I had a great day yesterday. Absolutely awesome! 1. The sun was shining. 2. I saw Owl while brushing my teeth and had a happy staring contest with him/her. 3. My boob squish was just that, a squished boob. According to the doc, nothing to worry about. Phew. 4. I had a FANTASTIC lunch with a friend with lots of chatting about the meaning of life and love and art and family. 5. And then, she took me to an antique store where I found this guy: Isn’t he pretty? This guy looks like my father. Or what I remember my father looking like. The funny-cool-spooky thing is that at lunch, I’d told my friend my whole Jerry Springer-esq life story and how I thought that my father looked like the rhinos from Babar the Elephant. The King Rataxes rhino to be specific. And then we found him, my new favorite thing, and my day just got more awesome. My relationship with my father is confusing and icky. When my parents split, I was eight. When I next saw him again, I was twenty-eight. There was little or no conversation between us in the interim years. When we met again, I was an unmarried woman with no children, a shaved head and no interest or prospects in getting married and having children. He could not relate to me. I could not relate to him. We had one very weird day wandering around Washington DC trying to connect. We didn’t. Our very weird day was followed by an even weirder night were I got to eat with the men while the women ate in the kitchen and the men they tried to set me up with the only single – and very gay – man in the room and convince me that I should have babies. It was the last time I saw him. And the last time I spoke with him. A bizarre final goodbye. When he died a few years later, despite the lack of connection, I’d somehow still thought that we’d someday have that moment where world would suddenly start to move in slow motion, the music would swell and we would have that touching father daughter moment worthy of a hallmark movie. Even though I knew it would never happen, those stupid movies led me to believe it might. My father's death meant we never would. It was a heartbreaking reality check that took me ages to get over. But I did. Phew. RANDOM SIDE NOTE: Did you know when someone dies in Kenya, some funeral traditions including taking a picture with the coffin? The dead person IN the coffin and people/family/random friends next to the coffin with what looks like a passport photo of the dead guy on top of the coffin. It’s creepy weird. I have pictures from my father’s funeral. It’s sad and weird and odd and yet, I just can’t get enough of looking at them all standing there awkwardly next to the dead guy - who happens to be my father - in a coffin and his passport photo on top of said coffin for all eternity. Don't believe me? Here is a picture of The Old Woman – who might be my grandmother. My father had two mothers so not totally sure – anyway, a picture of maybe-grandma and dead father’s coffin with dead father IN coffin and picture of dead father on top. And a picture of all the folks from hanging out behind dead father's coffin with picture of dead father on top. Just odd.
ANYWAY - To sum up: 1. Yesterday good, great lunch with friend, 2. Talk about my dad etc 3. Show and tell pic of dead dad etc 4. Shopping with friend and finally, 5. AWESOME rhino art named Henry. Good - nay - GREAT day!
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About a month after I started this blog, Brother called me to congratulate me. The conversation went something like this: In a weird twist of fate, a friend of mine from years ago sent me this pic last night. I'm not sure if Hannah Stone is the artist or not. She does some awesome pet portraits so it could be hers. Anyway, my friend sent it to me because he said it reminded him of my new life in Tennessee. The timing could not have been better. To all my Henrys out there, you may fornicate under consent of the King. Husband had the stomach flu last week and all of our conversations became bowel related. I’d like to say that this is a rare thing but it’s not. His conversations with me – or rather his declarations to me are usually bowel related. I love him.
Anyway, yesterday morning, Husband asked me a question about the color of poop. More specifically, he asked what he might have been eating that would affect the color of his output. (Don’t worry. I don’t have pictures.) I told him all I knew was that if it was black, there was probably blood in the stool but past that little gem of info, I didn’t have a clue. “I wonder if there is an app for that?” We said at the same time. Well folks, you'll be happy to know, I’ve looked and there is an app for that! It’s called the Poo Log and it’s $0.99 it, and it has, and I quote: a digital timer and journal for recording and studying the wondrous uniqueness of each bowel movement…. It is the top choice app for discerning Poo-ers everywhere…. This digital Poo Log makes every trip to the can an e-loo-cidating experience. Yup. Want a digital log for tracking your poo? That exists. Now, I can barely get my food intake entered to my Lose It app, odds are entries to one about my poop would suffer the same fate. And what are you supposed to do with the info once you have it? Share it? With whom? I realize there’s a Facebook page but what the heck?! Husband’s sharing his output with me has put me off many a thing. Should I subject others to the same fate? I’m still bothering people with pictures of my womb - which I totally think kind of resembles a heart - I sure can’t imagine adding info about my bowel movements to any topic of conversation. I’m sure to lose what friends I have over that one. I also found an app called Places I’ve Pooped. It’s pretty self-explanatory; in that it helps you track all the places you’ve pooped in the world. Just in case that is how you'd like to keep track of the places you’ve been, by taking note of where you've pooped. It is free should you be interested. And a twelve year old boy. And I found an app called Run Pee for $0.99. Run Pee is to help you with your movie theatre experience. It gives you advice about when is the most optimum time for you make a break for the bathroom during the movie so you don't miss anything plot important or blow 'em exciting. This would be very useful for a friend of mine who has her own internal map of where of every bathroom in her town is. She should totally parlay that into her own app. There seems to be money in bowel moments. And then, while hunting through Google for answers, I got sidetracked by the bizarre wonder that is IVoodoo app. An app that will let you stab/curse five dolls at the same time? Five dolls that you can name and a face to, complete with a picture as you stab/curse them? Who needs that? Well, and I quote again: In today’s society it can be difficult to whip up a voodoo doll and stick it full of pins. Which is a pity because in our modern lives there are a lot of reasons to do just that. Wow. So creepy and practical. I really could have used this a few years back. OH! Maybe the evil one had a digital doll of me and was sticking virtual pins in it the whole time. That would explain a whole lot about what went down and all those weird pains I was having… it's a thought. Anyway, who'd a thunk that a snarky comment of Husband's would lead me down path of this post? Who'd a thunk that if you want to know anything about your poo, you'd be able to find an app for that on the Internet? Not I. But now I know and I've shared my wealth of information with you. You’re welcome. With the monotony of routine, I pull on the door to the garage, twisting my fingers to turn the lock and shut it behind me, my other hand pushing the garage door opener. Skirting husband pretty car, I open the door to my Smart, tossing my purse and phone onto the passage seat, I clamber on inside, my lower back screaming obscenities at me. Engine on, heated seat on garage door fully open, I pull the car door closed and grab the seatbelt and click it closed. Sliding gearshift into drive, I look up and I spot her. She is perched on the frosty lawn of the neighbors next door, her fuzzy head jerkily turning in every direction. Leaving the car running, I hunt for my phone in the mess of the car seat with one hand while attempting to undo the seatbelt with the other. Phone found I try to slide from the car without drawing attention to myself. She, of course, spots me the moment I start to stand. We are at an impasse, both of us staring, neither of us moving. Feeling bolstered by the bubbles of excitement coursing through me, I raise the phone that serves as my camera up to take a shot. And in the time it take me to move my eye off her and onto the lens, she is off. Up into the air, over the sticks that were once a green and leafy fence, across the snow-specked yard and into her tree. Smiling, I turn and get back into the car, the tediousness of my routine invigorated, I drive out of the garage, fumble with the garage door closer and drive up and around to the front of the house. Slowing as I get to the spot she and Mr. Owl spend their days, I spot her. She is perched branch of the large tree, out in the open, not hiding behind the branches of the evergreen, as they are prone to do. I quickly stop the car and again try to subtly sneak a picture, buzzing the window down, raising the camera to my eye. With a jerk of her head in disdain, she spreads her wings and makes the short flight into the cover of the evergreen. Window up, my mood a whole lot brighter I drive slowly by her, smiling at her as she watches me leave, perched a few branches apart from her mate, something I’ve not seen before. They are too concealed in the branches and my phone is too inferior for a picture. I watch them for a moment, letting the encounter wash the residual of boredom from me. Freshly motivated all life can be, I drive off leaving the Mr. and Mrs. safe in the cover of their tree. Sunday, I check the lawn carefully as I drive out of the garage. It is empty of Owl. I drive around the front of the house, slowing as I pass their tree, hunting through the camouflage of green and brown for a hint of feather. And I spot her. AND him. They are sitting RIGHTNEXT to each other on a branch, first date close. I idle the car while buzzing the window down. I’m too far for anything but a blurry shot with my phone camera. I send Husband a frantic text to please take a picture with a real camera. I take one last look at the pair as I leave for work, humming. I get this picture in a text from in the middle of my workday. It fills me with joy. Monday, while doing my slow drive out of the driveway, I spot Mrs. sitting in the branch near the street. She is still there when I get back an hour later so into the house for the real camera and right back out into the cold I go. I snap dozens of shots of her as I walk up the driveway and onto the road. From the road, I am almost on the same level as her. Folks driving home think I’m stalking the neighbors. Good thing we think they are dead. Owl is not impressed with my interpretation of the paparazzi but she sits for a bit and lets me shoot a few more before turning her back on me and flying away. It’s obvious when I look at the shots that they aren’t the same Mrs. or Mr. Owl. This might be Larry or Moe from last year's baby batch. I don’t care. They are awesome. Uncle is a bird guy. He’d know and he’d be just as excited as I am that we have Owls.
I send Uncle my pictures. ME: I understand your love of birds a little bit more. I don’t think I’ll be this excited over little brown birds but Owls are pretty freakin' cool. Uncle shoots me an email back. UNCLE: Tell Husband you need these: (and he sends me this link for the Swarovski SwaroVision Binocular.)That’s where you’re headed if you don’t watch out. I click on the link. Holy Batman? $2579,00! I am retiring as paparazzi. The kitchen is slowly becoming a functional place here. The counter tops are in. The sink is installed and water actually comes out of the faucet and mostly goes down the drain. So the countertop installer guys have to come back because the sink isn’t really attached to the countertop. So it isn't quite level. So the cooktop is just sitting on top of the counter and there is a empty cabinet where the fridge and the oven should be. So Husband STILL can’t eat much more than a bowl of cereal or toast in the house. He’s moved up to cereal folks! This kitchen is getting real! I spent the last few days unwrapping boxes filled with kitchen items we haven’t seen since the fall of 2012. I wrapped things really well so it was a bit like Christmas opening them all up. And then I spent far too long trying to figure out where to put things so that they would be useful when cooking actually starts to happen in the house. And here is when I ran into a few problems - When you design a kitchen, especially when you haven’t actually used a kitchen to cook in for a year, you think about the big things – like where the fridge should go and how high you want the counter tops. And sometimes you think about the every day things like where the tea and the teacups should go and what side is best for the dishwasher. But you seldom think about the little things like – where the stupid potato masher is going to go and where should you put the little round doohickey that makes your egg into a egg McMuffin shape that Husband only really used that one summer but now needs a space to live. Because if you had thought about the potato masher while you were designing the kitchen, perhaps the first drawer, the one next to the stove where the mashing would be happening, would be deep enough to hold the masher without slamming into the top and etching the top of the drawer front. (Shhhh don’t tell Husband. I’m planning on blaming the dog.) And the round doohickey really should be easy to find should I want to make my eggs round someday. That someday when the cooktop actually works and isn’t just a very pretty shiny thing on top of the counter not connected to gas or electricity or vented through the non-existent cupboard that should live above it. And you don't think the fact that, when it comes to putting all the various tools of the trade into the pretty new gleaming drawers, that not one of the cutlery holder things – and we have ten randomly sized cutlery holder things - not one of those ten will fit your pretty new shiny drawers. It’s like the Three Bears over here - this one is too big. That one is too small. This one won’t hold a thing larger than a teaspoon. That one won’t hold the stupid potato masher… You get the idea. And why do they only give you two shelves in the cupboard that is specifically for glasses and plates. The cupboard that is tall enough for three shelves only has two. Now who cares if I can’t really reach past a possible third shelf? That’s what stepladders are for. Shelves are for putting all your plates and glasses on – not just the ones that will fit on the two shelves that came with the cupboard. I won’t even bring up the extra two boxes of plates I found that we don’t use but Husband doesn’t want to say goodbye to. And what in the heck were we thinking would go into the three large drawers on the peninsula? They are too big to count as cutlery drawers and too small to hold the blender. If I had a child and no crib, it would be a perfect sleeping place but what the heck else should go in there? A cat or a small dog? Right now, it’s holding eight of the ten cutlery holder things and the door panels for the dishwasher. Not a great use of space but I did just realize that we still got kitchen boxes in the basement with random kitchen items waiting to be rediscovered. Items I forgot I had, like the stupid McMuffin thing. I’m sure to find something to fill the drawer that is less wiggly than a baby and less furry than a cat. I hope. And finally, let us discuss the Lazy Susan. As excited as I was about it’s installation into our kitchen, it is really not a practical use of space. There are chunks of the cabinet where I could stash something IF the stupid Susan thing in the middle didn’t ever turn. Because when it does turn – and I still think that part is cool - it knocks all the things in the corner so using it as a storage space won’t work. Of course, with nothing in the corners and appliances in the middle, it actually looks quite pretty and display(ish), like in one of those house magazines. We shall see how long that lasts! Oooh, come to think of it, that useless corner might be a great place to hide stash my Heath Bars and potato chips from Husband… Now, I'm off to unpack more boxes. Okay, really just to sit here at the counter and drink more tea and pretend I'm upset that I can't cook in the house yet while looking at useless things on the internet to fill my brain space and stalking the Owls in the tree outside... Happiness! |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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