Shining

I don't usually gripe about books, but some are over the top. For example, The Shining. A writer gets trapped in a house while it snows and snows and snows. The writer vigorously types red rum over and over, slips the frail bonds of sanity, and makes life, quite literally, impossible for just about everyone around him. Any writer worth her salt will tell you that winter snows envelop true wordsmiths in a coccoon of creativity. Words flow faster to the gentle drip of the faucet and the soft buzz of computer speakers. The hum of the refrigerator and the sniffs of family members gathered close spark inspiration. Cats rushing to the door every five minutes to check for sunshine provide powerbreaks. Dog toenails clicking up and down the hall mark passing minutes like word counts and editors define articles--too many words or not enough, inconsistent, rigid, not our style, not quite what we're looking for, not feeling it, haven't looked at it. But that's o.k. The soft snow restricts my donut breaks, my walks, my lunches out and my swim time. I'm fine with it. I am so much more creative when I'm snugged tight in my cozy home. The family sniffs. The dog clicks. A cat meows. That damn cheerful fabric softener smell permeates the walls. Or maybe the scent is shampoo. Or sour milk. Or fish food. It can't be fish food, we don't have a fish. If I could get to the store, we might have a fish. That would explain the lingering smell. And if I could get to the store to buy the fish, I could get to the donut shop. Maybe I will purchase a dolphin and a dozen glazed donuts. Or two dozen glazed and no dolphin. What if that scent isn't fish food? It could be elephant chow, but that smell isn't peanuts. But what else would an elephant eat? Would an elephant let the cats out, hand Birdie a tissue or convince Big Guy to cut back on bacon. Bacon. I haven't thought about bacon. Now I'm thinking about bacon. The editor didn't ask for a bacon article, but she needs one. That's what the elephant says. It is right here, but on my left. The elephant, not the bacon. I'll cry if she wanted an article on ham, not bacon. Maybe they'll pay me any way. Stunod. Stunod. Stunod. Stunod. Stunod.

Ticks

If it looks like a tick, it is probably not a mole. I have more experience with ticks than I would care to have. Summertime walks in South Georgia along paths lined with tall grass occassionally resulted in a tick or two hitching a ride. Those I'd fling back into the grass. There, the parasites would wait knowing I would eventually return only to fling them once again. Yes, I shuddered as I flung them. But flinging a tick is better than feeding one. The tick I recall best is one I found latched to the middle of my back. It was after midnight. I was checking into my second hotel of the evening--the first having given me the "smoking room," saying that is what I reserved. The desk clerk knew, and I knew, I was getting the smoking room because I'd checked in at nearly midnight and they didn't think they would have to honor my guaranteed reservation. Shame on you, Country Inn near the Omaha airport. But, back to ticks. I was already feeling sorry for myself with the hotel change. The tick almost sent me over the edge. Do I go to the front desk and beg some overnight shift clerk to pull it off? Certainly it wasn't to remain bound to me for the night. Not wanting to test the clerk, I somehow managed enough weird contortions to dislodge it. Unfortunately, I don't know where the tick went. My bet, a few nights later a guest filled out a complaint card about finding ticks. At that point, not my problem. And I slept fine. I've also removed ticks from Girl Scouts and, one time, 40-plus ticks from a dog. So I was disappointed and a bit grossed out to discover Flonotes picked up two ticks as followers. One is fairly benign as far as ticks go. Her follower icon looks like a crab and it seems that she "follows" hundreds of blogs to get her crab logo displayed, generate interest and sell her art. If her art looks like her follower icon, I'm thinking the public health clinics are her natural market. My other tick is the kind that I hate to think will move on to be someone else's problem. He is a racist hatemonger. If he were the tick on my back, I would have carved loose a huge chunk of flesh to be rid of him. If he were a tick in the grass, I would have burned the field. I hate to imagine a tick like this near Girl Scouts, dogs or anyone I care for. So, I've made a few changes. No more blog followers. It is too easy for one follower to contact another. Also, I see any comments before they are posted. I haven't had many comments, but this way I know hatemongers and their friends can't get any farther than my words. Keeping reading. I'm tick free.

Not Gonna Share

Snow Sidewalks

I never thought about sidewalks and snow until I had a dog to walk. For the typical no-snow, nighttime, winter trip out, I slip on whatever shoes lay by the kitchen door, grab a coat, a leash and Tequila--the dog, of course. She trots out to sniff delightedly at secret dog messages that mark her path and eventually does her duty. I follow along, gazing at stars and wondering why some neighbors never close the drapes, while others never open them. Snow changes everything. Even as the first flakes fall, some sidewalks are shoveled; other sidewalks are not and within a few days, these turn into lethal ice patches. All of which compells me to put on snow boots to traipse through a mishmash of shoveled and unshoveled paths. Worrying about undignified slips and wrist-breaking falls cuts into my star-gazing and neighbor-watching. Tequila still sniffs and does her business, though keep in mind she has four feet and is much closer to the ground. If I were a better person, I would pick up after Tequila  no matter what. But I'm more selective. The spring thaw will yield a few surprises along the unshoveled stretches. Tequila is a tiny thing, so the gifts will likely go unnoticed. But I will know and that is good enough.

A Night Out

It has taken a few days for Big Guy and I to recover from dinner with Brad and Angelina. Flaming cheese, Brazilian sugar cane and sangria drinks, martinis, baklava and even a belly dancer--a professional belly dancer, not me and not Angelina. Add to that, the ability to keep tabs on the teens, via cell phone. I don't know that our Birdie or their Swan appreciated the blaring middle eastern,  Greekish music in the background when we called to confirm their evening plans. After all, Birdie and Swan are supposed to be foot-loose and fancy-free. Our role is to be old and home at night, as God intends. In the natural order of things, teachers live in classroom closets, police officers hang at yellow traffic lights, dentists invest in candy companies, doctors make up reasons to give shots and parents have no life. Proper parents watch history on t.v., cook vegetables, put away things so they can't be found, comment about how someone (else) needs to get the trash and say, "Do I look like an ATM?" They always wear bad clothes. And like chickens, as soon as the sun starts to set, parents head to the master bedroom coop to sleep. Parents with friends or lives totally apart from parenting buck everything that is known about adults. That is the good news for Birdie and Swan. One day, they will discover being a parent of teens beats being a teen. We have money and commonsense. We don't have a curfew clock for anyone to watch. But we will be home by 11 p.m. because that is way past our bedtime.

Snow Cat

Shovel Time

Yesterday's snow shoveling provided ample time to think, especially as there was nearly a foot of white stuff covering the driveway. First, I figured out why Big Guy went to work--that would be to limit his shoveling to two tire tracks worth of driveway. Second, I dwelled a bit on how I was moving mountains of snow while Birdie snuggled in bed reading a library book. I quit dwelling when Birdie appeared a few minutes later. I observed the elves across the street briskly shoveling their driveway. The elves grew up in a war torn east European country. As a young couple, with a baby, they were kicked out for believing in God their way. I wondered if they missed their childhood winters of endless snow. Probably not. But they shovel really well. Once they cleared their driveway and sidewalk, they shoveled the trolls' sidewalk and even a path from the troll mailbox to the troll front door. Elves keep busy. Although I wish they would rethink surrendering the cookie business to the Girl Scouts. Not a single Girl Scout has tempted me with Thin Mints. Neighborhood kids emerged. An eight-year-old convinced another eight-year-old to be partners in a snowball fight against a five-year-old and four-year-old. Not a fair fight, but eventually the younger ones will become the older ones and a new set of babes will be pummelled with snowballs. At some point, Birdie determined we were done shoveling. I reminded her about the walk to the front door. I cleared it while she swept snow from cars. Much later, the mailman trudged up the walk to deliver the mail. I was glad I cleared the way for him. I would have been happier, if he were a Girl Scout with a cookie order. With all that shoveling, I earned my Thin Mints.