got one helluva spine — and the world’s a better place because of it.  

Better because of her exuberance.  And her belief that miracles are everywhere.  In opera and the island of Manhatten and in every child’s fingerprint. 

Better because she’s got a back bone that’s both strong and sassy. 

Katharine Hepburn riding a skateboard regal.

We’re led to believe women are crowned by circumstance, and that’s true in part.  But I believe we’re each born with a tiara that has the potential to rise 10 feet in the air.

Only question is —

will we grow the spine to support it?

It’s never too late to leave the order.

smiley rolling pin

The best thing on the market to prevent frown lines today isn’t sold by the ounce.

It’s not made from copper, tea, coenzymes or hydroxy acids. 

Doesn’t come in a pump or a travel size — or a million different generations of a million different brands.

Nope. 

It’s been designed with no waste in mind, the authentic ones are made of wood, and best of all — it has the potential to be one the few lifetime purchases this world has to offer.

Quick question.  When was the last time your rolling pin saw the light of play?  Do you even have a rolling pin?

I’m convinced my Grandma Cookie’s creative, satisfying and very long life had something to do with the fact that she used her rolling pin every day for more than half of it.  That — and she was good with the pruning sheers.  But that’s a whole ’nother topic.

Think about it. 

A device in the 21st century that happily engages both hands, applies perfect pressure to the dough, and brings masterpieces to life.  

A swift and trusty rolling pin, full flour bin and a good brick of lard might just be the real Secret. 

Oh, I know it’s not fancy, but you gotta agree with me on this — if you’re lucky enough to have a good rolling pin, then you’re lucky enough.

And, if you’re lucky enough to have a good rolling pin and it’s stuck in the back of a drawer — well then —

You’re just stupid. 

bouncin’ with moxie

It’s come up more than a coupla times this week.

In more than a few different ways.

Go ahead and fall down 99 times —

But get up a hundred.

I have to admit, I am pretty good at getting up.  In fact, I’ve actually been told this more than a few times in my crash dummy life. 

One pronouncement was even put to music — ode to me ‘tubthumping’ on the double blacks.

“You know what I love about you? —

 ”You get knocked down — but you get up again.”

Yes I do.  Maybe a tiny bit worse for the wear, but always clutching a spangle. 

I thank the God who put moxie in my veins — and my butt.   Because it’s truly been my saving grace. 

You know, the great thing about moxie is that it gets better with age. 

Or maybe we just get better at stoking it. 

When I was younger I possessed a sure-footedness I thought would never leave me.  And that was probably true — if I would’ve made the comfort zone my lifetime residence. 

But once I struck out, sure ‘nuf, I started falling.  Hard.

And after the initial pain, most of it self-inflicted, ’twas moxie that got me up again.  Helped me get to the joy in the recovery.  And over time — seems like a long time —

Helped me arrive at the place today where —

I’d much rather die fallin than not tryin at all.

where there’s smoke

It started with a slight mumur as I was leaving the post office counter.

Not like whispering behind my back, mind you.  The speech was directed at me, though offered a tad tentatively.  Too soft to be understood, but loud enough to make me stop mid-stride, turn my head, find the source. 

The woman who spoke leans against the tall glass case display of DVD titles.  She shifts her weight, snickers nervously when our eyes meet.

“Hmmm?” my face implores.  She repeats herself, tossing her salt and pepper head to one side and giving another snicker.

“Your boots are hot.”

Knock me over with a feather.  Did she really just say that?

“Thank you,” I laugh, blushing and turning away. 

From the woman at the counter who just waited on me, ”Yeah, I noticed too.  Hot.”

“Thank you,” I laugh in both directions.  And then split.

Spotting a dreamy jacket in a shop window a few minutes later, I stop.  Holding it up for closer inspection, I’m interrupted by “ooh la la — those boots.”  I look into the smiling beautiful butternut face belonging to the spicy accent. 

She gives me a little shimmy, adding, “Now those boots are for me.”  Her co-worker’s right there with “oh yah, gotta have those.”

What is going on here?  Am I on candid camera?

“Thank you.  Yes —,” I’m laughing again, “well — thank you.”

In the next shop, I linger over a fresh looking sprig of a scarf no more than a moment before it happens again.  “I just gotta tell you — those boots are—”

Then, in unison with her co-worker — “Hot!”

Yahtzee! 

Next stop, shoes and bags.  Barely get my hand out of the holster to feel up a sweet pair of pink pumps, when —

“I’m admiring your boots,” she purrs.  “Hot.”

 From her smartly dressed sidekick, “Super sexy.”

By now I want to bow.  Throw a few kisses.  These things aren’t boots.  They’re rock stars. 

Then it hits me. 

I’m a veritable pied piper in patents with not a single male follower!

Is my smoke blowin’ up the wrong chimney? 

I’m standin’ there shakin’ in my boots for a cool minute when I see a man approaching.  Watching his face closely, I notice his eyes shift toward the floor in front of him. 

Down so far his eye brows just about crash into his nose.

Oui! Oui!  Mille fois oui!!!

green ball jets

There’s gotta be a word for it.

You know.  It’s kind of — an urge. 

An irrational and slightly wicked, possibly dangerous and incredibly ticklish urge.  

An irresistible feeling to go ahead and do that something you think you know better not to do.

It’s in the same vein as laughing in church or telling an off-color joke at a work function.  But much more — well, naughty.

Like what would happen if I didn’t wear pants to work naughty.  Or how much fun it would be to pinch the CEO’s ass and then push my boss into his line of sight naughty.

Maybe naughty isn’t quite what I’m tryin’ to say now that I think of it —

Hmmm — it’s really more thrill seeking in nature.  Comes from a place deep inside that is perhaps — adventure deprived.

The part of you that doesn’t get out much and really really needs a good pedal to the metal no holds barred joyride.

Think driving hands-free into a blazing miracle wearing nothin but green ball jets. 

This very minute.

Yah, that’s it.

But what’s the word for it?

why wait?

Last night it was Eddie Murphy in the bedroom with the candle stick.

And I’m not talkin game of Clue. 

I wake slightly amused, remembering I’ve got my annual exam this morning.  Is it possible there’s a connection between the black cohosh I’ve been taking and this suddenly star struck libido of mine? 

I add it to the list under the topic of “supplements.”

Then cross it out and make a new heading.

“Deficiencies.” 

How many moons has it been?  I’m not sayin. 

But I am countin.

wild wellies

Ever notice how scarce walkable space actually becomes when the snow finally melts?

Every step is a tradeoff of splats as people and pooches hit the paths in droves and feet face off for premium path share. 

Principles of springtime pathonomics.

Pile or pothole?  Pothole or puddle? 

Flip you for the path —

If you please — or —

Guess not. 

Passive and polite will get you mud every time.

That’s why I wear wellies.  Wild wellies stand their ground. 

And they won’t back down. 

spring break

 

Crocus heads break through the dirt everywhere else on earth, but in Minnesota the first signs of spring are posted.  Keep off the ice.   Break throughs possible.

Sounds good to me.

I’ll start by breaking into a gallop just because it’s in the air.  Then I’ll go ahead and break up with my winter blanket. 

I’m dying to break in a new pair of sneakers — and there’s the broom to break out and windows that need cleaning — that I’ll try not to break.

While I’m at it, I’ll break into laughter that will soar like a fleet of yellow kites against the blue sky — bold enough to break a heart or two. 

I’ll break my gaze with the past.  Let things that never were break themselves against the clean pavement.

Break the wrapper on a new set of goals.  Break the lock on my bike because I lost the key — again.

Crocus heads will break too.  Sometime soon. 

And I will break myself open like a bottle of spring champagne runoff. 

Salute.