Da Count-A Little Birdie Told Me

Monday is my Aunt B's 87th birthday. Aunt B never had any of her own children but she is the favorite aunt in the family. She may be 87 but she is still going strong. For her 80th birthday the family took up a collection to send her parasailing because that's what she wanted to do more than anything else. She loved it.



My favorite memories of Aunt B are of the times "in the mountains" when I'd go up with my grandparents (the place I recently wrote about). She still has the property adjoining what used to be theirs. She still drives up there to go visit her favorite place and all her animal friends.



A couple years ago when my uncle died Aunt B started writing little stories as a way of working through her grief. I believe it started when she sent a thank you note to someone who had travelled a great distance to come to the funeral. In it she reminisced about times in the mountains they all had shared. The idea was born and she began recording other simple stories, mostly about the animals she loves so much. She showed her two sisters who were less than encouraging in their response. In fact, they were downright discouraging. Aunt B continued writing but became highly selective about who got to read her stories. Last Thanksgiving I was welcomed into that circle. I was delighted by that. Since that time she has sent me several stories she has first shared with other folks. For my birthday this year she sent me one she said she wrote just for me. That was a very precious gift. A few days ago I found another one in my mailbox, which was also written just for me but she said I may share it.



Most of her stories are very simply written. Some folks like the other aunts could be very critical of the style because it lacks polish or sophistication. But the stories express Aunt B's heart, which I find quite lovely. The latest one was also deeply special because it revealed something about my grandfather I never knew. I knew he had lost part of a foot and had the same leg damaged rather extensively during his service in WW2. I knew that his time in the mountains was something that soothed his scarred spirit. I also have memories of how he could sit in the backyard and coax the songbirds to come eat seed from his very hands. Aunt B's story brought all of that into focus in a new way. Allow me to share her story without edit as well as part of her preface in the letter.



Michelle,

Here is a story for you to share. I had seen this many times. It was amazing how that bird would fly to him when he would walk up to see me. He said he called the bird "Skip." He said he named the bird that because he said when he and the bird were walking he felt like skipping but he had a hard time doing that because of his foot.

Love to all,

BeeBee



Hello, I am a chickadee. I have a story to tell you. I lived in the mountains with a friend I miss. His name was Russell. He would come and stay in the mountain home and then we would visit. Russell would sit on his back porch and have a pan full of sunflower seeds and other kinds of food for me to eat. He would hold the food in his hand and I would sit there and eat the food. One day I flew from his hand and I sat on his hat. He got up and was walking around so I stayed on his hat. From then on when I was flying by I would sit on his hat. We would walk all around to see the neighbors and it made Russell feel happy that the neighbors could see us walking. He would walk and I would ride on his hat. That way my wings did not get tired. We were friends for many years. Then one day he went away and never came back. I looked for him for a long time but never found him again.



Ok, a bit melancholy perhaps but a precious gift to me to have a fuller idea of the peace my grandfather found on the trails with Skip. So today I'm counting a grandfather who shared the places of peace, an aunt who has found peace in writing, and the gift of her sharing it with me. For her birthday I plan to share some of the things I've written about my time in the mountains. I hope mine make her smile the way hers have made me smile.

Slice of Lime-The Face of Enthusiasm

Earlier this week I was called into the boss lady's office for a talking to. The list of grievances, in a nut shell, were my seeming lack of enthusiasm, that I am not a team player, and my lack of work ethic. I was quite honestly more than a tad shocked by the whole thing as were my coworkers who said they thought I was deserving of a bonus. After a moment of thought, when they noticed my look of consternation upon emerging from the dungeon for my flogging, one of them offered, "Ah yes, that's right. It's right on schedule. We both got the same speech as did the girl you replaced. The next speech on the schedule is the 'You're ruining the practice' speech. Just be ready for it." The other girl nodded as she recalled "going through the series."

Oh, trust me, I will be ready.

In the meantime, I am practicing my look of enthusiasm...or constipation...

.

In other news and in keeping with a holiday theme this week. Today is Web Day. On this day in 1990 tim Berners-Lee and Robert Cailliau sent a memo entitled WorldWideWeb: Proposal for a HyperText Project. That's had just a few ripples, dontcha think? It seems fitting that today's picture was taken with a webcam for the express purpose of putting it on the web.

Happy Web Day! And thanks to all of you who make the web so fun to visit.

Remembering Those Who Serve

World War 1 ended on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918. A year later President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed November 11 Armistice Day. In 1938 it was made a legal holiday "dedicated to the cause of world peace and to be thereafter celebrated and known as 'Armistice Day'." In 1954 it was renamed Veteran's Day. In countries of the British Commonwealth is it observed as Remembrance Day.

Whatever you call it, wherever you live, regardless of what you think about the current foreign policies and actions of respective governments, please take time to thank and honor those who have honorably served you with all that they have. And let us work toward true peace.

I want to personally thank the veterans among my readers and their families for the sacrifices they have made.

In order to make your gratitude more tangible I'd encourage you to check out Soldiers' Angels, which does quite a lot to directly encourage, support, and meet the needs of those in active duty and those who have returned home wounded. In fact, today is the final day for the Valour-IT fundraising competition in which the various branches of the military are competing to see which can raise the most for voice activated laptops to aid soldiers who have been severely wounded. You may wonder why a wounded soldier would have need of such a thing. I think the cartoon below says it better than I could.

Being able to remain connected to folks who love you during a long convalescence from severe injuries does wonders for the human spirit. Those of you who have been reading me long enough were a great support during my own long months of rehabilitation from a devastating hand and arm injury sustained through my own stupidity. I appreciated it deeply and being able to keep connection to the outside world when I couldn't drive helped me stay sane. My injury was one I managed to recover from almost completely (and it was only one hand) even though there had been no guarantee made. If I multiply my own injury by 2 and magnify it into a permanent loss sustained in service to my nation...well, it's a leap of imagination that is not very comfortable to make. How much less so to be living it? I have no doubt these gifts of technology can go a long way. If you're able please take time today to go contribute. If finances are limited check the site anyway because there are a myriad of ways to be supportive throughout the year and that's needed too.

Whatever you, please take time to thank a vet.

Can You Tell Me How to Get to Sesame Street?

Since I was born in 1968 I am just a few years too young to be considered a Baby Boomer. Demographers have referred to my generation as Baby Busters (because of the plummeting birthrate between 1961 and 1981), Generation 13 (because we are considered reactive, nomadic, and somewhat mercenary), and Generation X (because demographers have an utter lack of creativity in naming groups and they view us somewhat suspiciously). We far exceed the education levels of our predecessors and yet ours heads of household have less individual earning power than their fathers did at the same age, thus demonstrating a massive shift in historical trends. We came of age after Vietnam and grew up during times of relative peace for our nation. However, our memories of historical events begin with things like Watergate, include the recession of the 70's and the shift away from nuclear families to huge growth in single parent families and a generation of latchkey kids who were instructed to hide inside the house until a parent got home. Our coming of age occurred during the unchecked greed of the 80s. We recall the Iran-Contra affair and raising our own young children during times when the US President was getting blow jobs in the Oval Office and his incompetent successor was massively expanding the powers of the Executive Branch while stomping around the Middle East for no good reason. Then the demographers label us a bunch of cynics and slap a few derogatory names on us. Pfft.

I beg to differ and I suggest an alternate title on this 40th anniversary of the show my generation grew up with, the Sesame Street Generation. All you Boomers can go ahead and laugh at us if you want but I think it highlights something more positive and hopeful. It's a show that broke the mold in the way it respected kids for who they were and didn't talk down to them. It gave them credit for being able know the difference between right and wrong (Yes, we understood that Cookie Monster had terrible table manners and that a diet entirely of cookies was not a good idea. We also understood that he was a made up character [How many of us know living breathing creatures covered in blue fur and with eyes that spin? Seriously now, folks.] and made up characters get to break the minor rules kids dream of breaking and still be ok. That's one of the beauties of imagination. I respectfully suggest that today's producers of the show aren't giving kids enough respect by turning Cookie Monster into a vegetarian. Ok, this parenthetical has taken on a life of its own now...). It celebrated imagination. It showed us the fun in playing with language too and let us laugh at mistakes. We knew mistakes weren't the end of the world.

Sesame Street presented a multicultural neighborhood where everyone got along and people looked out for each other. It showed us different personalities finding a way to have enduring friendships. It showed country kids the fun in the city. It showed city kids the fun in the country. It treated our sadness gently when Mr. Hooper died and showed us it was ok to cry but that there is still happiness to be found. (Ok, let me also ask my peers who among you felt a little gut punch when Jim Henson left this world at too young an age?) It also celebrated silliness and was just plain fun. And who didn't love seeing the famous people goofing around with muppets who sometimes got the better of them.

It gave us an example of something to aspire to in terms of unity and community. Laughing and singing together, learning new ways from each other, and giving each other support in sadness are great ways to build community if you ask me. We certainly preferred enjoying the show a second time around by sitting down to share it and a few giggles with our own kids rather than having to process certain news events with them. So demographers might prefer to highlight our more negative traits and influences but I'd rather hang on to the more positive influences and the things we once hoped for which now seem more commonplace.

Happy Birthday, Sesame Street!

Eat up!

According to this post at Slashfood.com today is National Scrapple Day. I am willing to bet few of you have so much as the slightest inkling as to what scrapple is. No cheating by Googling or checking out the links first!

Let's back up a bit. Many of you know I used to do Trini Tuesday posts featuring information about the culture, history, and foods of Trinidad or sharing some of my experiences of living there. After about a year and a half of that weekly feature I switched to my home culture and started doing Pennsylvania German Tuesday posts.

Well, scrapple falls very firmly (or should I say splats rather disgustingly) into the Pennsylvania German category. It's a food. Though I have shared recipes of sumptuous delectables I grew up eating and though I observe certain culinary traditions with great gusto this is not one I would ever choose to celebrate. Why, you ask? Let's just take a little looksee at the ingredient list shall we? According to an article found here it is:

"cornmeal mush made with the meat and broth of pork, seasoned with onions, spices and herbs and shaped into loaves for slicing and frying."

image from http://home.comcast.net/~jomercer/Dutch%20Blitzkrieg/db%20pics/faq/scrapple.jpg

Heck, that sounds vaguely similar to sausage and really not too bad at all. But wait! There's more! True enough the old adage tells you if you enjoy sausage don't watch it being made. Scrapple is even worse. First off, it starts by boiling a pig's head. Secondly the "meat" used in scrapple is the stuff not even good enough for sausage. It includes skin, tongues, hearts, brains, livers or as many a Pennsylvania German likes to say, "everything but the oink." After all that offal is boiled with the head to make a broth the meat is removed and cornmeal along with the seasonings and possibly buckwheat is boiled into the broth and the finely minced meat is added back in. Once it's all glopped up it is formed into loaves and left to set up. And you thought spam was a horrid thing!

Theoretically scrapple could be eaten "raw" because it's all been cooked in the process required to make the loaves. That would be terribly unlike the Pennsylvania Germans though. Full preparation includes slicing the loaf and frying the individual slices until they are golden and crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. It is generally considered a breakfast food and would be an option alongside bacon or sausage to complement eggs, fried potatoes or perhaps mixed in with all of that together. If it's eaten in slices it might be slathered with ketchup or maple syrup. Occasionally folks may even make a scrapple sandwich. Though why they'd want to is far beyond my comprehension.


I have to admit Mr. Lime, Diana, and Isaac are all fans of this dish which Calypso and I find especially vile. If the lovers of loaved hog offal in this house wish to celebrate National Scrapple Day they will have to do so by their own efforts. Calypso and I will instead be observing an alternate holiday, which Slashfood.com also lists for today, Cook Something Bold & Pungent Day. Bring on the curried venison!

Friday 55ish & Da Count-The Moon

FRIDAY 55ish

Yes, it's a little more than 55 words long. You'll live. Apologies to the photographer, I don't recall where I found this picture a long time ago. The words are my own though.

He follows his far away mistress, the moon.
Her soft light gives hope in the night.
Ever his
Yet never to be reached.

She reaches for her falling star lover
His bright glory drops wishes in the dark.
Ever hers
Yet never to be grasped.

Beheld together by lovers below
The mistress moon
And king of stars
Ever roam
Yet never meet.

DA COUNT

The poem is one I wrote and posted back in the early days of the blog. I kicked around a few other ideas for a 55 this week but work has been kicking my butt and no new ideas were seeming to work out. This week I've enjoyed a few moments each night pondering the moon. The first full moon night I watched a silvery circle hover in a milky pink sky. It was kind of strange to see the way the eastern sky was pinker than the western sky. The whole effect put me in a very different mood than before I noticed it all. It was soothing. The next night it was already quite dark before I got outside and the moon took my breath away. Each night I've looked for it and breathed deeply when I found it. It's been a week of pressure from more than one direction. This week I'm counting the moon and the relaxing moments in its light.

Slice of Lime-One Morning

One morning.

All I ask for is one single morning in the week when I don't have to get up early.
I want one morning a week when an alarm clock is not necessary and I won't be jangled into consciousness by the less than dulcet tones of Ozzy Osborne on his @#$%^#$ Crazy Train or by the alarm on my phone.

I want one morning a week when I can pull the covers around my head and snore blissfully until the sun is well up in the sky and I awake slowly with a stretch and a genuinely refreshed sigh.

I might even continue to lay in bed for a while after my eyes open and slowly muse about the day ahead as I prepare mentally for it.

You may say early mornings would not be so bothersome if I went to bed earlier.

Trust me, I am 41 years old. I know my own rhythms. Even when I do go to bed earlier and early morning is not any easier, particularly when the rest of the house is awake and making noise as I try to fall asleep.

During the school week the day starts about 5:15 am.

(Yes, the farmers may feel free to laugh at me.)

Now that I work on Saturdays I get up early then too.

Although for many years we have gone to the late morning service at our church on Sundays, Mr. Lime has recently made the ever so thoughtful unilateral decree that we shall now go to the EARLY service on Sunday mornings.

Seven days a week I have to get up early.

I am less than thrilled by this arrangement.

Call me a whiny baby if you want.

Thursday is my day off.

I've tried to claim it as a chance to sleep in since I don't have to drive the carpool that morning or go in to work.

It does not work well when Ozzy is screaming at me,

or Mr. Lime is screaming at the kids,

or banging on the bathroom door,

or the kids are tromping through my room to get at my bathroom,

or asking what is around to pack for lunch.

Yes, I am a whiny baby.

I am a grouch.

I am sleep deprived.

I am going back to bed, dammit.

Weekend to Remember

It was November and Grampop had left the world six weeks earlier. Three weeks after he died I turned 13. He was the man who took me on hikes in the deep woods. He made up Indian names for each one of us, taught us about the animals, told us the local history and legends. He taught me how to fish, shoot a gun, use a bow and arrow, and row a boat. In spite of those more boyish pursuits I was always his "Princess." He was the only one who could call me that because I knew he didn't mean the ball gown and glass slipper type but the buckskin and moccasin type (even though he made sure I had a steady supply of white patent leather go-go boots as I was growing up). He showed me the fun in sitting to watch the deer and bears come forage for food. He showed me how to get a chipmunk to eat from my hand. I watched him feed wild song birds from his hands. He's the only person I ever knew who could manage that. He also had his own repertoire of silly songs he'd sing on the long drive up and back. I was missing him terribly that weekend.

This fun took place in the musty old trailer (and environs) he and Nana had in the mountains for weekend escapes. It wasn't much to look at but that place was a haven for me. Right next door was a somewhat newer trailer my great aunt and uncle owned for similar purposes. Nana and I were making our first escape since Grampop had left us. She told me I was welcome to invite a friend for the first time. I think she may have figured we'd both feel kind of lost with out Grampop and maybe need the distraction.

I asked Patti to come along. I had only known her since we both moved up to 7th grade in September. The girl who had been my best friend since 2nd grade had dropped me rather abruptly once we moved up to the Junior High School. Thirteen is such an awkward age to begin with. I was devastated when Grampop died and stinging from my friend's rejection. Patti seemed as unsure as I felt but she also seemed genuinely nice and we got along well. I was glad when her mom said she could come along to "the mountains."

Nana pretty much trusted us to wander around the whole wide woods by ourselves because I knew where I was going. I took Patti on all our old trails. She couldn't believe how deep into the woods we were allowed to go. I pulled out the BB gun and set up the tin cans (Nana said no to the .22 that weekend). Patti thought we were like Annie Oakley knocking them down. I showed her how to get the chipmunks to take a peanut out of her hand. She decided she'd rather watch them eat from my hand in case they wanted to nip her fingers.

Then I asked Nana if we could go to the lake and take the row boat out. I had never been allowed to take the row boat without an adult before. Nana shocked me by saying we could go by ourselves. I didn't wait around for her to change her mind. I grabbed Patti by the arm and all but dragged her as we practically ran the mile to the lake. I plopped a life vest around her neck and tied her into it before having her plunk down in the boat as I shoved it out into the water as fast as I could. I got us about halfway out to the little island in the middle of the lake before I noticed the slightly terrified look on Patti's face. I asked her if she was alright. She nodded kind of tentatively but wasn't very convincing. I asked again before she confessed that she was a little frightened because she didn't know how to swim and her mother never let her anywhere near water. I asked her if she wanted to go back because I felt bad for never really asking if she wanted to go in the first place. She thought about it for a minute and asked about the safety of the situation. I read her the safety rating on the life vest, showed her how shallow the water actually was by poking one of the oars down to the mud and still having part of it above water, and made her promise not to stand up in the boat except when and where I told her to. She asked excitedly, "Can we go over to that island and look around?" When I told her that was part of the plan all the time she grinned broadly in great anticipation. We had a ball and after checking out the island she asked me to teach her how to row the boat. She couldn't get over being able to get us from the island back to shore by herself.

We went to bed that night gabbing about all the day's adventures and how she felt so liberated by being able to do so much exploring. As we relaxed I started sharing my broken heart over my grandfather's death other friend's rejection. Patti listened and provided true comfort which left my soul feeling freer. She shared wisdom and truth with me in a clear way no adult had been able or willing to do. She learned from me how to feel stronger and more confident in the physical world. I learned from her how to begin finding comfort and strength in a spiritual world. A lifetime later in the slanting golden light of early November, when I see the trees with only a few brown leaves clinging tenaciously to branches, when I see the early frost on dried stalks of wildflowers and corn, and when I hear the chill wind whisper of impending winter I remember how after one death came a new awareness of life and hope in living it.

I'm Late! I'm Late!

Ok, so it's several hours later than I normally post and I have to go to work soon and don't have time to wax humorous or philosophical (but if I had time to wax I'd probably wax my upper lip instead). Today let's play fill in the blank, ok?


I love ________________ as much as the next person, but__________________.


Be serious. Be silly. Be sublime.

I Thought Those Clouds Seemed Vaguely Familiar

As I was driving along to do my carpool duties I noticed how lovely the weather was. I love a clear blue sky on an autumn day. Few things are lovelier. As I admired the beautiful weather I noticed the clouds had an unusual formation.

I kept trying to figure out how best to describe them and their texture. Nothing quite seemed to sum it up clearly and accurately. It was like the conundrum Billy Crystal's character faces in Throw Mama from the Train when he keeps trying to describe the mood of a humid southern night. "The night was wet? The night was moist? The night was damp?" Nothing quite fits until the surly old lady spits out, "The night was sultry!" The perfect word choice nearly dope slaps him when he realizes that's exactly what he meant.

The clouds were rippled. The clouds were bumpy. The clouds were pitted.

The teenagers poured out of the school and headed to the van. On the way home I heard the conversation turn to the unique cloud formations and heard Barbie state with a bit of repugnance, "They look like fat lady cottage cheese thighs."

Not quite as succinct as, "The night was sultry!" but I nearly veered off the road when the aptness of the description hit me. The damned clouds reminded me of my own thighs and butt!

Thus I shall title this photo...

Cloudy with a Chance of Cellulite

Friday 55 & Da Count-Having More Fun Than I Thought

FRIDAY 55

Straw Hat: $0.0

Sunglasses $0.0

Zinc Oxide: $0.0

Husband's Hawaiian Shirt: $0.0

Kid's Leis: $0.0

Mom's Camera: $0.0

Fanny Pack: $0.0

My Plaid Bermuda Shorts: $0.0 (That's right, I really do wear them.)

Black Socks: $0.0

Sneakers:$0.0

Mortifying a carpool of teenagers when you pick them up immediately after the Halloween party at work: Priceless

DA COUNT

I really did not much care about dressing up for the Halloween party. My coworkers have been buzzing for a couple of weeks about their costumes. They wanted to know what I was doing. I really didn't care. All I knew was I wasn't spending a cent on a costume. When I walked in they all nearly fell over laughing. That was a good start. One of the chiropractors laughed every time she looked at me because she said I reminded her so much of her parents. Scary thought, huh? Wednesdays are more than a wee tad crazy because I have to zoom out of the office the minute it closes in order to pick up the carpool kids. That means I had no time to change. The looks on the faces of the kids when they got into the van were fantastic. They ranged from amusement to horror to thinly veiled disgust to utter embarrassment. Calypso made sure I knew none of them wanted to get in the car with me. Ah well, one of the joys of having teens is being able to horrify them on occasion.

Slice of Lime-Costume Reveal

Did I go as a stalker, a chirovangelist, a patient herder, or a nag?

The answer is...

None of the above!

I went as a tacky tourist.

I didn't have to tell anyone I'd just returned from my first of 40 visits to the exciting destination of Chirovia, land of straight spines.

Basically, I was unwilling to spend any money on a costume and I could assemble this from my closet and Mr. Lime's. The other ideas would have required more effort to produce and I'm way too lazy for that when it comes to costuming. I was tempted just to wear my tie dye and call myself a hippie but that was too easy.


However,

~Dragonfly~* said...

You could go as a hunch back and be the poster child for chiropractics!!!!

I may need to see if I can manage that costume for Friday. I LOVE the idea!

Call me Eye-gor.

So Many Costumes...So Little Time

The Big Boss Lady has decreed that today is the Great Halloween Party and employees are to come in costume so as to contribute to a festive atmosphere. Patients who come in costume get a free adjustment today.

One of the duties of those of us who work at the front desk is to make endless phone calls. We call people to confirm their appointments, not once, not twice, but multiple times. We call people who miss appointments, not once or twice. We hound them until they come back. We call people about special events like this party, not once or twice, constantly. One of my coworkers says she feels like a stalker. I suggested we coming in wearing black trench coats and dark glasses. Then again, folks might mistake 3 middle aged women dressed thusly as Trinity, Morpheus, and Neo. It could happen...shaddup, you! Stop laughing!

Ok, fine. I have another idea. When it gets really busy we have to stop making calls and make sure patient flow is unimpeded. So maybe we could all dress as ranch hands with cattle prods. Git along lil patients! The other girls liked the idea but they also like collecting a paycheck and thought the boss might not be pleased. Photo from www.flickr.com/jtonole

I'll continue brainfarting brainstorming. One of the types of events we have to call people for are dinners and talks about the benefits and importance of chiropractic care. The first one I went to felt like a weird combination of a tent meeting and an Amway presentation. I told the other front desk girl if we were going to get fired for a costume we should go as the chirovangelists Jim and Tammy Faye Backcracker. The girl who handles the financials and insurance can be Jessica Hahn. Again, there were fears about how this may also adversely affect employment status.

I shared some of these ideas with a pal outside the office who liked them but doesn't want to see me in the unemployment line. His suggestion was more subtle. He said I should go dressed as a horse and call myself a nag. Tune in tomorrow to see which option I chose. Picture from www.critter.net

What a Tortured Mind Produces

Yesterday I asked you all to contribute your suggestions to a list of songs and artists that would form the basis of a play list you'd find pure torture to endure. There were many fine additions thanks to all of you. One comment stood out in particular for a couple of reasons. First it describes a mighty extreme reaction to the song listed.

Suldog said... Theme from The Bodyguard, by Whitney Houston. Like nails on a chalkboard to me. If they played it continuously, I would seriously consider cutting off my dick to make it stop.

Really, Suldog, that paints quite the picture. Forgive me but it also evoked a memory that made me laugh. I was going to share it with him just in email but I decided I needed to inflict it all up you as well. You can thank me later. Suldog, just to be safe, put on a cup or have YOUR WIFE remove all sharp implements from your immediate surroundings.

*Walks past and whacks Suldog in the crotch with a baseball bat and calls "Cup check!" Ok, you're ready. If you can make it through the post, my friend, I hope you'll find it was worth it.

Now onto the story. As many of you know, the Lime family lived in Trinidad once upon a time. At the time Diana was a mere tot who was highly impressionable. Also at that time the local practice in television broadcasting was to delight viewers in between scheduled programs with music videos rather than commercials. I believe it was just shortly before we moved to Trinidad that the movie Suldog mentioned was released. Upon our arrival on the island and the discovery of regular video rotation between TV shows we also took note of the frequency with which Whitney Houston's cover of I Will Always Love You was played.

Diana also took note of this particular song and became quite fond of it. In fact, every time it played she felt the need to add her own dramatic rendering of the song as she sang into a plastic xylophone mallet that was supposed to be a microphone. Mr. Lime and I found this highly amusing both because of the passion Diana infused into each and every performance as she emulated Ms. Houston and because of the way she mangled the lyrics. I wish I had a video of her singing it so you could hear the itty bitty white girl with a Trini accent trying to make the great big Whitney voice with all the runs. It was a hoot. Ok, so maybe it would have just made Suldog run with a bad case of the runs but it made us laugh like loons. To this day if the song comes on the radio the entire family breaks out in very exaggerated song. Just think, and entire family of musical torture!

Ok, so I have tormented poor Suldog long enough. I hope his dick has survived. Now I will tell you why I can't stand Neil Diamond. First of all when I was in elementary school the beginner orchestra was required to learn Song Sung Blue every year. If you want musical torture just imagine a xylophone made of cats which is played by stepping on each cat in order to screech out that tune. The will be the rough equivalent of hearing the elementary school orchestra play it. I am sure if I had a dick the mere memory of that experience would make me consider chopping it off if it meant the musical horror would stop.

A few years later I added another reason. The summer I was 15 I babysat 2 younger cousins, a brother and a sister. The boy was about 5 at the time. His father was a Neil Diamond fan. I already had a certain bias against the singer who shall not be named again on this blog. The father's fandom was maintained at fairly reasonable levels. However, as demonstrated by the story with Diana, youngsters tend to take it to a whole new level. The wee lad in my care was no exception. Every...single...day we listened to The Jazz Singer....the...entire...album. We didn't listen once. We listened any time the boy wasn't watching the game show Press Your Luck (which was another brand of torture all by itself) or making me play it with him on his little chalkboard easel. We didn't just listen to it, we had to dance to it. I HATED the Jazz Singer with every fiber of my being by the end of the summer. I also hated the game show Press Your Luck in equal measure. They both make my teeth itch and my spine contort.

It was my own personal Scylla and Charybdis. To avoid the singer who shall not be named I had to endure the game show which must not be played. To escape the whammy hell of Press your luck I was whammied with the singer who makes my teeth itch. So, dear reader, you will understand why I sank into the old sofa with relief one day when my young charge announced he was going to his room to play alone for a while. I basked in silent bliss enjoying the brief respite from both musical and televised torment.

After some time it seemed perhaps I should check on the boy since he had been quiet far too long. Upon reaching his bedroom I found the door closed and heard some sighing as the bed squeaked. I cracked the door open and found the 5 year old rolling around on top of his bed in ecstasy. He had taken the Sears catalog and a pair of scissors. He turned right tot he lingerie section and had spent quite a while cutting out nothing but pairs of bra-clad breasts, no faces, no torsos, just the breasts. The top of his bed was covered in tiny titties as he rolled in them delightedly.

After I could breathe again from laughing so hard I almost fell down the steps I paused to wonder if I should make him clean up or if I should go back downstairs and allow him to roll in a hundred paper tatas while I basked in the relative peace. I opted to take the scissors and let us both enjoy our respective pleasures.

Just so we are clear...

..I don't find torture funny nor do I think it should be sanctioned by any country considering itself civilized nor am I looking to enter into debate as to what does or doesn't constitute torture. That said, when I read this article about the use of music as a means to wear down prisoners at Guantanamo and came to the following paragraph specifically I burst out laughing.

Based on documents that already have been made public and interviews with former detainees, the archive says the play list featured cuts from AC/DC, Britney Spears, the Bee Gees, Marilyn Manson and many other groups. The Meow mix cat food jingle, the Barney theme song and an assortment of Sesame Street tunes also were pumped into detainee cells.

Read through that list carefully again. You have to admit it's a pretty broad range of musical horror though and sounds like the basis of a skit on Saturday Night Live detailing the meeting of minds which generated the lists of artists to include. In what other context could Barney be standing alongside Marilyn Manson? I don't disagree with any of that play list and would consider most of it torturous to listen to. I don't mind a few things by AC/DC and I have fond memories of Sesame Street but a constant barrage of them would be a bit much. I will admit to engaging in my own musical torture any time someone complains about having a song stuck in their head. I immediately begin singing the Barney Song until my victim threatens me with bodily harm. Sheesh, they don't even thank me for dislodging whatever tune was troubling them earlier. Such ingratitude.

To this list I would be forced to add Bjork, Air Supply, Yoko Ono, Neil Diamond, Ozzy Osbourne, and experimental jazz music (which to my apparently unsophisticated ear sounds like the musicians are forever just tuning up). Who would you add?

Da Count in 55-Thanks to Management

Dear Sir,

Last Friday I expressed my displeasure regarding the weather.

Today I must thank you for your attention to the matter.

The temperatures have been lovely and more seasonably appropriate.

I appreciate very much the chance to enjoy the splendor of my favorite month without first shovelling snow.

Yours very gratefully,

Happily Thawed Lime

Slice of Lime-Good Grief!

Well, we've already established my son's ability to relate to Charlie Brown. We've had another example. The poor kid has needed glasses since kindergarten. Since about 5th grade he has actually required bifocals. We have somewhat crappy coverage for eye care so getting bifocals means shelling out about $300. This means he has been drilled extensively on properly caring for the costly spectacles. When he was younger he was noted for irreparably breaking them just after the warranty expired and just before the insurance would kick in whatever pittance was allowed toward a new pair.

I was delighted when, during his last exam, Isaac was told his prescription had not changed so we could keep the same glasses and lenses. I've been thrilled that he's been able to keep the glasses intact for 2 years.

I rejoiced too soon as you can see.

Take a good look. The poor kid came home from school and handed me the pieces of glasses with great trepidation.

He explained how the great mangling of spectacles came to occur and asked if I was mad. It had clearly been an accident so I assured him that though I was less than thrilled about having to pay for a new pair I was in no way angry with him, that's why it's called an accident.

So yes, we ordered a new pair and too his credit Isaac was careful to pick a set of frames on the economical side. The good news is a local jeweler was able to solder together the old pair. He wasn't sure how long it would hold but if it gets him through for the week or so we have to wait for the new pair it will be all we need. In fact, for this week, that solder job is what I am counting.

Happy Humpday

READER ADVISORY: You never saw THIS on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. I strongly suggest you put down any drinks or food before watching this. Then again maybe I am just completely warped in finding this as hilarious as I did.

My Son, Charlie Brown

Perhaps you recall the comic strip Peanuts. If you do, you may also recall the kite eating tree. It seemed every Spring Charlie Brown would loose a few kites to the kite eating tree. It would seem we have a close relative to the kite eating tree living in our own yard. It requires something somewhat more substantial than a kite made of flimsy paper and balsa sticks. Like the Venus Flytrap, it seems to have some carnivorous tendencies since it consumes pigskin.

Here is my own Charlie Brown after the tree consumed his favorite football, Harry. Yes, he names his footballs. At first he was mildly annoyed to have Harry stuck in the branches.

He moved into utter dejection after trying to use a broomstick and a walking stick like javelins to knock the football from the tree's hungry grasp. Notice they were then entangled as well (although I hasten to point out their proximity to the football would indicate a fairly good aim). Forgive me, gentle reader. Forgive me, Isaac. I found the whole scene unbearably funny for a few moments.

Once I regained composure I did aid significantly in the rescue of Harry from the tenacious boughs. We also managed to liberate the broomstick and walking stick as well.

Thanksgiving Comes First

As you know from my last post winter has made a rather rude entrance far to early in these parts. It's entirely possible that seeing snow has also affected the brains of the people around me because yesterday Calypso decided it was time to pop in the DVD of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. This was going too far. I pulled out the soapbox and began to rant about how Halloween hasn't even occurred yet, much less Thanksgiving. I have little tolerance for what seems to be the increasingly early push for Christmas preparation.

Last week at work the iPod which plays music all day shuffled around to a Christmas tune. I have been labelled somewhat of a Grinch for running to change the music selection. Call me whatever you want but hearing Christmas carols while the office is decked out in spider webs, skulls, and ghosts is just too dissonant for me. It was almost as upsetting as when Neil Diamond gets piped into the sound system.

Since I have gotten riled about this I decided to join Suldog in his quest to spread the message that Thanksgiving comes first. I am not a Grinch looking to eradicate all traces of Christmas from Whoville. I just want it celebrated in it's proper time and not turned into nothing more than an exercise in gross materialism. Unlike registering a complaint with management about the unseasonable snow it's possible that stating my preference about consumerism about "unseasonable celebrations" might give someone pause, might alter some behavior, might effect some small amount of change. Yes, I know one little blog post on a blog that gets all of 70 hits a day isn't that big a deal but maybe combined with a bunch of others who have all done the same thing it may make a slightly bigger ripple. At the very least I've gotten something off my chest and if my blog isn't good for that much...well, I may as well pack it in.

Mind you I like Christmas. I like the spiritual aspects. I like the time spent with family and friends. I like the traditions. I like the food. I don't like the way stores put up displays earlier and earlier every year. That gets on my last nerve and cheapens the whole meaning of the holiday for me.

As much as I like Christmas, in a lot of ways I like Thanksgiving more. I love that the focus is not on how much stuff you can cram under the tree but rather on being grateful for what blessings you've already experienced. I really love that such an attitude is so contrary to consumer culture that they can't make a buck on it. Ok, so the grocery stores can make a lot of money selling seasonal foods but there just can't be the same advertising blitz and drive to spend that is associated with Christmas.

When Mr. Lime and I were first married we stayed in the town where we had gone to college. We were very involved with the foreign students. If they lived on campus they had to find alternate places to stay during the Thanksgiving break. That's easy if your family is in this country. If getting "home" requires a passport it's a darned expensive and inconvenient proposition to go back there for just a week. Mr. Lime and I enjoyed giving them a place to crash for a few days and often had our own little international Thanksgiving meal with students from several countries. Those were always special times and often enhanced by some foods that weren't necessarily traditional to an American Thanksgiving.

When Mr. Lime and I were the foreigners in Trinidad we found out first hand how much it means to have people in your host country welcome you so openly. It was a tremendously deep celebration for me to be able to give thanks with those who had helped me adapt to a new place so far from family and all I once knew. If you want to read the story of our first Thanksgiving in Trinidad you can find it here.

After returning to the US and settling in another new town we found more friends from other shores. I still remember an unseasonably warm November when friends from Ghana, Kenya, and India joined us in our backyard to enjoy a Thanksgiving meal. The most special moments were as were were all gathered and each person took turns sharing what they were most thankful for. I don't recall anyone caring about a big screen TV or the latest video game or stylish clothing or whatever other ephemeral thing could be listed. I do remember thanks being given for health, for new friends, for provision for genuine needs when personal economics were strained. I remember being struck by how these friends and the friends from years past, no matter where we came from, gave thanks for the things that matter most in life.

I want to enjoy Christmas in its time, but I don't want to rush past the time to pause and consider all we have to be grateful for. Thanksgiving comes first.

Friday 55-Complaining to Management

Dear Sir,

I wish to register a complaint.

Yesterday it snowed.

Please understand, I like snow,

in it's proper season.

I do not wish to enjoy it until nearly the Winter Solstice.

I have NO interest in it after the Vernal Equinox.

Your timely attention in rectifying this will be greatly appreciated.

Gratefully,

Frozen Lime

Slice of Lime-Slice of Zucchini

Perhaps you recall this post where, at the end of the meme, I mentioned the name La-a and challenged you to pronounce it. As it turns out the name is pronounced LaDASHah. The friends who shared this tidbit with me are roughly as warped as I am. They and their children have a stated desire to acquire some sort of pet which they can then name La-a. Now, as a bit more background to this post they already have a 2 year old chihuahua and only encountered the odd name since dubbing the dog with a more conventional moniker. They also happen to be avid gardeners.

When I was out visiting them during the peak of zucchini season their respective parents were also visiting. The man's father is a chef who happens to despise zucchini. Every year my friend lets one zucchini in his garden reach gargantuan proportions so he can offer it to his zucchini hating father. I was there to witness the annual gifting of the monster squash. The father went on his annual tirade about the pointlessness and horror that is zucchini, which was now multiplied by a factor of 10 in the deadly weapon of a specimen now sitting before him.

Please understand when I describe the zucchini in question as a potentially deadly weapon I am not employing hyperbole. Had it fallen off the table and onto the dog there would have been tragic consequences because the thing clearly outweighed the dog. The heft of the zucchini made me wonder if it event outweighed an average full term infant. Upon checking, I found that the squash did in fact weigh just under 8 lbs. Diana was 7 1/2 lbs. at birth.

Since I am not averse to zucchini and I felt rather sad for the poor rejected squash I announced I would adopt it and name it La-a the Squasha. Allow me to introduce you to the newest member of the Lime family. Isn't she darling?

I gave her a nice cozy place to sleep for her nap.

I dressed her in the finest I had. Doesn't that tie dye just set off the green in her skin so beautifully?

But in spite of my original compassion, which moved me to give La-a the Squasha a home, my darker side began to emerge.

Oh, the horror!

The carnage endured by an innocent, unsuspecting zucchini! Look away!

What? A girl's gotta eat, doesn't she?

Jazz Hands (Me a Meme Disguised as an Award)

Jazz got me this time. Someone gave this award to her and she remarked how a fully clothed woman in an apron hardly seems over the top. I really have to agree with that assessment. The whole thing has a very Donna Reed vibe going on and really, pumps and pearls don't strike me as very over the top. Honestly, even greeting the hubby at the door in nothing but pearls and pumps seems way too cliche to be over the top. Maybe if the award featured Kathy Bates in her Saran Wrap dress as featured in Fried Green Tomatoes you might convince me it's over the top. Maybe give that Betty Crocker gal a few facial piercings and purple hair. That might be over the top. Naw, not really, even that's become hardly noticeable.





Alternately, maybe this is a jab at my ever widening figure...you know, referring to my muffin top. In which case, I am a bit annoyed. The nerve! Seriously, now that is just over the top. And one other thing, I find it a disturbing trend that memes are now attached to these awards. As if you think buttering someone up by giving an award will somehow make them more willing to play by the rules. Pfft! You might have some luck if you were to butter some chocolate chip, or blueberry, or raspberry and lemon muffins and hand 'em to me to eat...but I am not promising anything. I have digressed. Onto the award/meme thing (since I have now skewered the award in a style not unlike Suldog's [a fine blogger who also had this award bestowed upon him], though no real offense is meant to the lovely Jazz who gave this to me just to see what I would do with it.)

The rules are:

Copy and change the answers to suit you and pass it on. (You mean I can't just rerun Jazz's answers? Picky picky picky.)

It's quite tricky to use only one word answers! (Thanks for that, Captain Obvious.)

Once you have filled it out be sure to pass it on to 6 of your favorite bloggers. (I pick you, and you, the one to your right, the guy behind you, the one wearing orange, and the one who just sauntered out in a bathrobe.)

Alert them that they have been awarded! (Consider yourselves duly alerted.)

Have fun! (It's my meme and I'll cry if I want to.)

1. Where is your cell phone? Filed

2. Your hair? Wild

3. Your mother? Mild

4. Your father? Riled

5. Your favorite food? Spilled (all over Hugh Jackman so I can lick it off)

6. Your dream last night? Thrilled

7. Your favorite drink? Chilled

8. Your dream/goal? Fulfilled

9. What room are you in? Dungeon

10. Your hobby? Dudgeon

11. Your fear? Birth (Hey, I'm 41 and my youngest is 14...I certainly don't want to give birth again.)

12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Mirth

13. Where did you grow up? Earth

14. Something that you aren't? Lout

15. Where were you last night? Out

16. Wish list item? Hugh

17. Muffins? Two

18. Last thing you did? Work

19. What are you wearing? Smirk

20. Your TV? Dusty

21. Your pets? Musty

22. Friends? Trusty

23. Your life? Busty

24. Your mood? Lusty

25. Missing someone? Man

26. Vehicle? Van

27. Something you're not wearing? Tan

28. Your favorite store? Book

29. Your favorite color? Look

30. When was the last time you laughed? Night

31. Last time you cried? Fright

32. Your best friend? Delight

33. One place that I go to over and over? Work

34. One person who emails me regularly? Jerk

35. Favorite place to eat? Turk(ish)

Alternatives to Columbus Day

There are those who find the marking of Columbus Day an offense on various grounds. The objection is the decimation of indigenous cultures that resulted. If you are among those who find this American holiday an affront I have some other suggestions.

Just north of the border in Canada it is Thanksgiving. So allow me to greet my Canadian readers with a "Happy Thanksgiving."

In Malawi it is Mother's Day.

In Equatorial Guinea it is Independence Day.

In Brazil it is Children's Day.

In Spain it is National Day.

In the U.S.A it is also marked as Freethought Day which commemorates the end of the Salem Witch Trials.

If those holidays don't pique your interest you could commemorate some other things that occurred on this date in history.

In 1773 America's first insane asylum was opened in Virginia.

In 1810 the first Oktoberfest was held.

In 1823 Charles Macintosh sold the first raincoat.

However, none of these is my personal favorite with regard to October 12. That would be reserved for the year 1968 when Hugh Jackman and I were born on opposite sides of the Earth.

Also, in 2005 I gave myself this blog. Thanks to each one of you who has made sharing this corner of the blogosphere so much fun for me over the last 4 years.

I think to celebrate I shall give thanks to my mother in Spanish, declare my independence, hug my kids and a wiccan, act crazy enough to make people consider committing me, and wear a raincoat. If anyone would like to arrange for Hugh and me to share part of the day raising a glass to each other that would be the icing on my cake.

Since that seems a wee tad unlikely I'll just share some of the cake my mom made for me.

Mmmm...Red Velvet Cake.

Friday 55 & Da Count-Competence

FRIDAY 55

Pull today's charts.

Done already.

Appointments confirmed?

Today's and tomorrow's.

Send Mrs. Smith a sympathy card. Her father died.

I put one in the mail already.

Send thanks to the patients who referred friends.

That went out with the sympathy card.

Update the new patient list and log. Put up xray cards.

Everything is done.

DA COUNT

Wednesday was the first day I felt like I had the rhythm down at work since I started there. It was no small feat since we had 5 new patients in the morning in addition to the regular schedule of established patients and one of the new ones was an unscheduled walk-in. It was the first day when I felt like I didn't have 100 mistakes to apologize for, and even managed to stay a few steps ahead of things in spite of the unusually heavy schedule.

Slice of Lime-Working Girl/Deskorcism

For those of you who were a bit concerned about me last week when I was not paid here is evidence that I eventually was. I'm preparing to sign my first paycheck in 19 years. Woohoo!

Now in the interest of fairness, I ragged on Diana who always kept her room at home like a pigsty. She now keeps her side of the dorm room neat while her roommate slobs out. Well, I have to admit my desk at home is a horror. It's a perpetual avalanche threat. Here's is the evidence.

Over the last couple of weeks at work I have endeavored to expunge my desk there of extraneous crap because it drives me out of my mind to have a hundred patients to deal with and an equal number of bits of paper and things all over the desk. I have considered the irony of this tendency. That is significantly cleaner than when I inherited it from the girl I replaced and it's workable, but there is some stuff I still want to get rid of. Go ahead, laugh. I find the irony amusing too.

Definition of Terms

You all know me as one who can read 100 meanings into one meme question, which results in some seriously twisted responses. Out in the work world I have been keeping my skewed perspective to myself and attempting to play things straight. Yeah, I know, stop laughing, it's true, I swear. Ok, milk is coming out your nose already!

That said, I still seem to have slightly different definitions for certain terms. Let's explore, shall we?

"Mother the patients."
My interpretation does not include changing diapers, spoon feeding, or spanking. I take it to mean interact warmly and personally while giving whatever answers to questions or directions are necessary to keep the flow of patients moving.
Boss lady's interpretation seems to require nagging them to within an inch of their sanity and assume they are not responsible enough to make their own decisions.

"Create warmth."
My interpretation dictates eye contact, smiles, use of a name, remembering details about patient preferences and schedules, listening to people, cultivating an atmosphere that is welcoming and relaxing without becoming inefficient (I get it, this aint' a day spa, keep 'em moving).
Boss lady says it means use their name and don't have any conversation beyond telling them how much more chiro care they need and how many times a week they are supposed to be getting adjusted. All conversation a patient initiates should be redirected to the wonders of chiropractic. I'd better NEVER start a conversation about anything other than that.

"Come in half an hour before your scheduled office hours and stay half an hour past them."
I'm kind of a literalist here, though I do recognize getting things done may require a more than that. Adding as many screenings as possible on weekends outside of posted office hours does not fall under this schedule in my book, not when I am a part time employee.


Talk amongst yourselves regarding the terms. Feel free to tell me how truly deluded I am. Yes, I know my idealism and naivete are getting in the way here.

A Kilo of Lime

A picture is worth a thousand words.

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step ~Lao-Tzu

A thousand words will not leave so deep an impression as one deed. ~Henrik Ibsen

Cowards die a thousand deaths. The valiant taste of death but once. ~William Shakespeare

Even though you know a thousand things, ask the man who knows one. ~Turkish proverb

He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare, And he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

James Cagney portrayed Lon Chaney, the Man of a Thousand Faces.

I'm not a big fan of thousand island dressing but I'd like to visit the Thousand Islands.

In Roman numerals it's M.

In binary code it's 1111101000.

A gambler might call it a dime.

Personally, I've had a grand time coming up with all the things I've posted until reaching my 1000th post today.

A thousand thanks for joining me along the way.

Feel free to add trivia or quotes related to 1000 in the comments.

Fish Tales

When I was but a wee Lime in first grade the students in my class were assigned as groups with each group being given the responsibility of a goldfish. The little bowls were all lined up on the counter at the back of the classroom. Each group member was supposed to take turns feeding the fish. I recall thinking our poor fish looked terribly hungry all the time, what with all the opening and closing of his mouth at the surface of the water. I was quite sure he was begging for more flakes. He always gobbled the flakes quickly. It seemed the scant pinch he was permitted only once daily was entirely too little sustenance for a growing goldfish. I took it upon myself to make sure he was given 3 square meals a day. Thus it came to pass, rather quickly, that our group's fish came to pass. We were informed overfeeding was the cause of death. For a while I was a bit concerned that I may enter the afterlife at the hands of my now disgruntled fellow fish caretakers who were now watching the other groups happily tend fish while we had nothing but an empty bowl.

When Diana was about 5 she became the proud owner of a 5 gallon tank full of various goldfish. She excitedly named them all and enjoyed feeding them and looking at them and introducing them to visitors. Mr. Lime, however, experienced the joy of tank cleaning. The fish did well for about a month before they started going belly up. The first few fish fatalities were fairly frustrating and sad. As each goldfish floated off into its next existence we held a brief ceremony celebrating its life before sending it into the sewer with a solemn flush. By the time the last of the school of goldfish expired wee Diana had grown somewhat matter-of-fact. Her morning routine grew to include checking the fish tank and announcing loudly, "Another one is dead! I'll flush it!"

After the final flushing farewell the tank stood bereft of inhabitants for a few days before we got around to scrubbing it out. During that time, a visitor wandered over to the tank to check out the fish who were no longer there. Said visitor inquired as to the whereabouts of Diana's fish. Though Diana has always been among the more blunt people I know she was suddenly struck by the seeming delicacy of the situation. She walked over to our guest, put her hand gently on his shoulder, looked consolingly into his eyes, and intoned gravely but ever so sincerely, "I'm sorry. They've all gone to...potty heaven."

On Friday evening, Diana informed me via Facebook status that after $5 and 80 half caved in ping pong balls she had become the proud mother of three goldfish in colored water who were now residing in cups on her dorm desk. I was delighted to learn my grandfish's names, Norman, Elias, and Elicia. Like any proud grandmother I asked for pictures so I could properly brag on my brilliantly gifted grandfish. After all, they are in no ordinary school of fish; they attend college (ba-dum-dum). I encouraged her care for my grandfish even as I tried to avoid being overly meddlesome. Rather than criticize the accommodations Diana has provided my grandfish I offered to gift them with a lovely little bowl to replace the plastic cups she scrounged for them. Alas, Saturday morning the tragic call came. Elias has gone on to potty heaven.

R.I.P. Elias. I never even got to see a picture of you. Let's hope Elicia (left) and Norman (right) are a bit hardier, though I fear for them since our history with fish does not give much reason for hope.