Technicolor Cottage

My Molly

2011-02-01T17:20:00.001-06:00

Grannie's Hand

2011-01-09T13:08:00.001-06:00

Dad and me, 1964

2010-12-23T19:11:00.003-06:00

2010-11-09T14:11:00.007-06:00

Quick hit & run ... random pics for use elsewhere! ;-)

2010-04-03T22:13:00.024-05:00

Jury Duty

2010-03-31T11:07:00.016-05:00

In spite of having served on a jury in state court last year, I was summoned to federal court jury duty earlier this week. Ordinarily, a citizen cannot be called for duty for two years after serving; however, state court and federal court are mutually exclusive in that regard. (In fact, federal jury duty may be structured such that jurors are "on call" for a two-week period, as is the case with my service.) So, on Monday morning I had to rise at the ungodly hour of 5:00 to appear at the courthouse by 7:15. I entered the jury room and sat two seats down from a moron who talked more than any individual I have ever encountered in my life ("blah, blah, blah, blah, BLAH, blah, blah blah ..."), and I proceeded to experience several "WTF?" moments that left me feeling like, well ... like "WTF"?

Following the performance by the verbally diarrheaic moron came the magistrate judge who spoke to us before we moved into the courtroom. Wow, talk about your dinosaurs. I don't mean to be cruel, but this tottering little old man was one of the most boring humans I've ever had the misfortune to be held captive by. I believe his speech was intended to give us some insight as to how jury duty works and encourage us in performing our civic responsibilities, but oh, my. He was anything but inspirational. He went down so many rabbit trails - and he talked sooooooo..... freaking...... slowly ..... When he launched into a lesson on World War II Japanese internment camps (which I still cannot quite correlate to the subject at hand), I started considering viable methods for quickly killing myself and thereby escaping the mere presence of his voice. At one point, he presided as several jurors requested postponement of or dismissal from service. One young woman had a job interview in San Antonio later in the day and asked to have her service postponed. As the decrepit magistrate dismissed her, he said, "Good luck. Do your best. Be your prettiest." Wow. Just ... wow. Sexism. Alive and well in the United States District Court, Northern District of Texas.

I suppose I just haven't had enough courtroom experience to know how this works, but I was left wondering if it is common practice for an overtly Christian prayer to be recited before proceedings begin. (I should note that even though I wasn't selected for jury duty, I did have to go through the voir dire process wherein jurors are questioned by the judge and/or the attorneys to determine selection, which was rather excruciating in itself.) I was quite taken aback when one of the courtroom coordinators issued the mandate, "Let us pray" and launched into your standard, Christian "Lord, watch over these proceedings" type prayer.

Don't misunderstand me. I hold fast to my Christian faith - although I do not necessarily participate in mainstream expressions of such. Although I am a Christian, I do take strong issue with prayer in a court of law. To me, this is a flagrant violation of separation of church and state principles, and I have no idea how or why this is appropriate, much less constitutionally legal. As the mandate to pray was issued, and all around me heads were bowed and eyes were closed in instant submission, I held my head aloft and stared straight ahead. I'm not about to pray because governmental authority instructs me to.

And then there was the woman who sat next to me during voir dire . She obviously thought it was Happy-Chatty Social Hour, because she kept trying to whisper to me, making flippant comments about things the judge said that she found humorous. I finally just faced front and leaned slightly to the right (she was on my left) and lowered my head a bit so that my hair hid my face, but she continued to look over at me repeatedly, trying to catch my eye. Good grief! It's a courtroom, lady! For cryin' out loud!

Another woman on the end of the opposite row was one of these bobbleheaded people who had to nod in agreement with every word being spoken during the proceedings. I don't get people who do that. I mean, is that their way of processing information? Do they do that because they want everyone else in the room to know they agree with what's being said? For heaven's sake - keep your head from flopping up and down. It's annoying.

Although I was not selected to serve on this particular case, I did learn that it was a criminal matter: An adult male was indicted for attempting to "hook up" (I'm sure there's a proper legal term for that) with a 13 year old girl that he met online. That's just got nasty written all over it, and it would have completely repulsed and sickened me, were it not for the fact that the 13 year old never existed in the first place. The defendant had, in actuality, been chatting up a Fort Worth police officer, and when he went to meet what he fully expected to be a hot-to-trot Lolita, he was arrested. (I won't go into my incredulity at how stupid a grown man would have to be to fall for such a sting in the first place. I suppose being a disgusting pedophile and being an ignorant doofus go hand in hand.) Initially I was relieved to have been spared this particular case, but then I started thinking that it would have been interesting to learn the various points of law that undoubtedly came into play. I've always wondered how sting operations produce viable indictments; is this not entrapment by law enforcement? Is mere intent sufficient to bring charges against an individual, even if no physical act has been committed? I wonder how each side would have argued the issues.

Aside from a number of distractions and annoyances (and hey, maybe I was just extra pissy since I had to get up at 5:00 a.m. in order to be on time -- a distinct possibility), I did enjoy simply being in the courtroom. The building itself is an historic treasure, designed in the classic moderne style. The courtroom was spectacular - rich wood paneling and highly detailed, gold-painted relief at the ceiling. Four astoundingly overgrown chandeliers hung at precise points, casting a soft glow. A large mural of Sam Houston had been painstakingly created on the wall behind me. If nothing else, I thoroughly enjoyed being surrounded by such beauty. The courtroom looked like a place where important things happen. I hope that (in spite of prayer-on-demand and a snippet of blatant sexism) it is also a place where justice is consistently served.

You may say I'm a dreamer

2009-09-14T11:47:00.005-05:00

...but I'm not the only one ...

Wow. It's been a looooooong time since I've written here. When asked why I've been away so long, my response has invariably been something along the lines of, "Oh, I just haven't been feeling creative lately." I've been thinking about that though, and realize it's not entirely accurate.

The truth is that I'm constantly engaged in some aspect of the creative process in my head. I'm forever mulling over ideas, putting together words and images and colors, forming expressions of my own personal art. In my mind.

I think I'm the type of person who often prefers the actual idea of something over the execution of the idea. Thinking and dreaming and planning and scheming often hold more of a thrill for me than doing, as reality sometimes doesn't quite stand up to my imagination. I guess I've known this about myself for quite some time, but have felt it somehow to be a shortcoming. After all, aren't we taught that success results from achievement? And how can one possibly achieve without doing?

So I'm back. At least for now. Let's see if I can keep the momentum moving in a forward direction this time around.

Vintage Me!

2009-03-10T11:40:00.014-05:00

It's no secret that I am a woman with a past ...

Over the past couple of years I've reestablished contact with my first husband, the boy I met and dated the latter part of my high school years. We married in September of 1981, which seems like several lifetimes ago. (Well, I guess that's because it truly was!) We divorced about five years after we wed. After years of no communcation whatsoever between us, we now email occasionally -- just a friendly "keeping in touch" between those for whom so much time has passed that it is possible to view one another simply as old friends. This morning, I received an email from him, with the note, "Look what my daughter found!" -- and this little beauty attached.

Yes, folks - you are looking at Vintage Jen! This photo is probably circa 1979, which would have made me 17 years of age. A mere child, really -- albeit one sporting the ubiquitous Farrah Fawcett, Aqua-Netted-to-the-hilt hairdo in which I felt so very glamorous and adult.

I am certain that at some point, I would have looked at this photo and flinched at its datedness. But now it only makes me smile.

Yes, vintage me -- the young woman I once was. So uncertain of myself in so many ways, yet eager to reach and learn and grow. I've reached the place in life where I enjoy looking back and remembering who and what I once was. The hairstyle may be giggle-inducing, but overall, it is sweet to reminisce.

Adobe & Lace

2009-03-05T13:50:00.021-06:00

I love the juxtaposition of old adobe walls with delicate lace at the windows. The warm clay radiates solidity, both contrasting with and complementing the filmy, ethereal beauty of the lace. Earthiness and refinement -- incongruent, yet equally worked by human hands.

The tranquil domestic depiction above is at Acoma, one of the oldest continually inhabited settlements in the United States. It was built atop a 367-foot sandstone mesa in New Mexico, and is often referred to by a name which needs no explanation -- "Sky City." Walking along the dusty streets of this pueblo, where many live without electricity or running water, it is indeed curious and touching to glance up from one's grimy boots and spy the graceful drape of gossamer lace at the rough-hewn windows. It speaks clearly of one's need to create loveliness in even the most seemingly desolate of places. I remember the "lace at Sky City" well, and in some ways, consider it a metaphoric reminder to be always seeking to impart sweetness to the mundane.

~Acoma~

Adobe and lace ... Yin and yang ... Rough and soft ... Common and exquisite ...

Well. Wasn't THAT Creepy!

2009-03-03T14:06:00.019-06:00

Yesterday evening I set about my usual routine of working out on the elliptical trainer, which always entails taking remote control in hand and surfing channels until I find something mildly interesting (or even remotely distracting) to watch for the next 50 minutes. I had missed the first ten minutes or so, but soon became engrossed in "Felicia's Journey", a film that I initially thought was going to be upbeat and heartwarming. The story begins with the introduction of the primary characters -- a young, Irish girl (innocent, save for the fact that she is newly and unexpectedly pregnant) and a middle-aged man who appears to be obsessed with gourmet cooking, music, and antiques. The verdant imagery of the Irish and English countrysides, meshed with lovely, vintage cottage interiors, drew me right in. And of course, by the time I was too hooked to look away, the story got weird. Really weird.

From an online review:

Felicia's Journey, based on William Trevor's psychologically shivery novel of the same name, pokes into the auteur's favorite pits of sexual darkness, spiritual hunger, and human disconnectedness in the story of an exceptionally naive Irish girl (Elaine Cassidy) who leaves her insular home and makes her way to the English Midlands to search for the man she thinks she loves.

Clueless on the grimy streets and, it turns out, pregnant, she crosses fatefully into the insular world of Mr. Hilditch (Bob Hoskins, channeling something of the sheet music salesman he so famously played two decades ago in TV's "Pennies From Heaven"), a tidy catering manager with an insidiously warped interest in "rescuing" the young woman.

I was no longer mesmerized by the pretty scenes, but now riveted by the bizarre story (featuring grainy, flashback film footage of murdered prostitutes), and I could not tear myself away from the screen. The film wasn't at all gory or sensationalized (there was actually no onscreen violence at all), but psychologically thrilling, which is always more unsettling than the all-too-easy depiction of blood and guts. Well, to tell the truth, I don't do gore very well either, but mentally and emotionally disturbing stories almost always prove to be a mistake for me. Especially right before bedtime. I guess it goes without saying that I'm exhausted today, thanks to the nightmares that haunted my sleep.

The film carried its viewer from sweet scenery much like this:

To:

Don't be fooled by the cocoa and cookies! He's coming to KILL you ...

and

Will you escape???
(I wanted to reach through the screen and somehow drag that hapless girl to safety, before it was too late!)

::sigh::
I guess you'll just have to see it for yourself. And remind me to stick to comedies ... especially after dark!

I Am One HOT Chick ...

2009-02-27T11:44:00.032-06:00

Literally. At the ripe old age of "almost 47", I'm suddenly right in the thick of perimenopausal hell, and let me tell you, I am not at all happy to be here. Strange things are now occurring within my body, rendering me not only a physical wreck, but impacting my mental and emotional states in a most negative manner as well.

I realize I'm venturing into the realm of "Entirely Too Much Information", but I don't care (she said with a surly snarl) -- this is most certainly a matter that affects (afflicts?) the vast majority of women, and I think we need to be able to freely discuss. And vent (lest we kill).

I began menstruating when I was 12, and my periods have arrived like clockwork for more than 30 years. Only recently have they become wildly unpredictable (as have my moods), and it's not much fun playing guessing games ... Will TODAY be the day she finally bleeds? Step right up, folks - place your bets ... Cramps are manifest; there's the telltale zit ... Odds are good, folks -- odds are good ...

The mood swings are outstandingly horrid, and make me nostalgic for the merely bitchy days of PMS. One minute I'm on top of the world, feeling magnanimous towards even the most unloveable. Wait about nine minutes, though, and I morph into unspeakable evil: I could likely eat babies for breakfast. I completely understand the mindset of the oft-stereotyped homicidal, middle-aged woman. I've had thoughts, people ... thoughts that I wouldn't even want to share here, for fear of implicating myself should you ever, say, hear on the news that a group of tourists was met with a hit-and-run fate while innocently navigating a city crosswalk.

Poor Rocky finds himself on the receiving end of my inexplicable anger all too often, I'm afraid. His benign query, "What are we going to do this weekend?" is met with a dagger-like darting of my eyes in his direction and a venom-laced response: "I don't know, alright?!?" How can he stand me? I can't even stand me.

The hot flashes are hellacious, and seem particularly brutal when they arrive in the middle of the night, waking me up with torturous regularity to engage in the "covers on! -- covers off!!! -- covers on!" dance that only serves to exacerbate my problems by adding sleep deprivation to the inventory. I'm almost always late to work in the mornings, since I have to take breaks to go and sit beneath a fan, while the sweat (and freshly-applied makeup) drips from my body as I try to go about my daily routine. Even now, as I sit and type this tirade, I feel my skin prickle and the heat begin to quickly crawl its way up from within my core, perspiration beading on my forehead.

They say that misery loves company, but it really doesn't help much, the knowledge that I'm not alone in this. Nor does it make me feel better to remind myself that "this too shall pass", as I fear it's here to stay for the unforeseeable future. I've now reached the inevitable point of having to make some decisions regarding my health and how I'll proceed from here on out. I'll admit it seems odd to be at this point in my life ... it seems like only yesterday I was first learning to use those feminine products, and now I seldom have the need for them (but they must always be close at hand, just in case.)

And so, at the ripe old age of "almost 47", I'm hot. Just not entirely in the way that I'd choose ... if only I could.

More (Techni)Color in the Cottage

2009-02-24T11:57:00.020-06:00

Turquoise is ...
The deep hue beneath the shimmer of the sea
The cool, marbled stones in my Navajo necklace
The steaming pool among Yellowstone's crusted earth
His eyes when the sunlight hits them just so
The piercing brilliance in the stained glass window …
My most favorite color of all

This will be something of a "drive-by" post, as time is very limited at the moment ... I was off work yesterday and completely out of commission since Sunday, as I seem to have succumbed to the flu-like bug that's been making the rounds. Now I'm back at work and desperately trying to catch up, but I still wanted to share the recent transformation of our little old dining room. I'd been thinking of taking the room from the deep, avocado hues of Laura Ashley's Olive #6 to a turquoise shade, ever since our trip to Puerto Vallarta last summer, when we stayed in a condo with that most gorgeous of colors on its bedroom walls. A couple of weekends ago, I took the plunge on a whim, and the dining room is now a brilliant Benjamin Moore shade called Venezuelan Sea. I love it.

Dining room before -- not bad, just a bit drab:

And after ...

I really like the way the turquoise plays off the La Fonda Ortiz Gold in the living room ...

For more turquoise inspiration, be sure to check out the beautiful blog, "House of Turquoise" - http://www.houseofturquoise.com

Weighty Issues

2009-02-04T10:17:00.032-06:00

Oh, the follies of youth: A time when so many of us think that aging and its inherent physical afflictions will never touch us -- or, if we do acknowledge its eventuality, we manage to fool ourselves into thinking that getting older is something that happens a long way down the line.

Well, let me tell you something. It happens practically overnight.

In my younger years, I was one of those who could pretty much eat and drink whatever she liked and still maintain a very svelte figure. Exercise? During the 80s when Jane Fonda-style aerobics were in vogue, I gave that a go a few times, but it was more about wearing those adorable leg warmers, shimmery Lycra leotards and headbands (ha!) than about actually sweating (God forbid!).

Reaching back even further into my childhood, I suppose I was a normal, active kid. I was always riding a bicycle or dribbling a basketball or running around the neighborhood with the other naughty kids on my block. I was never much for participating in team sports, although I did briefly play on a girls' softball team. I stood in the outfield and prayed without ceasing for the person at bat to hit that ball anywhere but towards me. I didn't like playing the game, but I desperately wanted to fit in with the other girls on the field. I was also one of those kids who brought notes from home, as an avoidance technique when the P.E. teacher had us running laps around the backstops during recess. Yeah, you remember the type -- "But I can't run! My asthma is acting up again!"

Fast forward to my 30s (well, that didn't take long! I told you -- it sneaks up and bites you right in the big ol' butt), when I found myself weighing much more than I ever thought I would. Years of engaging in junk food orgies really takes its toll. As a New Year resolution, I joined a gym and began walking, both on the treadmill and outdoors. Combined with a restricted and highly regimented diet, I quickly began to lose weight and was thrilled at the way I felt so very in control of my body. I began walking in 5K events, and one morning when I showed up to participate in our annual Cowtown 10K, I arrived at the starting line late. Instead of entering with the group of walkers where I belonged, I inadvertently fell into line among a group of hardcore Marines who were running the route, and in order to avoid being completely trampled to death, I ran too. Amazingly, I loved how it felt to run, and thus began a lengthy love affair with the sport of running that endured until my knees finally called it quits. During this time, I also took up hiking, and my strong legs took me to some spectacularly beautiful, remote locations, as Dad and I made numerous father/daughter treks to the backcountry regions of the southwest.

Somewhere along the way, I met Rocky, who was a personal trainer at the time of our meeting. Under his tutelage, I went from being a skinny, stringy runner to a muscled and sculpted athlete (at least as much of an athlete as I've ever been), and I reveled in having a taut, toned, able body.

What is it they say about how falling in love makes people happy ... and fat? Folks, it really happens! Rocky and I both grew lazy and hedonistic when it came to food and drink, and the pounds quickly crept back up. And up. And up.

While I didn't quite hit my highest weight, I came very close, and after my gallbladder surgery last year, I decided that enough was enough. This weight simply had to come off, and most importantly, I had to keep it off. That is still my goal, and my daily focus is to eat nutritious foods (I am predominantly vegan, although I must confess that cheese is my bitch; or maybe I'm actually cheese's bitch ... at any rate, I'm still hooked) and exercise as many days during the week as I possibly can. Within the past year, I've dropped around 25 pounds, and while I am happy to have achieved that success, I'd still really like to shed about 10 more. And the last 5 or 10 can be so stubborn!

So ... I write these words to remind myself of where I've been in my relationship to diet and exercise, and how I have been able to reach my goals when I set them concretely and pursued them diligently. I'll endeavor to keep up these healthy habits that I've once again revisited, and maintain a vision of my body in peak performance as a reminder of what I want to achieve. I'll also try my level-headed best not to judge myself too harshly. I'll be 47 years old this year, and will never look exactly as I did in my 30s. While that's sometimes a rather bitter pill to swallow, I'm going to try my damnedest to make peace with that fact.

I'm just going to be the best me that I can be now. And that's a worthy goal. Right?

Viva Mexico!

2009-02-02T11:34:00.025-06:00

Well, as many of you know, we spent two weeks in Cabo San Lucas last month. We were slightly ambivalent about making the trip after the market collapse did a number on our finances, but I’m so very glad we boarded that tin tube and went. I’ve arrived at the conclusion that traveling is a most worthy endeavor, and planning a trip creates an exciting focus when the drudgery of the daily routine threatens to drag us down. For that reason, I want us to "keep on trippin'" for as long and as often as we possibly can. It really matters in our lives.

*Los Cabos (translated, "The Capes") are the twin towns at the Baja peninsula's southernmost tip. Cabo San Lucas holds court on the Western cape and San José del Cabo rounds out the Eastern cape. Connected only by the Tourist Corridor, 21 miles of coastline studded with golf courses, luxury resorts, dramatic beaches, and master-planned communities, the two capes could not be more different.

Cabo San Lucas, also known as Land's End, is the rowdy younger sister who shoots cheap tequila while dancing on the table chanting, "what happens in Cabo stays in Cabo."

The other side of San Lucas is a bling-flashing second cousin who frequents swanky clubs, ends the night in his oceanfront Jacuzzi, and cruises the coast in his luxury yacht.

Somewhere in between are the fun-loving aunts and uncles who've come to fish for marlin and/or for a peep at Sammy Hagar.

On the other hand, San José del Cabo, on the eastern side of Baja's tip, is a decidedly more "Mexican" experience. Colorful 18th-century homes-turned-artisan shops, vibrant flowering trees, world-class waves, and exquisite restaurants draw well-tanned surf gypsies; jolly snowbirds in search of sun and margaritas, celebrities and executives looking for respite from the rat race, and couples and families who wake up early to enjoy a full day of outdoor fun. The tree-lined streets of the downtown area are particularly enchanting, and the melodies of Ranchera or Banda music float from century-old homes still inhabited after generations.

*Info from Frommer's

It's so very divine to sink my toes into the sand, gaze out at the sea, and feel the gentle caress of the ocean breeze. Kahil Gibran wrote, "Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet, and the wind longs to play with your hair." Admittedly, I'm not a surfer or a swimmer, but I consider it such a privilege to just be in the presence of the sea, and I feel drawn back again and again to the Pacific side of Mexico, to bask in the sun and be simultaneously lulled and energized by the surf.

Not only does the beauty of Mexico inspire me, but her people are among the warmest and most welcoming I've ever met. While many Mexicans live with very little in the way of material goods, by and large they possess a gracious nature and exude friendliness and a genuine openness which is evident upon the many smiling faces that look our way. Smiles, smiles ... always -- smiles abound.

Almost as soon as we touched down back home in Fort Worth, we began planning our next Mexican get-away. We'll travel to Puerto Vallarta in August for my birthday, as we did last year. Already I'm counting down the days, filled with a childlike excitement and anticipation of adventures to come.

Goodnight, Sweet Camille ...

2009-01-21T11:33:00.007-06:00

Well, I'm back from something of a hiatus, and I'm sure there's much to catch up on in Blogsville! We spent a couple of weeks in Los Cabos, Mexico (will post more on the trip later), and returned home late this past Friday night. It was a rather grueling day of travel (a layover through Phoenix and delayed flight put us home past midnight), and upon arriving home we learned that our sweet little old kitty, Camille, had passed away.

My mother-in-law left a note for us, telling us what had happened. She had been house and pet-sitting for us, and on January 6th she came over to take care of the cats and discovered that Camille had fallen asleep and passed away. She said that Camille looked peaceful, so I'm really hoping that she truly did just go in her sleep, and that she didn't suffer. She was almost 19 years old - a remarkable age for a cat to reach - and she had grown increasingly frail. Her hearing and eyesight had greatly diminished in a very short time. Her ability to control elimination was compromised (and certainly not helped by two kittens in the house who for some reason seemed intent on tormenting her), so for a number of months she had been residing in what we called her "senior living apartment." This just meant that she had the spare bedroom/workout room all to herself, where she could be safely sequestered from the bratty youngsters and surrounded by all of the things that comforted her most.

My dear in-laws wrapped her in a gold blanket and laid her to rest in our back garden. As of this writing, I have not yet been able to bring myself to visit her final resting place ... it just hurts too much to think that her tiny body is lying still and lifeless in the earth. She came into my life at a time when I craved a little someone to love and nurture, just about the time when it became quite clear that I was never going to have children of the human variety. It may sound silly to say that she filled that void, but that's what happened. She seemed to reserve the majority of her affection just for me. It's like she just knew that I needed an unconditionally loving being to bond with, and that's exactly what she was.

On the night that I returned home from Mexico and learned she was gone, I had a dream. In it, Camille was very much alive and well -- she appeared not as the little old lady that she had become towards the end, but as she was when she was in her prime. I could see her and feel her and hear her, but I knew in the dream that she was, indeed, gone. I turned to Rocky and asked, "Don't you see her? She's right there!" -- but he did not. I phoned my parents and told them that I thought there was something very wrong with me, as I knew my cat was dead, yet I could still see her. She was somehow still very much present. And then, Camille looked at me with her emerald green eyes and somehow she relayed this message to me: "Please allow me to go." And when I relented whatever hold on her that I had, she floated up towards the ceiling. In the next dream scene, we were transported outdoors and it was dark, and she was floating up into the ink-black, starry sky -- up and up and up, until she faded from view. And when I could no longer see her, somehow, I immediately felt at peace. Even when I awoke from the dream, I basked in a sense of comfort and well-being.

I miss her, and I know with certainty that I will continue to miss her for a long time to come. But I like to think that the dream was a message from our creator -- the very one who created me, and you, and my sweet Camille. He imbued her with a unique personality and her own individual characteristics, and if He cared enough to do that -- if He cared enough to make her so very special and then give her to me to love, I know in my heart that He has provided a place for her beyond this realm. And I trust that I will meet her again, when the time is right.

Until then, goodnight, my sweet little cat. You were a treasure to me.

Gratitude, A to Z

2008-12-17T14:30:00.006-06:00

A: I am grateful for my animals.
B: I am grateful for my two wonderful brothers.
C: I am grateful for my cars - they're dependable.
D: I am grateful for my sensitive, loving dad.
E: I am grateful for ears with which to hear beautiful music.
F: I am grateful for all of my family.
G: I am grateful for my dear grandparents, now in their 90's.
H: I am grateful that hope is still alive.
I: I am grateful for my fantastic, generous inlaws.
J: I am grateful for my job.
K: I am grateful for the kindness of others.
L: I am grateful for Los Cabos, my favorite place to visit.
M: I am grateful for my beautiful, talented mom.
N: I am grateful for my precious niece and nephew.
O: I am grateful for oatmeal. I love it in the mornings.
P: I am grateful for pals who love me.
Q: I am grateful for quiet moments in my day.
R: I am grateful for retirement accounts -- I just hope they're still there when I need them!
S: I am grateful for my sister-in-law.
T: I am grateful for the trust that I have in my husband.
U: I am grateful for an umbrella when it's raining.
V: I am grateful for a hardworking vacuum cleaner.
W: I am grateful for wellness.
X: I am grateful for x-husbands, who make me appreciate what I have in my life now.
Y: I am grateful for each new year -- another chance to start again.
Z: I am grateful for Zen moments of peace and enlightenment that occasionally manage to find me.

How about you -- care to share?

My Body, Living Canvas

2008-12-14T18:54:00.026-06:00

It's no secret that I am a tattooed woman. I have twelve on my body, which really does sound like a lot -- but most are configured in such a way as to actually comprise one design that spirals around my lower left leg. I jokingly call it my "tropical gam", because I got the initial piece in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, and continued adding designs of hibiscus and other exotic flowers, butterflies, and a bird. I've tried many times to take a decent photo of the art on this leg, but due to the spiral, it's impossible to capture it well, as you can tell by this pathetic attempt.

I have two on my lower right leg -- my "southwest art." One is a mountain lion surrounded by prickly-pear cactus. (I refuse to call the cat a cougar, as we all know the implication of that word as applied to a woman of my age going after younger men. I assure you, that is not the intent of the design!)

The other is an interpretation of an Anasazi pottery sherd. I have been fascinated by the Anasazi culture (an ancient Puebloan people who lived in the southwest region of the U.S.) for as long as I can remember. Just as the other designs hold personal meaning for me, this tattoo is highly symbolic of many blissful days hiking in the areas where the Anasazi once lived, exploring countless ruin sites, both well-known and very much off the beaten path. I'm thinking of incorporating a couple of petroglyph (ancient rock art) symbols into this design, but haven't quite decided how to do it.

And then there is the piece on my left shoulderblade, a rose intertwined with a beaded feather.

Because my tats are easily hidden beneath my clothing, people are often surprised (shocked might be more apt!) when they learn that I have them. People tend to have strong feelings about body modifications -- particularly ink -- whether they have their own or not. There's very little neutrality -- either you think they're cool, or you detest them. I'm usually asked two things by the inkless: "Why?" and "Doesn't it hurt?" To be honest, I'm not quite certain why I got the first one. I'm sure it had something to do with outwardly expressing a newfound liberation in my life, coupled with the fact that I've long wanted one and just decided to take the plunge! And yes, it's true -- once you have one, you may find yourself addicted to the process and becoming a collector. As for the question of pain -- oh yes, my friends, it hurts! It's difficult to describe the severe sting of the needle, but in a sense, it's a positive pain. It's a pain that takes you to another place inside yourself, where you find your mettle is tested, both fleshly and spiritually. It's an incredibly intense process. I know, I know ... sounds crazy, doesn't it? ::sigh:: Perhaps it is. But I like it.

The history of tattooing is extremely interesting to me. It's an artform that has existed since the dawn of mankind, and has played a vital role in defining and demonstrating who human beings felt that they were, and what they represented in this world. Tattooing has taken quite a journey in our own society, metamorphising from a freakish act committed by unacceptable outcasts to a more or less mainstream means of self-expression.

As one who appreciates art in so many different forms, I love being able to carry around my own special pieces everywhere I go. I cannot say with certainty when I will be done adding to my inky collection ... the menacing yet beautiful hum of the tattoo gun is such a seductive siren, and I'm drawn back to it, again and again.

I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas ...

2008-12-10T14:27:00.008-06:00

While it's highly unlikely to happen where I live, I still love the idea of a Christmas snowfall. With Texas being Texas, we could just as easily have unseasonably warm temperatures that would compel us to shed our winter coats in exchange for lightweight t-shirts. There is something so very magical about snow at Christmas, though.

A few years ago, my family and I spent the holiday in a lovely cabin in Pagosa Springs, Colorado. Snow heavily blanketed the ground and sat like a thick vanilla icing on rooftops, weighing heavily on pine boughs. With each foray into the outdoors, our cheeks reddened and our noses ran, and while the fresh air was scented with frosted evergreen, it was pure pleasure to return to the cabin and warm ourselves toasty by the huge stacked-stone fireplace.

I remember one Christmas Eve when it snowed at my grandparents' Texas lake house when I was about 11 years old. Someone looked up from the Scrabble board, or tore themselves away momentarily from the spread of goodies that Grannie had spent days baking, and glanced out the window to first notice that flakes had begun softly falling. We bundled up in our coats, hats, and gloves and stepped out onto the wide front porch to marvel at the fat flurries. I remember the feeling of complete enchantment as we gawked at the heavens showering us with those exquisite white fluffs. And always, always, I will feel and remember the warmth indoors reflected by the fireplace (and the central heat!), the lights twinkling happily on the tree, but most of all, the love and laughter of my family. The closeness of just being together in that place at that time. I really could not imagine having had better childhood Christmases, and I realize how truly blessed I have been.

The photo in this post is, of course, Technicolor Cottage in the snow. I wish I could say that it was indeed taken at Christmas, but it was actually snapped by a neighbor on a rare February snow day a few years ago. I did have the foresight to use this picture on our Christmas cards the following year, though. And although it so very rarely happens, it does give my heart a thrill to see my little house ... in the snow.

Pure, Unbridled Joy!

2008-12-07T11:03:00.002-06:00

Oh! To have such a zest for life! This is wonderful, and definitely made me laugh out loud. I hope it makes you smile today too!

The Older I Get ...

2008-12-03T15:44:00.017-06:00

Today I was pondering some of the good things that middle age has brought my way. I certainly won’t count the gray hair, the crow’s feet and the sagging skin (and other bits) as fortuitous, but beyond the surface of who I am, I’ve come to realize that a certain amount of favorable maturity has occurred. For that, I am extremely grateful! In no particular order, here’s a brief list of things I’ve come to count as truth:

1. It's stupid to drive too fast. As I watched in my rearview mirror, the young man in the souped-up tin can darted from the left lane and charged towards my bumper at warp speed, attempting to cut in front of the car that he'd just been behind. When he veered back into the lane next to me, I glanced over and caught a glimpse of his face – such a boy, and oh, so foolish. His face was set in lines of angry concentration, a thin veil for his obvious exasperation. I do remember being his age, and how I too could scarcely abide being "stuck" behind someone driving at what was actually a normal speed. Why was I in such a hurry? From where did that impatience and impertinence stem? More to the point, where did it go? In direct contrast to my youthful Speed Racing, I no longer care how quickly (or slowly) it takes me to get from Point A to Point B. I really don’t even care if I’m going with the flow – especially when the flow is fast and furious. I’ll get where I’m going in my own good time. It will take as long as it takes. I simply can no longer be bothered to rush when I drive.

2. Taking a nap is delightful. While I don’t exactly recall being forced to nap as a child, I undoubtedly was up to a point, and I probably rebelled against it as most children do. Nowadays, however, I think there’s little that's nicer than pulling back the quilt on a Sunday afternoon, snuggling underneath with a good book or the TV’s remote control, and drifting off to dreamland in the middle of the day. If our culture only observed the afternoon siesta, I’m sure we’d all be so much better at being human.

3. Choosing your battles is wise. In my younger days, everything was an issue, especially where the man in my life was concerned. If I felt he’d let me down in the slightest, you can bet that drama ensued. If his behavior was not quite on par with what I expected, I’d first pout (expecting him to somehow just know how he’d offended), and when he failed to assuage my hurt feelings as I hoped, oh boy – watch out! Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost the desire to dwell on trivialities. If Rocky disappoints me in small ways (which he rarely does, but being human, he’s bound to on occasion), I chalk it up to the fact that he, like me, is imperfect, and I choose to forgive him instead of harboring resentment. I can’t begin to tell you what burdens were lifted when I hit upon the realization that I don’t have to prove that I’m right, I don’t have to set others straight, and I don’t have to dwell on hurt feelings. Admittedly, this is an area where I’m still learning to make application; however, just knowing I’ve successfully grasped the concept is empowering to me.

4. Little children are worth watching. When I was younger, before my brothers came along, my family and I used to joke that many people we knew who had babies did nothing when they congregated except for “sitting around and watching the baby.” As I aged, I noticed those of my peers who were having kids of their own did the same thing – just sitting around and focusing solely on the child(ren). BORING! Adult interaction was infinitely smarter, hipper, more pleasurable. When my niece came along 6 years ago, followed almost 3 years after that by her younger brother, I began to notice that my icecap was melting. Something about having those new little lives in my family made me realize how very enjoyable it is to “sit around and watch the baby.” Not only are they precious in form – sweetly plump, all unlined innocence – but it’s fascinating to observe them as they take in the world around them. They are forever changing, growing, developing, and what an absolute privilege it is to be there as their discoveries unfold! Engaging with little ones not only brings to mind the blessedness of the entire circle of life, but also causes me to draw forth at least some small part of that child that still lurks within my middle-aged body. And how can that possibly be anything but healthy and good and right?

5. I’m not a wimp. I’ve learned that I can actually withstand a good deal of physical pain, whereas I once would’ve been certain I’d crumple and wither away at the slightest hint of discomfort. (How else to explain the fact that I have 12 tattooed designs on my body? And I used to think I was afraid of needles!)

6. It doesn’t all have to be done today. OK, so maybe this is really just an excuse for bone-idleness, but I’ve truly come to the conclusion that my seemingly never-ending “to do” list doesn’t really have to get done right away. I hope to accomplish everything some day, but many times, when I’d rather grab a good book or a cold beer, that’s what I choose to do. Thus, the list goes on, and the chores remain … but that's ok. It really is.

So, there you have it – a few things I’ve learned as I continue on my journey. It’s so nice to reach a new place of understanding, to take on a point of view that you perhaps never felt possible. Certainly we're all on this journey of discovery together, and as we make our way from cradle to grave, I believe it's important to take inventory every now and then of what we know. Sometimes, even the smallest things are amazingly, eye-openingly profound.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2008-11-26T11:33:00.008-06:00

The Turkey popped out of the oven
and rocketed in to the air;
It knocked every plate off the table
and partly demolished a chair.
It ricocheted into a corner
and burst with a deafening boom,
Then splattered all over the kitchen,
completely obscuring the room.
It stuck to the walls and the windows,
it totally coated the floor,
There was turkey attached to the ceiling,
where there had never been turkey before...
It blanketed every appliance,
it smeared every saucer and bowl;
There wasn't a way I could stop it;
that turkey was out of control.
I scraped and I scraped with displeasure
and thought with chagrin as I mopped,
That I would never again stuff a turkey
with popcorn that hadn't been popped.
written by Jack Prelutsky

"Contents May Settle"

Whether boisterous family and turkey (and pie!)
Or alone with your thoughts of Thanksgivings gone by
Whatever circumstances have brought your way
I wish you the happiest, most blessed day!

Lots of Love,
Jen

Wish I'd thought of it!

2008-11-24T09:39:00.003-06:00

Do you ever get an almost overwhelming urge to do something naughty like this?

Well, I know I do. This made me laugh out loud, immature lout that I undoubtedly am.

Happy Monday!

Around the House, Part II

2008-11-23T12:12:00.031-06:00

Autumn in north Texas is a funny thing. Some days the winds blow cold and cruel, ripping dried leaves from their tentative hold on tired branches. On others the sun shines gloriously, relentlessly, and one would swear that summer is fast approaching. Naturally, these changeable days play havoc with one's allergies. And one's garden.

The bougainvillea didn't bloom all summer. Not until after our first cold snap did it burst forth with its gorgeous fuschia hue! The hibiscus has issued another tropically tangerine flower as well.

Leaves continue to fall ...

And this little guy, who resides on the front porch, could use a good dusting!

I picked up the little branch that's in the planter while on a neighborhood walk. It's perfectly shaped like a fork!

Yuccas and Sagos and Scarecrows, oh my!

And now I'm sneezing again. Let's move back inside. It's Technicolor teatime.

Is the front of your fridge as messy as mine?

A Huichol Indian beaded mask -- Fierce with color!

And here's something a bit sweeter:

This was a fun yard sale find. Perfect for holding our keys!

The day is turning dreary, but there's plenty of color to cheer me inside. There's also an "I Love Lucy" marathon on the tube -- And so I'm content, just to be home.

Two words, an abbreviation, and a groan ...

2008-11-18T17:59:00.002-06:00

Bladder. Infection.

TMI?

(Ugggggggggggghhhhhhhhh ...)

Paz, amor y musica Latina!

2008-11-14T16:15:00.005-06:00

Peace, love and Latin music!

We're going to hear one of my favorite bands, Del Castillo, play this evening at the historic Palace Theater in Grapevine, Texas. Del Castillo is an Austin-based sextet who play the most amazing mix of flamenco-Latin rock imaginable, and never fail to give a soul-stirring performance that has everyone dancing in the aisles! Oh, what fun it's going to be!

Check out a few of their videos here:

http://www.delcastillomusic.com/english/video.html

And check out me (hee!) with Alex Ruiz (a/k/a "Lobo"), Del Castillo's lead singer.

My very first time to be TAGGED!

2008-11-13T13:23:00.010-06:00

(Thaaaaaaaaanks, Luthien! ;-))

OK ... If I'm understanding correctly what it means to be "tagged": I am to write 8 facts/habits about myself, tag 8 other blogger friends and notify them. Here goes nuffin'!

The facts:

1. I could live on grilled cheese sandwiches. OK, so I would probably weigh 1,000 pounds and be extremely unhealthy and die prematurely, but what a way to go. Mmmmmmm ... cheeeeeeese. When I was small, I was a finicky eater and all I wanted was grilled cheese sandwiches. My mom asked the pediatrician for advice, and he said, "Feed her one for breakfast, one for lunch, and one for dinner. Pretty soon she'll grow so tired of the damned things, she'll never want another." Heh. Some expert he was.

2. My first home-away-from-home when I left my parents' nest was in Balibago, Angeles City in the Philippines. I was 19. It was an experience, to say the least.

3. I have an irrational phobia -- I'm freaked out by fish. Dead or alive, they give me the heebie-jeebies. Can't eat 'em either.

4. I never tire of "I Love Lucy."

5. I had emergency surgery to remove my gallbladder in March of this year, after 10 years of suffering from painful stones. Good riddance!

6. I am eerily fascinated by stories of Jack the Ripper. (And it's actually pretty gross that I'd follow up an entry about having my gallbladder surgically removed with a statement about Jack the Ripper, but there you have it.)

7. I excelled in shorthand in high school, back when it was deemed a vital skill for secretarial work. I still use it on a near-daily basis, although sometimes I can't read what it says for the life of me.

8. I think I come across as pretty outgoing, although I'm actually painfully shy much of the time.

And here's who I'm tagging:

1. Linda at Lime in the Coconut
2. The Yellow House at Our Big Yellow House
3. RoyalTLady
4. OhioMom at Cooking in Cleveland
5. Mindy at Good Times, Noodle Salad
6. Kahlanne at Long Ramblings
7. Darlene at Our Creative Life
8. Balego at Frayed Brushes

Here are the rules of the game :

1. Each player starts with eight random fact/habits about themselves.
People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.

2. At the end of your blog post, you need to tag eight people and list their names.
Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’ve been tagged and to read your blog.

Remember to come back and leave me a comment after you've done your "duty!"
:-D

Happy tagging!

A Deluge of Color!

2008-11-12T21:15:00.029-06:00

When at last I decided to end my own personal pity party yesterday -- to crawl out of my self-made black hole -- I sought out that which never fails to bolster my lagging spirit. Rocky made a simple but delicious meal for me at home. The kitties, who are much like faithful dogs in that they always greet me at the door when I return from work, lounged on my lap and shared considerable cuddles. I released those pent-up frustrations with an hour-long sweatfest on the elliptical trainer, and then I visited my old friend, the computer, to indulge in a bit of eye candy by one of my favorite artists, Stephen Morath.

I don't recall how, when or where I first became familiar with his work. I just know that I was instantly smitten. I've had the matted and framed print above, "Sunset Ride", for a number of years now. It presently hangs in my office, along with this one, entitled "Ajo Al's."

Stephen Morath began his studies at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston and continued at Tufts University. He received his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in 1979 and began his full-time art career in 1984. His popularity has evolved from his colorful narrative paintings of the Southwest. At first glance his art may appear to be a simplistic, cartoon-like landscape, but upon closer inspection, the viewer finds a complex storyline. The paintings blend bright, expressionistic Southwest landscapes with a touch of humor and nostalgia. Whether capturing a bountiful table of delights on a Mexican beach or a parade of trailers through the desert countryside, Morath’s paintings express his obvious amusement and fascination with the Southwest.

Many of his paintings contain a commentary on contemporary life: "I love the Southwest with its Spanish towns, Indian Pueblos, sparkling deserts of southern Arizona and the beaches of the desert sea ... the neon honky-tonk strips, weird outrageously colored topography and the tourist traps in between."

In recent years the artist has begun painting outdoor still lifes containing brightly colored flowers and unusually-shaped, oversized fruits and vegetables. He also enjoys utililizing his unique personal vision while painting the native flora and fauna of the Southwestern desert.

Mr. Morath's whimsical, exuberant nature shines forth in all of his work. Here are a few more wonderful examples ... Enjoy!

"Gallos Blancos"

"More Snowbirds in Cactus Land"

"Gringo Pass"

"Evening Would Find Me"

"Afternoon Monsoon"

"Moonlight Harvest"

"The Last Beautiful Things of Autumn"

Left out.

2008-11-12T10:30:00.074-06:00

Why, hello. Step inside. Welcome to my pity party ...

You know ... I really don't think I'm overly sensitive. Ordinarily I'm fairly well-balanced and able to shake off affronts by giving others the benefit of the doubt. ("Oh, they didn't mean anything by that ... They like me ... They wouldn't purposely try to hurt me.") And many times I just don't give a big ol' rat's patootie. But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that sometimes things do hit me the wrong way, and I get my feathers ruffled.

Lately, I've been feeling a bit left out of extracurricular activities around the workplace. The attorneys that I work as secretary for enjoy lunching together at various downtown restaurants on a daily basis. Shortly prior to noon each day, one or more of them will begin roaming the hallways, seeking lunchtime companions and proclaiming loudly that "it's time to eat!" Last Friday, one of the young attorneys strolled down my hallway and announced that he was in the process of "inviting everyone" to go out for lunch. Apparently, "everyone" is code for only the other attorneys, as he strolled right past my office, glanced into my open door, looked into my eyes, and kept walking.

I wasn't invited.

Then again, the support staff is never invited -- unless it's to mark some silly, Hallmark-induced occasion like "Professional Assistant's Day." And I'll be honest. I'm not really sure I even want to go to lunch with these folks on a regular basis, but it sure would be nice to at least have the opportunity to accept or decline an invitation once in a blue moon. As it is, the blatant snub has a way of causing one to feel like a non-entity, which doesn't contribute to positive workplace morale. At least not for me. When you hear with regularity, "Hey, we're all going to lunch!" -- and you know that you aren't included in the equation, well ... it stinks.

Yesterday my coworker began talking to me about a pregnant woman in another department, with whom we've both worked on occasion. "Did you realize she's due on December 31st?", she asked. "I must stop by Kohl's after work to pick up a baby gift."

"Oh? Is there going to be a shower?" I inquired. "Well, yes!" she exclaimed, "This coming Friday."

I wasn't invited.

As she continued to talk about the shower and the baby gift she planned to buy, I found myself growing increasingly hurt (and cross) and finally interrupted with a terse, "Look, I didn't get an invitation, so I know nothing about this." You'd think that would have given her pause and perhaps she'd have downplayed the event, but no ... she continued to talk animatedly about the shower. And this morning, she brought in the little pink outfits she'd purchased to show me. (Insensitive much?) Honestly ... I thought I'd made it clear that I felt excluded, yet she continued to act as though there had been no slight (intented or otherwise), cheerfully gloating over the baby clothes and the upcoming party. So I did what any self-respecting, grown woman who feels like she's in junior high school all over again would do. I feigned complete disinterest.

(Yawn. Your crummy shower BORES me.)

It definitely doesn't feel good to be excluded, but I know I'm somewhat silly for allowing myself a poor-pitiful-me wallow. It feels rather peculiar to be 46 years old -- to know that by this point in my life I should be able to rise above offenses that are of little consequence -- yet at times I do revert to reactions that call to mind mini-dramas from my early adolescence. My Grannie, who turned 91 last week, recently shared that she is often taken aback when she looks into the mirror and an old woman returns her gaze. She still feels like a young girl on the inside ... and I fully understand. I suppose we never really lose that inner child, for better or worse. Sometimes we still wonder if we're truly accepted and valued, if we're "part of the group." Sometimes we feel we're on the outside looking in, lonely even in a crowd of acquaintances. In those times when we experience the cold shoulders of others, I suppose it's common to turn our hearts toward home -- to that safe haven where we know we're loved and wanted, no matter what.

And that's how I'm feeling today. I just want to go home.

The elusivity of words ...

2008-11-11T10:51:00.025-06:00

When I officially began blogging last month, I fully intended to write a bit about something every single day. While my first attempts yielded a fair result, I've discovered this isn't really as easy as I'd expected. In case you didn't notice, I've had a few days where I've just found nothing to say. Not because there's anything wrong -- not even so much that my thoughts are jumbled -- simply that the words don't come forth with enough verve to weave a fabric of ideas worthy of putting into print (let alone that anyone would care to muddle through reading).

At other times, words flow like a river (at least in my head). The post prior to this one was churned out around 2:00 yesterday morning, after I'd tossed and turned with words tumbling through my mind for at least an hour prior to rising and firing up the computer. I'd stirred from a most interesting dream in which I was writing a novel. Oh, it was a very good story too ... Plots quickly formed into paragraphs in my mind, and in my trancelike state I tried to remind myself: "Remember this! Put it on paper ...", but by the time I roused from slumber and rose to type, the details of my story had vanished.

I've enjoyed writing for as long as I can remember. In my job I am sometimes tasked with editing another person's work -- rather heady when the request comes from upper management, I must admit. Whereas I once tended to more or less rewrite someone else's work with my own words that I narcissistically deemed more expressive, I've learned instead to closely follow their initial endeavor and offer grammatical suggestions and make clarification only where necessary (thereby avoiding a presumptive appearance -- especially important when editing for the boss!).

I read a good deal for pleasure, and am often amazed at the number of glaring errors I've found that obviously escaped a proofreader's scrutiny. Sometimes I think I would've enjoyed editing as a profession. And sometimes I'm taken down a notch when I've revised someone else's work and discover, cheeks flushing, several conspicuous errors of my own.

Although words often elude me, I will continue to blog with as much regularity as my mind can muster. Blogging is a wonderfully challenging, creative outlet for expressing that which would ordinarily remain introspective. There's something so very liberating about allowing one's thoughts to discharge and to just flow freely ... when they finally do build to that point of a surge.

Stealing a branch from the family tree

2008-11-11T01:45:00.019-06:00

I'll let you in on a secret: I've absconded with the family album. Actually, I borrowed it from my mom a couple of years ago, who had previously borrowed it from her sister, my elderly aunt -- who may very well at this moment be parked in front of the television, unable to focus clearly on the brusque pronouncements emanating from Judge Judy's pursed lips, for wondering where the heck it is. It is a large, red leatherette tome that is embossed in gold, haphazardly bound together with twist-ties from old bread wrappers, and falling apart in a very bad way. I had actually planned to arrange the photos in a new, archival-quality album that would preserve them properly, although I fear that removing them from the vintage sticky-backed, magnetic pages will cause many of the photos to crumble. And so, the album remains squirreled away in a cabinet -- yet another of those innumerable projects I've not yet attended to.

I like to take the precarious album out of hiding from time to time, and gingerly turn its pages. It is filled with photos of my mom's maternal line, and I believe the oldest photo is that of my great-great-great grandfather (if I'm following the succession correctly). He wears a heavily braided, brass-buttoned uniform and reminds me vaguely of Captain Kangaroo (with all due respect to this long-gone grandpa and good ol' Bob Keeshan).

There are numerous photos of my grandmother and her brothers as children. For some reason, these photos intrigue me. Perhaps it is because I only ever knew them as "old folks", seeing them as youngsters and wondering what their lives were really like is a fascinating exercise to me. Even though they came long before I did, in what ways were we alike? If I'd somehow been able to know them in their youth, would we have been friends?

I look at the sepia-toned photos of my great-uncle, Buster. When I was a child, he and my great-grandmother lived for a time next door to my grandparents, and I visited fairly often. I was terrified of Buster. An ex-Navy man, he was rough and gruff, and had battled the bottle which had taken its toll on him in a number of ways. He was a tattooed, leather-skinned curmudgeon with a cauliflower nose whose bark of "Hey, c'mere kid" struck terror in my heart. Yet, he only ever wanted to give me that which all children crave: A bit of spending money. Sometimes it was a quarter. On occasion, it was a whole dollar, and I was rich! I remember tentatively stepping into his darkened room when he beckoned with his scary snarl, only to emerge briefly thereafter with overwhelming relief at not being eaten alive, and even better -- money in my pocket! Looking at his photos now through knowing adult eyes, I see him as he might really have been. Where had his travels taken him? What did he regret most in life? Did he ever fall in love? Obviously, behind his coarse exterior his heart held a soft spot for the little child that I once was.

A small and petty part of me rather revels in the knowledge that I have this album in my possession, and that it isn't presently in the hands of my older cousin, who has always (and rather inexplicably) considered himself some sort of family patriarchal figure -- a self-appointed conductor of family business who would undoubtedly wish to be the keeper of treasured family photos as well. Strangely enough, it only occurred to me very recently that these photos do not just belong to him and what I've long considered to be "his" side of the family. This is my family too. These are my people. I just wish I knew more about them.

Lately I've been considering what a very short time each of us is allotted on this earth. Someday, someone somewhere will open a musty album and gaze upon photos of me as a child. Will they wonder who I really was? Will they contemplate my life? Will I matter?

Feelin' GROOVY!

2008-11-05T09:12:00.003-06:00

Yes We CAN!!!

Feeling Anxious ...

2008-11-04T14:21:00.008-06:00

Surely I am not the only one who is anxiously biding time until the revelation of The Man Who Will Be President. I'm trying to stay focused on the (entirely too many) duties that must be accomplished today, but my mind keeps slipping back to thoughts of this election -- attempting to mentally prepare myself for whether the "good guy" or the "bad guy" prevails. I remain guardedly optimistic for the most part, but there's still a feeling of restlessness, tinged slightly with nerves. I've been voting for 28 years now, but I can't recall ever being this tightly wound in anticipation of the outcome.

... Today I observed for the first time since Fall arrived that the leaves are changing color. As I drove along the river on my return to work after lunch, the leaves fluttered softly, showing off a newly-hued glory. Gold and russet, crimson and olive. Here in north central Texas, we don't get a great deal in the way of a leaf show. In fact, Fall tends not to imply so much that the leaves turn Autumnal shades, as they simply "Fall off." The lovely presentation of the trees today made my heart slightly skip a beat, in anticipation and awareness that change is in the air -- in one form or another. And it was indeed a beautiful distraction.

Livin' Large?

2008-11-03T13:56:00.033-06:00

Once upon a time in my young and foolish days (likely in the 80s), I was somehow deluded into believing that a large, extravagant house was the absolute triumph. A unmistakable sign to the world that one had "arrived." A stronghold representing the culmination of a life well lived. A most worthy aspiration that would bring immeasurable contentment and pride.

Eventually, that all changed.

The Technicolor Cottage measures a surprising 2,000 square feet, thanks in large part to the transformation of a significant amount of attic space into a bedroom and half bath in 1948. The attic is roomy but quirky. Downstairs, the rooms are quite small, ceilings are far from soaring, and countertop and storage space are practically nonexistent. And yet, it somehow manages to suffice and suits our needs just fine. My days of believing in bigger as better and longing for more, more more ... well, they're most definitely behind me. I've come to the conclusion that I thrive in an environment that's small in scale; where I don't rattle around like a pin in a trunk, feeling insignificant and dwarfed by my surroundings. Give me a cottage, and make it small.

Today I learned that my ex-husband is selling the 17+ acres that we once purchased in a certain posh, suburban community containing more luxury homes than you can shake a monstrous mortgage at, and his asking price is just shy of $3.7 million dollars. $3.7 MILLION!? To borrow a wonderful bit of British terminology, I was completely gobsmacked to learn of his ambitious (read: greedy) solicitation. One of the innumerable reasons that he is my "ex" is precisely his repeated displays of a voracious appetite for and appreciation of money and possessions (instead of people), so I suppose this shouldn't come as such a surprise. And yet, it does.

He and I had briefly envisioned building a home on the heavily wooded portion of the acreage, in spite of the fact that there already existed a nice, rambling home that was built in 1968. I had suggested remodeling that space, but he wouldn't hear of it. His goal was to demolish it and in its place erect a monumental structure that would somehow be a testament to all of his tireless work (did you catch that? Yes, I said "his tireless work", as my contributions were viewed as negligible), and his dream was punctuated with the notion of hosting a holiday party where he'd hire white-shirted valets to park the cars of the beautiful people as they arrived. Oh, the impression that would make! (And wasn't that mostly what mattered?)

Forgive my momentary foray back to Resentmentville. What I'd really like to say is that I'm so thankful that his dream no longer has to be mine. I've always felt my happiest and most content in a small home. My very first home after I left the nest was in the Philippines, a small but serviceable little place with concrete walls and louvered windows for which I handsewed green calico curtains. I lived in a succession of homes over the years following my return to the states, all relatively modest in size. It was with my ex that I came to consider and ultimately purchase an overblown bit of real estate -- a 3,500 square foot custom "McMansion" that, despite all it promised at the outset, completely failed to deliver when it came to warming my heart. (And really, isn't that what a home should do?) That particular house was actually small in comparison to others in the area, many of which contained dedicated theaters, gargantuan kitchens, separate wings for the children (see them? Mustn't hear them!), bathrooms large enough to park a pickup in. It struck me once how their hulking, imposing proportions seemed to nearly blot out the sun. Do these gigantic, luxurious spaces somehow make for a happier home? My experience was sufficient to tell me that no, indeed, they do not. (A predictable twist to my tale: The ex now lives in an even larger house than the one we shared. I hope he's happy. Heh - oh, who am I kidding? I really don't care.)

I love the little old cottage where I live now. I may tease and halfheartedly complain about its antiquated features, but the truth is that I simply cannot imagine living anywhere else at the present -- nor can I imagine ever going back to living in a large home. On occasion, I'll have the dream (nightmare, really) that I'm forced to return to the large place I left. I toss and turn as I amble down endless hallways, and wake in a cold sweat, unable to get my bearings for a fraction of a second. And then I am filled with relief when I look around and realize where I actually am. I'm home -- that little old place that envelops me and soothes me and truly comforts me. And it just doesn't get much better than that.

Dear house, you are so very small. Just big enough for love, that's all.

Guaranteed to make you smile ...

2008-11-02T14:28:00.002-06:00

El dia de los Muertos!

2008-11-01T11:10:00.035-05:00

Writer Octavio Paz observed that the Mexican does not fear death; rather, he "chases after it, mocks it, courts it, hugs it, sleeps with it; it is his favorite plaything and his most lasting love".

Today, November 1, marks the Mexican holiday known as el dia de los Muertos, The Day of the Dead, when families gather to celebrate the lives of deceased ancestors. Customs vary, but common to all are riotously colorful decorations, special feasts and treats including sugared delicacies and topshelf tequila, lively reunions at family burial plots, offerings to the departed on commemorative altars, and religious rites that often culminate in the ear-splitting pop of fireworks. And of course, there is always music.

It may seem rather macabre to those of us outside that culture, but I tend to think that the Mexican people have quite a healthy relationship with death. It is, undeniably, a most organic event that is our shared destiny; however, they aren't frightened or repelled by its reality. It isn't something from which they attempt to disassociate -- it's not an unspeakably frightening mystery to be acknoweldged only in whispers. Death is simply part and parcel of the natural flowing and ebbing of human existence. They choose to celebrate it for what it is -- yes, even to embrace it.

For the past few years, Rocky and I have been traveling to Mexico a couple of times annually, and from our very first trip, it claimed us. Certainly, the country continues to suffer more than its fair share of difficulties, but it's also filled with unparalleled beauty in its coastal and mountainous regions, and somehow there always prevails an indomitable spirit of happiness and hopefulness among the people. Just being in Mexico lifts my spirit.

One cannot fail to notice the riot of color in Mexico that must surely flow directly from the joyful hearts of her people. They are imbued with inherently artistic souls, and everywhere are expressions of love and loss, life and death -- all presented in a rainbow-hued array of the most vivid eye candy imaginable. I am overwhelmingly inspired by the colors in Mexico each time I visit.

And here are a few "around-the-house" snaps of items we've brought home to remind us of beautiful, happy Mexico:

Today, in honor of el dia de los Muertos, you don't have to fully embrace the Mexican traditions, but why not take some time to remember your own departed ancestors, and give thanks for the lives of those gone before?

What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life - to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories. ~George Eliot

This is SO frightening!!!

2008-10-31T17:26:00.010-05:00

Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween! (A Middle-Aged Glance Back ...)

2008-10-30T10:58:00.119-05:00

I wish I was able to share a few photos of spooky around-the-house decor, as so many of my blogging buddies have done. I love the jack o'lanterns, the black cats, the witches-on-broomsticks. Truth is, we just don't decorate much for Halloween. We do have a little fluttering ghost that we usually hang on the front porch, but he's not been rescued from the back of the closet this season, and at this late date, I don't see much point in dragging his ethereal butt out. He has a sign that hangs from his neck that's supposed to say "BOO" -- but one day Rocky pointed out that the B looked much more like a D, so we named him "DOO." (You have to say it in a deeply resonant, ghostly moan: "Doooooooooooooooo...")

Alas, there'll be no play for Doo this Halloween. Maybe next year.

I have such fond childhood memories of Halloween! When I was in either the 1st or 2nd grade (please don't ask me to be specific - it was a long time ago!), I attended my school's Halloween carnival dressed as Bozo the Clown. As I recall, I won a prize for best costume. I also remember feeling, for perhaps the very first time in my young life, like a complete dork. Oh help, I'm a clown! Many of the other children were made up as miniature hippies -- pint-sized replicas of the counterculture revolutionaries taking the country by storm in that mid-60s era -- and therefore they were cool. Looking at that old (I guess it's truly "vintage" now) photo of my Bozo-self as I stood on the doorstep of our house on Tanglewood Drive, I think, "What an adorable, creative costume that was!" Too bad little Jen didn't quite appreciate it at the time.

I remember dressing as a gypsy in the 7th grade and being allowed to wear makeup -- something I'd never done before. I draped myself in Mom's scarves and bangles and bobbles, and she applied deep, sooty black mascara to my little blonde lashes. What a beguiling, exotic creature I'd suddenly become! We wore our costumes to school that day, and I distinctly recall standing behind a tall, gangly girl in the cafeteria lunch line who turned to me and exclaimed, "Wow! You should wear makeup all the time! You look so much prettier!" As I was still an innocent and not yet prone to viewing every comment as a potentially passive-aggressive slight, I took that as a supreme compliment. And I'm pretty sure that shortly thereafter I began wearing mascara, which I now consider one of those "wouldn't even want to be on a desert island without it" necessities.

The church I attended during my teen years wasn't into the benign "Fall Festivals" that churches hold these days (though those do seem more fitting for a Christian organization than the type venerating demons, gore and supernatural phantasm). Oh, no -- we always had an honest-to-goodness haunted house as the highlight of our youth group's Halloween extravaganza. For years it took place in the big old rural barn owned by Mr. Melvin Wood, which the adults of the church transformed into a maze of blacklighted horror. We kids traipsed through in groups, clinging to one another in absolutely delighted fear, screaming like banshees as we went. Severed heads, mad scientists, wolf men, and a plethora of other creepy creatures in turn reached out to grab and paw at us, invoking shrieks of teenaged terror as we made our way through the wicked labyrinth. At the end of the maze, we were flung out of the barn by a long slide extending from the hayloft. Now that was fun!

When I was in the 9th grade, the slide wasn't there. Instead, the line-up of ghouls included a guy in a mask who chased us kids out of the barn with a chainsaw. (Well, that's one way to be rid of those pesky adolescents.) My fearless and outspoken girlfriend Sam had accompanied me, and as we ran wildly through the cowpie-laced field with Chainsaw Guy hot on our heels, she suddenly turned to him and screeched, "FUCK YOU!" At that point, he ceased his maniacal pursuit, and I began to sweat. Oh, we were dead. I was certain of it. Here I'd brought this "heathen" girl with me, and she'd yelled a horrible obscenity at someone I went to church with. Probably a deacon. I remember agonizing for the better part of the following week, riddled with fear that Sam's vulgar admonition would somehow land me in hot water. Of course, it never did. And in all likelihood, Chainsaw Guy deserved it.

Another element of the church carnival was the hayride. Mr. Wood hitched up a cart to his rusty tractor that was large enough to accommodate a good number of rowdy kids, and beneath the starry sky we were hauled around the bovine-scented pasture. Mr. Wood was the only adult chaperone present and hey, he was driving so his back was turned. Supervision was most definitely at a minimum, which naturally led to the hayride becoming synonymous with an itchy makeout session on wheels. The more chaste among us simply sat close together and held hands, but the kids destined to lives of ill repute (oh, we just knew that they were -- we also desperately wanted to be them) paired off and snuggled down into the hay and engaged in a moonlit rendition of God only knows what. Sadly, I was never one who so much as got her little hand held on the Hayride of Love, as boys that I liked didn't seem to like me back, and vice versa. (Except for once at camp, when doe-eyed Kerry Jordan, on whom I had a raging crush, tried to kiss me and I pulled away so violently that I conked my head on a tree and practically knocked myself senseless. He never made a second attempt.)

Oh ... How fortunate we are to have memories of laughter-filled times gone by! I may now be middle-aged and no longer an active participant, but Halloween never fails to induce a certain shiver of excitement in me that can only be the stirring of ghosts of a delightful past. Three giggling hobo girls kicking down neighborhood streets, a brisk wind whipping fallen leaves into their path; a bright plastic pumpkin overflowing with sweet treats, eating so much candy corn that I thought I'd literally burst; devils and Supermen, ghosts and princesses, the masked, smiling eyes of overjoyed children ... I remember it all so clearly, and with so much fondness in my heart.

Whether you're simply reminiscing or making new memories this year, may you enjoy a hauntingly happy Halloween!

No, I'm NOT a "morning person"!

2008-10-29T11:19:00.055-05:00

OK, seriously -- how is it even humanly possible to "rise and shine"? How can one truly be all chipper and cheery in the morning? Believe me, I've tried. No, honestly -- I've worked at it, yet I still find myself grumbling and grousing in the heart of who I really am. Oh sure, outwardly I project at least some small semblance of a happily adjusted, smiling sweetheart as I'm going through the morning motions, but I wonder ... am I fooling anyone?

When my brother Zack was small -- maybe 2 or 3 -- he'd wake in the morning or from his afternoon nap, and if you dared even glance in his direction, he'd pull the thumb he'd been sucking from his snarled lips and hiss, "Don't look at me!" My sentiments exactly.

My brother's youngest. It must be genetic ...

I guess I've just never been a morning person, and will likely never be. I do manage to rise before the alarm sounds most days, but it's a gradual kind of groggy awakening that (I kid you not) often stays with me until well after lunch. Just a vague out-of-sorts feeling, where all I want to do is crawl back beneath my nice warm quilt and not have to face the world. My morning commute, a mere 3.9 miles, is by no means grueling. But maneuvering through crazy downtown traffic, dodging (my fellow) nasty drivers does not provide a gentle immersion into one's day. Too, once I'm in the office it's difficult to muster much enthusiasm for the repetitive work that I find myself doing on a daily basis. And -- aaack! -- Horror of horrors, people are talking to me, attempting to engage me in conversation! Nooooo! Make them stop! In times like this, I must continually, repeatedly remind myself of my blessings ... and really, they are plentiful -- but perhaps having them tattooed prominently on the back of my hands is in order, so I'll always be mindful of how full and sweet my life actually is. (Just kidding about the tat, Mom. Maybe.)

I've already told you I love the weekends. Now you know why. There's something so wonderfully comforting about opening my bleary eyes in the morning, and not having to face the grind. I might actually be a slightly more pleasant person if I could just stay at home, instead of having to venture out into the world every day. Especially with a nice pot of tea to warm me, a piping fresh homemade muffin to feast on, and nothing but glorious free time on the agenda. Ahhhhhh, sounds like bliss!

"Nooooooooo ... Don't LOOK at me!"

::sigh:: So now you know of this early-in-the-day temperament of mine -- Petulant, cantankerous, most disagreeable. "I really want to bite your head off; sadly, I must refrain". Beneath the sweet smile lurks a morning monster. Consider yourself warned. ;-)

Teatime!

2008-10-28T11:52:00.047-05:00

You know, there's a lot that can be said about tea. The vast historical significance, the practice of "taking tea" as an artform ... Well, I'm just going to say that I like it. Very much. Only recently, however, have I become a true devotee, having preferred coffee for most of my adult beverage-drinking life instead. There's something a bit more refined about tea that appeals to me. Too, I firmly believe that it's a healthier choice than coffee (although I do hope that my java-imbibing pals won't be inclined to disown me).

Teabags. I once used them, but now prefer the much more robust, flavorful tea that only comes from steeping leaves. (My tea seller claims that teabags are merely filled with tea dust -- and I tend to believe her. Or maybe I just really dig the small jolt of snobbery that making tea the real way gives me.) I buy my tea online from www.iloveono.com and am extremely pleased with their products and service. (In my next life, I want to be as gorgeous as Phuong, one of the founders of Ono. As my 3-year old nephew would say, "Chick-a-WOW-wow!" I'm going to keep up the habit -- perhaps drinking tea makes you pretty!) Thus far, my favorite Ono teas are Mighty Athena, an organic green enhanced with notes of ripe strawberries and papaya, and Creme Earl Grey, a smooth combination of classic Earl Grey and cornflower petals with vanilla overtones and soft hints of cream. Delicious!

My Ono teapot -

Mmmmmmmmmmmmm!

I think I "need" a cozy for my teapot. Yesterday I discovered these gorgeous creations on Etsy.com. Aren't they sweet? I'd have a very difficult time choosing between them!

My mom is an expert in the art of taking tea, having earnestly studied the subject after her interest (or was it her taste buds?) became sparked on one of her first trips to England. And boy, those Brits - how they adore their tea! (I recently read that the average Englishman consumes 2,000 cups per year!) I've made a few journeys across the pond to visit our friends who live in a little thatched-roof cottage in Wiltshire, and each day always began with tea, with countless breaks during the day for a "cuppa." Even when we were out very late, returning to the cottage after midnight, completely spent from sightseeing activities, our hosts always insisted upon putting on the kettle for one last cup before shuffling off to bed. I don't think I've ever been so caffeinated in all my life.

Longacre Cottage in Wiltshire, where we've enjoyed many a piping hot cup!

Having tea with Rocky and Mom in London.

At one of Mom's lovely teas -

There are numerous health benefits associated with regular tea drinking, among them: Improved cardiovascular health, reducing the risk of cancer, and boosting immune functions. There is some evidence that drinking tea may also help control weight and prevent osteoporosis. At any rate, it's such a warm and comforting thing to do -- why not enjoy a few cups today!

A trio of vintage Clarice Cliff teapots. Colorful, funky, and fun!

You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me. ~C.S. Lewis~

Wabi Sabi and Other Stuff ...

2008-10-27T21:23:00.018-05:00

Have you heard of Wabi Sabi? Sounds like sushi. Or a Star Wars character. But it isn't -- it's a Japanese expression that means "wisdom in natural simplicity." According to a little book I have called "Living Wabi Sabi," it is imperfection, or more fully, appreciation of the value and beauty of imperfection. Wabi Sabi celebrates the preciousness of all things imperfect, which is truly all things. The way of Wabi Sabi honors the quirks, the oddities, the perfectly imperfect uniqueness of you and me and everything. Wabi Sabi highlights the value of objects, events, and the entirety of life "as is" -- unpolished, unpredictable, and natural.

I think of this concept from time to time, and am amazed at how simple it seems on the surface, yet how multi-faceted it is in its application, and how very profound. It seems all too often my inherent tendency is to automatically discard that which is imperfect. I see that which is flawed as being of little value, needing to be replaced by the pristine. It's easy to catch myself doing this when I think of my home, as quirky, odd, and imperfect are most definitely apt descriptions of this little old place. But I also tend to extrapolate the concept. It takes a bit more honesty to admit to myself that I quickly find the flaws where people and circumstances are concerned. I am so eager to cling to whatever I can find that is unpleasant, that I fail to observe the beauty, the value of all around me. Wabi Sabi means to embrace, to celebrate this life of imperfection. It is to live with an appreciation for the timeworn things, and a compassion and understanding for the flaws that make us all human. It requires for me a complete shift in thinking, and it takes a good deal of effort. But I think it's a most worthy goal, and I'd really like to incorporate more and more Wabi Sabi into my life every day.

Wabi Sabi doesn't mean that we should not strive for improvement, but it releases us from being enslaved to the ideal of a perfection that simply does not exist.

So. From Japanese wisdom to apples! This looks a bit like a container of French fries, but it's delightfully delicious dehydrated apples that Rocky makes for me about once a week. Jody, my mother-in-law, brings over a supply of fresh apples, and they're sliced and sprinkled with cinnamon and left in the dehydrator for about 15 hours. They're wonderful cut up and tossed into my morning oatmeal, and are great to snack on throughout the day. Oh, and I can't forget to mention that when they're dehydrating, the aroma is heavenly!

Here's the dehydrator! We got rid of our microwave (yes, we're backwards!) and put this in its place. OK, truthfully, I don't miss the microwave at all. We use the stove and the oven a lot, and it works for us to do it the "old-fashioned" way.

I feel practically pious with good health when I'm munching on natural, dehydrated goodies. And then Rocky has to go and bring home something like this ... Oh my ... Eeeeeevil!

And speaking of old-fashioned ways, I want a clothesline in my backyard. I want to be able to line-dry clothes and linens on warm, sunny days. For now, I hang most of my clothes to dry in the kitchen. Rather makeshift, but it does the job!

Lastly ... just a picture of the kitties' colorful bowls!

Remember this - very little is needed to make a joyful life. It is all in your way of thinking. ~Marcus Aurelius~

Goodbye, Mr. Hillerman.

2008-10-27T10:07:00.012-05:00

One of my favorite authors, Tony Hillerman, has passed on. He was 83 and residing in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he died yesterday of pulmonary failure. I began reading his works in the early 90s, and Dad and I took along his books on tape as we traveled together throughout the Southwest, riding down the dusty roads of the Navajo Nation, which is where most of his stories were set. He penned his tales in order to instill a respect in his readers for Native American culture. "It’s always troubled me that the American people are so ignorant of these rich Indian cultures," Mr. Hillerman once told Publishers Weekly. "I think it’s important to show that aspects of ancient Indian ways are still very much alive and are highly germane even to our ways."

"I want Americans to stop thinking of Navajos as primitive persons, to understand that they are sophisticated and complicated," he once said. Occasionally, he was accused of exploiting his knowledge of Navajo culture for personal gain, but in 1987, the Navajo Tribal Council honored him with its Special Friend of the Dineh award. He took tremendous pride in that.

Rest in peace, Mr. Hillerman. We will miss you.

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets' towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you --- beyond that next turning of the canyon walls. ~Edward Abbey~

Lazy Sunday ...

2008-10-26T19:04:00.024-05:00

"Let's have a lazy day," said Rocky, first thing this morning. Well, it doesn't take any more than that to convince me to lounge around in my jammies and do absolutely nothing of value all day long. Actually, I'll take that back. The older I get, the more I find intrinsic value in simply being. We're all so attuned to doing and accomplishing, that I think sometimes it's just such a pleasure to merely exist in the moment, doing absolutely nothing in the process. I intend to keep having as many of these days as I'm allowed.

I'm not too elitist to admit that our lazy days involve watching lots of television, and I particularly enjoy the old classic flicks. Oddly enough, while I'm a fiend for color, I actually think the movies were better in black and white. Today I watched an old Cary Grant movie, and since Halloween is fast approaching, I once again enjoyed "The Birds" -- gotta get into that creeped-out frame of mind! I also was mesmerized by a documentary on people who collect vintage snapshots, as I too love old photos and have several displayed in my home -- photos of people I do not know, but their faces move me.

Here's a lovely vintage photo of a Mexican woman (that I foolishly let get away from me on eBay!) ...

Lazy days are often spent upstairs in our bedroom. It was converted from attic space in 1948, to become the bedroom for the teenage boy who lived in this house at the time. I still correspond occasionally with his sister (whom I had the pleasure and privilege of meeting right before we bought this place), and she recently told me that on hot summer nights when the air stood suffocatingly still downstairs, her entire family of five would sleep upstairs in brother's bedroom, beneath the window unit air conditioner. Other than those rare occasions, she and her sister were not "allowed" in big brother's room without his express permission, which he seldom gave.

The bedroom retains its original knotty-pine paneling, and being in the space is like being enveloped in a warm, cozy embrace. This room is a special place -- I love it here.

This little corner shelf belonged to my great-grandmother.

And speaking of old photos, I love this one of Rocky. I believe this was his kindergarten picture. Click it to enlarge, and you can see that the little guy was obviously most displeased about having it made!

Long Live Laziness!

Around The House, Part I

2008-10-25T10:00:00.021-05:00

Oh, how I love the weekend! I tucked into bed early last night with a new book I've just started, "The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets" by Eva Rice. Mom and I both devour good reads, and this is one of the latest that she's loaned me. My Grannie was a librarian in her younger years, and I spent countless hours as a child surrounded by shelves and stacks of books at the Hurst Public Library, where she worked. I still love visiting the library -- it's a little like a treasure hunt each time I go.

As always, the cats woke me earlier than I would've liked today, but it was nice to rise in a chilly house, slip into a warm bathrobe, and pad into the kitchen to start the kettle for morning tea. And yes, I switched on the heat in the house as well. The thermostat will probably be turned back to cool before the day is out -- it's that time of year when the seasons can't quite make up their minds as to which of them gets to be boss. Ah well, I can still tell it's going to be a gorgeous day. The sun is peeking through the windows, stirring our little family to greet it (check out those eyes!).

I'd like go and vote today. I'd also like to visit an antique mall and perhaps a thrift shop or two, as I'm searching for a small chairside table to go in our bedroom sitting area. And as always, I'll savor spending time at home -- surrounded by chaotic color and cats!

These are the cool earring and bracelet holders that I recently got from an Etsy seller. Finally! I'm organized!

I love this little couple!

Here's another handsome pair --

There's a (Tatouage) chicken in the hallway!

Just more color ...

Finally, I mentioned Mom earlier, which reminded me of the photo that Dad sent me yesterday, of my brother and Mom with brother's new car. I just wanted to share what a beautiful lady my Mom is. She just turned 69 years old, and look at her! She's amazing!

What's a cottage without a cat?

2008-10-24T09:47:00.018-05:00

Or seven. Yep, you read it right -- seven! I often tell folks, "I didn't sign up for this!" and really, I didn't. It was never my desire or intent to become the Crazy Cat Lady, although I suppose I might very well now fit that description to a tee.

First came Camille, many years ago. I believe she's 18 or 19 now, and most definitely showing her age. Just like a little old lady, she's frail, deaf, ornery, and the kitty version of incontinent at times. And naturally I adore her.

When we moved into Technicolor Cottage, we began to acquire a following of tabby cats who seemed to prefer our front porch to their own home, and to make a long story short, we took them in. One by one, until we had a total of five creatures living under our roof. Five? That was entirely too many! The house quickly became a repository for shed fur and stinkiness, but it was too late to change our minds, as we had long since fallen in love with siblings Pooh, Tiger and Molly, and Molly's sweet son, Pip.

In the Fall of 2007, a menagerie turned up on our back patio one day. Miss Kitty from next door had obviously given birth a few weeks prior, and had brought her brood of five to us. As cold weather was approaching (and as it was glaringly obvious that their negligent "owner" was not going to take proper care of them), we couldn't let these baby kitties remain in the wild, so we trapped them and brought them indoors, and set about the task of finding good homes for them. As they were all absolutely adorable, we had no problem whatsoever rehoming Gracie, Goji and Indy (whom my cousin adopted and renamed Tuxsy), and we decided we'd keep -- yes, keep -- the remaining boys, Sunny and Tiki. And then there were seven.

And now there's rarely a dull moment around our house. Oh, they've been destructive from time to time, have kept us awake at night, have created entirely too many messes that they expect us to take care of, but they've also brought so much joy into our lives. The little monsters. How we love 'em!

Camille

This is Pooh

Like a platter of shrimp!

Three of Miss Kitty's babies

Pip -- he actually thinks he's hiding!

They do a FINE job of crushing couch cushions!

And forgive me for this, but doesn't it PROVE they love us?

And so it begins!

2008-10-23T13:45:00.011-05:00

It's no secret that I love color. Vivid and vibrant, saturated, shimmering color! And I'm really not certain when this came about, as I used to decorate my home and dress myself in somber, earthy shades of brown and taupe. But at some point change definitely arrived, and I now find that I thrive in a colorful environment. Bright hues cheer me. I feel energized when I wear certain colors on my body. And I fully appreciate that many - ok, most - people wouldn't be at ease in my surroundings on a permanent basis, but that's ok. You can come and visit in small doses. ;-)

When we moved into our cottage in September of 2003, I hired a painter to take the faded yellow walls in a new direction. He coated the entire house (save for the upstairs bedroom, which retains its original 1948 knotty pine paneling) in Sherwin-Williams Buckram Binding, a serene sandy shade. I infused the space with color from my ever-expanding art collection (many paintings were bought on eBay!), but eventually even that didn't fully satisfy my longing for color, so I began transforming the cottage into a Technicolor riot by repainting the walls. An aged ocher in the breakfast room, Frida Kahlo blue in the kitchen, the hue of an Autumn gourd in the living room, ripe avocado in the dining, gleaming tigereye in the den, breezy aqua in the workout room ... I consider my house to be a work in constant progress (and believe me, a 68-year old home is always in need of something), and I'm not opposed to a little color revision (again!) if and when the spirit moves.