Handsome, young man in a handsome, grey suit,
No tie, open collar, hands in pockets…business casual.
Elevator takes us to the same floor, him and me.
“Are you one of our guests?” I query.
“I am here to meet with ________ __________.” (I think that is our CEO)
“Ah,” says I. “It’s a good day for a meeting.”
“Why do you say that?” he asks, finally looking at me, no smile.
I grin, door opens, we move to our respective corners…
And it was a good day, all in all.
Julie took the blue for her Bloody Mary pickles!
Max, for a watercolor painting!
Ryan for her poem about the color pink!
The Gonzales trifecta hit the Denver County Fair without mercy!
They all take first place in my heart!
Looking back over the last year or so, I realize how I slowly, but surely withdrew, shut down, lost interest, raged. Yes, yes, it was all reasonable, diagnosed, to be expected. The wallowing in my own misery was fine, okay; no shame in it; understandable… Yadda yadda yadda…
Please do not rub my back again. I really do not like being touched. Please stop being empathetic. Expect me to handle it, damn it! Expect more of me. Expect me to rise! Rise, rise, rise.
People sicken. People die. Hearts break. Fear of more heartbreak engulfs, stifles. Yes, yes, yes.
People age. Employers hire and fire, with impunity. Rage, rage, rage.
“That’s life, Kid.” “This too shall pass.” Stop wasting time: Get back in the game! Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!
Finally, at last, I tire of it – the misery. I choose to turn my head to the garden, the sky, the giggle of my grands, good food, books; my cute little Mini with its pink fuzzy dice and its magic “sport” button.
Ye writers have worked your magic; sustained me through my personal exile by merely continuing your personal ventures. Thank you. Me thinks I am set to get back to the tale twisting in my brain; to put pen to paper, keyboard to screen.
“Huzzah!”, says the young script writer with whom I work daily. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
Once, years ago, when broke, but determined to build my library, I started buying up $1 “classics” and bargain books. $1.00 was the limit. One such book was by Philip Roth, which I THOUGHT was entitled THE BEAST. I thought, aha! Some gothic, psychological tome by a master of the absurd.
When I got home, and pulled it out to read, I realized the correct title was THE BREAST! uhhh?
HILARIOUS! This man who loves women’s breasts one day bursts, his bones disintegrate, his legs, arms, head submerge, and he BECOMES an actual breast… he is taken to a research hospital to live his life in a hammock HAAAA… he was a college professor, so he thinks he can grade papers, if someone will read them to him (his eyes are lost somewhere in the flesh)… he is highly offended when people cannot take him seriously, and spend their time laughing. He makes frequent appeals to “Dear Readers,” for compassion and understanding, sigh. It was a surprising, great read I’ve never forgotten.
So, this morning, on news of his death, I lift of my cup of coffee to Philip Roth, Author Extraordinaire…life well shared, stories well told…when we miss him, we can read his books, and imagine he’s sitting in a chair across the room waiting for the laughs….
The Great British Baking Show has captured my attention.
I am oft unsure just what they’re making. What IS a spotted dick?
Four types of sponge, self saucing cake, and I must not fail to mention
Pork pies, fruit pies, crispy, tasty biscuits, all making a hopeful sick,
what if Mary Berry, or Mr. Hollywood miss a baker’s favorite trick.
Paula has the job of keeping Ted fed.
She always makes a healthy meal before Ted goes to bed.
Sometimes she cooks up pasta in a luscious tomato sauce;
Sometimes a juicy tofu pie, egg washed to a high gloss.
Ted tells us all how wonderfully she masters every meal.
So we all try to visit once a year an excellent meal to steal.
written whilst watching the Great British Baking Contest… I do think they are picking on Norman, whose goodies quite good to me.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE TALLEST OF US ALL!
Tick, tick, tick, tick …
I do not like the looks of a tick.
The looks of a tick make me quite sick.
I do not like how a tick can stick,
Stick, stick, stick, stick until you flick it off your arm.
I do not like that a tick can bite,
Bite, bite, bite, bite until your sticky blood runs warm.
I do not like a tick bite itch
Itch, itch, itch, itch until you pitch a royal fit.
A royal fit because a tick bite made you itch.
I do not like ticks, not even one.
I do not like ticks. They are not fun.
I do not like the looks of a tick.
I do not like how a tick can stick.
I do not like the bite of a tick.
I do not like that ticks make me sick.
I do not like ticks, it is true.
I do not like them, how about you?
I freely admit I totally dislike every single tick. They drive you to distraction; some can make you sick.
You do not always notice them, until they’ve burrowed in. You scream and slap and scrape and scratch, wearing your skin quite thin.
Brush your hair? You’ll find them there.
Hike across rocks; find ticks in your socks.
Ticks will show up any place, behind your ear… right on your face.
They hitch rides on your winter jacket, hiding in the closed front placket.
Those moving freckles on your arm? Brush them off before they do you harm.
Ticks will drive you crazy, that is really quite certain. Just stand in the middle of the room. Avoid touching any curtain.
Carry a book of matches wherever you may go to burn them off, blow them up, stop their blood flow.
Ticks, ticks, ticks, ticks…the bane of pine tree forests. Spray your oil, rub your skin, make sure you get your rest.
You will need it if you live with ticks.
note: need to work on the meter