Cabin Fever

In my day to day, my job is people. I'm paid to know what someone wants before they want it, to read their body language because their bodies have failed them and they don't have words to tell me what they need. I'm good at it.

No. Actually, I'm great at it.

In my down time I'm with people.

People I love. But I fall into the role of service with even my closest friends.
In my volunteer time, I give my last bits of energy to more people.

I am tired.

And there's no sunlight recharging me.

I retreat.

Under my duvet, curled on a couch, book in hand, sudoko at the ready.

I don't have cabin fever, tucked away in my tiny house in a tiny town where everyone knows everyone

instead I am feverish for a cabin.

Solitude.
Quiet.
Centered.
Snow falling.
Snowshoes.
Woodstove.
A stack of books.
A snoring dog.
A cup of tea.

Waiting for spring.

Thankfulness

This week's topic was a nod to American Thanksgiving.

I am thankful to have a home, a space to call my own. Somewhere to throw my laundry in the corner, a place to leave dishes in the sink.
Thankful for the ability to provide a space for friends to crash for a night, so long as I haven't started hoarding items in the spare bedroom.
I'm thankful that after a decade of landlords cranking or shutting off my heat, I can chose to keep the heat down low to "encourage" my dog to sleep on my feet and keep warm.
I'm thankful for the safety that my small town provides, that when someone broke a window on my property, one neighbour swept up the pieces with me and another repaired it while I was at work.
I'm thankful for the war going on between my neighbours each winter- who will wake up earliest after it's snowed and shovel our elderly neighbour's sidewalk first?
I'm thankful that when my home has been "broken into" (and it's happened a few times) it's been by people who have left me gifts- one who built me a shelving unit for the laundry room, and last night- one who left me a pizza.
I don't know how I'm so lucky, but I'm so very thankful for my little space on this earth.

Radio

I can't remember people's names,
I can't remember my seven times tables,
I can't remember where I put the scissors, and I can barely piece together what I did yesterday, but I have clear moments etched in my brain with a sound track provided by the radio.

Sitting in the cold truck before school waiting for my sister, "sometimes the snow comes down in June, sometimes the sun goes round the moon".
I watch my breath fog the truck window.

Sitting in the front window display peeling wallpaper off the wall at my mother's paint shop. She prepares the sunflower border to hang in it's place. "Jimmy Rogers on the victrola up high, mama's dancing with the baby on her shoulder, sun is setting like molasses in the sky". Pieces of wallpaper backing stick under my nails as I scrape it from the wall.

Blanket over my head, reading lamp tucked under the sheet, I'm up past 1am reading again. I turn the dial to discover 640 AND 680 playing "I would walk 500 miles" at the same time.

My friend Tina and I spend 4 hours one afternoon trying to call into a radio station to dedicate a song to my neighbour. Because obviously that little Rockstar boy is waiting to hear Mr.Big's "to be with you".
We eat a lot of chips.

My nose is resting on the top shelf of my bookcase. I'm leaning poised to push the button on my tape deck at the exact second the dj is going to stop talking. I sush my sister while she plays with her hamster. I don't know how to turn off the internal mic on my ghetto blaster so we have to be quiet or I'm going to have to wait till tomorrow's top 6 at 6.
"Oh my god Becky, look at her butt. It looks like one of those rap star's girlfriend's".
I pop the tabs on the top of the cassette when I'm finished so I don't accidentally tape over it.

Today one of my favourite finds at the Blue Box or at a yard sale is the home made mix tape. I have bags of them now. I keep a bag behind the seat of my car and let myself take one out each week. I love the quirky mixes, taped from the top 20 count downs, ones with the end of a dj's intro cutting into the song.
Tapes that don't quite fit that whole last version of Paula Abdul's "one step forward, two steps back".
Each song comes on and I'm transported to a moment in my past.
Days and days of memories from each little song.

markets

Growing up I didn’t like corn on the cob. I didn’t like the feeling of it between my teeth, wedged, stuck.

Sure, I loved husking it- who doesn’t love to strip the protective layers off, one by one? Feeling the change in the texture, the change in the sound, and the change in the resistance as you get closer to the cob. The mildly compulsive part of me loved picking each silky hair off the cob, watching to see where it connected at the kernel. Trying to keep a single thread from breaking.
As I got older and stronger I loved to see how many of those layers I could pull off at a time without suffering any paper cuts from the leaves.

The best thing that could happen as a kid, was to find that elusive “baby corn”, that little tiny corn growing side by side with the mature cob, hidden within the green leafy layers. We’d try to pick the fattest cobs at the grocery store hoping to find mama and baby corns. Announcing loudly and proudly when they were found.

Baby corns were for playing with.

NOT for eating.

I’d dry out the husks and fold and tuck the baby corn into a special husk suit or blanket and carry it around for the rest of the day.

Eventually the “baby” status would wear off and they’d become rockets tossed high into the air. Little broken bodies all over the grass.

As I got older I realized I’d been missing so much deliciousness worrying about a few bits getting stuck in my teeth. I dove into the world of corn. Corn season got me excited and I’d drag bag after bag home from the store.

Till I met a friend who found out I bought my corn at the grocery store.

Lovingly she called me a “pin head” and introduced me to the wonder of the roadside stand.

Farmers proudly bringing bins from the field to the end of their driveways.

Corn so fresh you can eat it raw.

I'm a changed woman.

Now I drive my visiting city folk down Dale Road to the driveway with the tiny chalk board simply stating “corn”.

I don’t want them to make the same mistakes I've made. I want to save them the embarrassment.

“Did you know that Lesley used to buy her corn in the grocery store? What a PIN HEAD!”

Fire

I love nothing more than to poke at a fire. 

Some of my earliest memories are as a child at the family cottage- getting ready for it's closing in the fall, cleaning up the grounds in the spring, and always a leaf pile to be burned. 

We had the normal family camp fires... marshmallows and hot dogs in the evening after a long day of yard work and playtime. But my favourite part was always first thing the next morning, parents lazily reading the paper and the smell of coffee brewing filling the cottage, I'd be allowed to slip out into the yard and stir up whatever remained of the previous day's fire.
Rocks would still be warm to the touch, and ashes would drift as I raked my stick through the grey and black leavings. Then I'd find it. A stubborn chunk of coal, hot and black buried deep in the pile. Beside me I'd have my already-gathered tools,  bits of dried grass, a fist full of dead leaves, and a tiny pile of twigs I'd found on my way to the fire pit.
I'd lean in closely and carefully feed my offerings to the tiny coal. Blowing life to a wisp of smoke and then ... if I was lucky, a tiny flame. 

I have my own fire pit in my back yard now. I have camp fires with my friends and family whenever I can. Staring off into the base of the flames can calm me on even the worst of my days, but it's that next morning... coaxing a little flame back out of the ashes, that brings me the most joy. 

Clarification

I was going to write something today about the differences between being a good communicator in  the written form and being a good writer.

But then I figured that would defeat the purpose... the need to clarify.

Whatever.

25 things revisited

When I was rereading some old posts I found my first list of "25 random things about me" and posted it last week. I figured it was time to come up with another 25 things.... but 25 things are hard to come up with all at once, so I'm cheating and doing them in sets of 5.


1. I've always been a journaler (journalizer?), and I've kept most of them. I've had 7 blogs in the past. 3 of them were "secret blogs" with no way to trace them back to me... I was too honest in them, and it scared me a little, so I've long since erased them. I need to set up some sort of burning party for old journals- teenage hormones and overreactions are not something to hang on to.

2. I can't read music.

3. No matter how many times I re-teach myself, I can't remember my seven times tables. "Seven times tables" is an awkward phrase. Maybe it should be "seven's times tables"?

4. If I drink too much (which isn't often), my left eye starts to turn in, but then... if I keep drinking, my lips go numb. It's around the same time that I start walking around the room announcing "I can't feel my lips, could you help me test them?" I blame Fireball. It's a great line, and it always works.

5. Due to #4, I'm sad to say I've kissed nearly all my friends on the lips.

TARDIS bed.

I'm feeling a little overrun with guilt this morning.
Last night's dreams resulted in enough material for 2 episodes of Dr.Who. Seriously, do dreams need to be this complex? After I helped send that woman back to the victorian age-  having taken over this other girl's mind- why didn't she record what had happened to her so we'd know what to do to help her in the future? And why didn't I study history better?

Guilt.
On waking I discovered that Jellydog wasn't in bed with me.

She was in bed with me when I fell asleep.

So, one of two things happened:

1. I got up in the night and put her down on the ground. I don't remember this. I only remember petting her as I fell asleep.

2. I pushed her out of the bed.




 (oh, did I mention I have to jump to get on my bed? Little pooch can't get up or down on her own, and she won't willingly go near the edge of the bed)

Sorry dog, time travel is dangerous business.

peck peck

tippa tappa.

I've stayed up too late writing a review of the show I saw on Friday.

I'll post it later (today) after I've got permission to use some photos.

Also, the dog stepped on my face this morning waking me up, I've got a big ol'scratch across my cheek.

Also, the dog is pissed that we haven't gone to bed yet.

seasons

I posted this to my facebook page today...

there are lots of changes going on, the rumor mill talks fast, so you've likely heard that I quit my day job- this is just one step in a series of things that I need to do for myself this year.

I'm cutting back, the cell phone will be gone (for real this time) by the end of the month. The tv is gathering dust. I've dropped some extra activities. I'm going to focus on some things that I need to focus on.

I've just cut the feed from my blog to facebook- I'm hoping to write more without the pressure of many people reading (if it's out of sight, it's out of mind). I'm going to go for walks, I'm going to take naps, I'm going to catch up with friends, I'm going to dig in the dirt, I'm going to find joy in the things around me.
I'm pretty pumped.

Best life ever.

k... now it's getting creepy

So I was going to do two posts tonight.. one to talk about yesterday's meeting with the mayor... and the other to talk about my worms... because I'm fascinated by them.
I decided to take a brief detour around the interwebs... and decided that in fact... Natalie Dee IS stalking me. And I couldn't be happier.

I WAS going to write this::

Well, the worm experiment is going great. I had a nightmare about them last night- someone had stolen the bin... and left me with a small box of leaves.. and 4 small wrigglers. This upset me... so for the rest of the dream, I chased after the person who had stolen them- through a full high ropes course- including one of the obstacles where you have to climb over a flashlight and a shoe. Because... uh... everyone knows that's the hardest part of a high ropes course? (whatever, leave me alone.. it was a dream) The dream ended with me smoking a nice cigarette. I'd love to be a smoker in real life. I never will be, but I have this thing... where I should be one.

Anyway, the worms... I love them. I open the bin like... 4 or 5 times a day. That doesn't seem like much, but when you factor in the fact that I'm only home 4 hours a day... well.... I might have a problem.
They smell so great.
Like fresh turned earth.
Three days ago I fed them a small scoop of bunny poop (as recommended by Ilex) it's nearly gone. Too cool. I have an abundance of bunny poop. I'm glad to have a place to put it.
Tonight- a small handful of potato and carrot peelings- they're going to need new bedding by the weekend.
I'm going slow on adding food stuffs to the box. I have a pretty small group of worms- but I was assured they'd be multiplying if they liked the set up. No one's tried to crawl out yet... I think we're doing ok.

That's what I was GOING to write.
BUT... instead... I'll just post this....




Sir Craps A-Lot... a la Natalie Dee.

great big experiment

Not one to miss out on the opportunity to join in on something... (one always has time for something more yes?) I've jumped aboard the great interview experiment! Like an unending, but self gratifying chain letter, The Citizen of the Month site wants to feed into every blogger's need to feel like a somebody.... it's true... why do we blog?
If you leave a comment, you're in. It's that simple. The person who commented before you has to interview you.... Then, you contact the next person to comment, because it's your job to interview them! ... and so on.....
SO, currently I'm reading lots of archives, and trying to come up with interesting, yet funny, questions.... because that's my job... to try really hard to be different just like everyone else.

I love this!

1 800 (or) now I use fewer towels

welcome to post 800!
odd. Didn't think I'd last this long.

Last night I made some rather unfavourable comments about the quality of writing in the 'burg's paper... however, having read my own post from the same evening, I retract. I have no right to make a comment.

well, last night I finally did it. But I do have to admit it wasn't the look of horror I was given the other night, it was the time factor involved, AND, now I don't take so long to dry off.

I shaved my left leg.
finally.
See, the problem was (and still is) I get bored shaving my legs. And, I'm a creature of habit.... so, I always shave my right leg first, then my left... it's just lately, well, I haven't had the patience to finish the job... so, while my right leg has been presentable.... my left hadn't seen the blade since August.
So, last night I fought the urge to follow my right-left habit, and did the switcher-roo to left-right...
I got bored.
I'll get to the right leg tomorrow.

a hit

And in other news, Parsley Seasonings has made it over the 19000 hit mark.... sooooo I figure at 20000, I'll give it a new look.

tap tap tap tap tap tap

So, this morning I was to pick up "fred" from the Blue Box ("Beyond the Blue Box" a store that sells second hand items, money going to charity, and employs many of the developmentally delayed adults in our community). Generally I go a few minutes early as I'm on my way back from dropping another individual off. This also allows me time to wander the store..
You never know what you're going to find there... really.
My first apartment in University was furnished nearly entirely from that store... tables, chairs, end tables, most of our dishes...
Today I was wandering around, looking for cross country ski shoes... with no luck (I've never seen cross-country shoes there yet... take your pick of down hill though) so I switched my focus to cameras, looking for a fun find... nothing today... I moved over to the computer section... and I noticed a series of cases varying in size under the shelving unit. I pulled out a scuffed smaller sized case and unzipped it.... Inside? the cutest little manual typewriter ever!
I tried it out, the ribbon was still good, the keys all worked, all the capitals and numbers and symbols worked... the return bar made a satisfying click-whir noise as I pushed it across....
I was smitten.
But there was no price.
So I was downcast.
Knowing I had little money with me (lol, or in the bank) I brought the case to the counter....
I asked the cost.
Marie smiled at me "since you're a friend (motioning to the cue of people still jabbering at me) it's free of charge today."
gleefully I giggled like a school girl and thanked her over and over...
I have some serious writing to do!