Humble pie

{good medicine}

Wrastling the snow

helpful_hint

If you happen to live in a region of bluster, it would behoove you to build muscle tone prior to the winter months. Sure, there’s the whole ‘good for you’ bit, but more importantly, there will come a day when that ‘light dusting’ of snow will become a dadgum blizzard. Woe to you if the height of your workout plan consists of lifting one book after another, followed by repetitions of hefting tea to lips. Out you’ll march, bundled like an Eskimo, armed with a shovel, fully prepared to clear the way. You’ll plunge your shovel deep within the snow, expecting to hoist it back up. Alas, it shall be more than your wee arms can muster; you’ll be lucky to retrieve the shovel, alone. Not easily deterred, you’ll opt for the slide technique–shovel-to-ground, pushing snow from one end to the other. Only you’ll never make it to the ‘other’ as your engine will give out midway. Like hitting a brick wall, you’ll be stopped dead in your tracks. In that, you’ll have no recourse but to scoop the top layer of snow. There you’ll be, shuffling along, when your muscles will spasm, your shovel will falter, and you’ll lose a bit of your load, so by the time you reach the side, you’ll have deposited roughly one tablespoon of snow.

I will tell you now, there are better things with which to while away the hours than shoveling your driveway and walkway–though it will offer quite the spectacle for your neighbors.

So don’t neglect the muscles, my friends . . . don’t neglect the muscles.

Wherein I work myself into a pickle

I‘ve gone and done it now. Remember how I told you I agreed to be in a medieval production–you know, just for kicks? Well, I knew going in I’d been assigned a couple small parts. What I did not know, however, was that I’d been assigned to sing a verse with two other people.

*crickets*

Perhaps you’re not grasping the gravity of the situation. Singing. Out loud. In front of an audience–with nothing more than a vielle for accompaniment. I tend to relegate my singing to shower stalls and empty vehicles, thank you very much. It’s the best for us all, really.

Nonetheless, at rehearsal last night, singers were held back to run through their respective verses. There I sat, at my little desk, willing the clock hands to go faster so we’d make it out before Verse 5, and therefore, unscathed.

Alas, no such luck.

So we three meandered up front and I formulated my plan. It was quite simple really: I’d mouth the words and allow the professional to shine; her resonate voice would meld with the voice of the other singer, bouncing off the walls a few times, thus giving the illusion of three voices. Brilliant, really–except the other singer hatched a similar plan. We ran through the verse two times before the professor lowered her vielle and said, “I’m only hearing one voice.” Really?!That is so weird!  

Eventually, we made enough noise that we were allowed to take a seat–and the next victim singer made his way to the front.

He was a lone wolf. Now if I had to sing a medieval ditty, solo, I’d die a thousand deaths. But he handled the situation with great aplomb–and pitch a bit helter-skelter. That’s all it took. I was struck hilarious. I started laughing and could not stop. How old am I? I know. But I was tired. So very, very tired. Surely, it was exhaustion laughing.

That said, I awoke this morning with renewed vigor. After all, if my mom taught me anything it’s the fact that if you agree to something, you see it through. Not only was I going to sing Verse 5 of Nou is Yole Comen, I was going to own it! And that’s about the time Teenie crept into the office, eyes wide, ears back, tail the size of a swiffer duster.

Apparently, I sound like a dying cat when I sing.

This does not bode well, my friends . . .

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Nou is Yole Comen is available on iTunes if you’d care to sing along. Who knows? Maybe you’ll want to take my place . . . anyone? Anyone?

The Daily Drop Cap is, of course, courtesy of the ever talented Jessica Hische.

The weekend rundown

{A budding hellebore or Toucan Sam on holiday? You decide.}

Over the weekend, the sun shone bright and clear one day, the clouds took over the next. My mum and I went and saw One for the Money; we laughed, in the theatre and out. Like many a weekend preceding, the days were filled with small moments. Here are a few of them . . .

Rude. As if eating a whole cake was not bad enough, Saturday, my grandma decided she wanted to take my mom and I to the Chinese food buffet. So. Much. Food. Just when I thought I might explode, the fortune cookies were delivered. Hope for the best, but plan for the worst. That was my fortune, people. Yeah, I may be the only person in the history of the world whose received not one, but two {mis}fortune cookies.* Sigh.

Are you kidding me? Was it just me, or did it seem wrong to have Palm Sunday share a calendar space with April Fool’s Day?  It’s like, Let’s celebrate the start of holy week with the triumphal entry of our King . . . Psych! Just kidding!

Free entertainment. A high point of the weekend consisted of chatting with my brother, sister-in-law, and nephew via Skype. Before we shut it down, my nephew wanted to show us his new skill: arm toots. Yes, you read that correctly. And yes, we laughed; but let’s be serious, the sound is funny. Then, there was my nephew: he’d take my brother’s arm like a cob of corn, blow on it, and throw himself back in hilarity before collecting himself to do the same with my sister-in-law.

Sweden may be a long distance away, but laughter travels well.

Could be good, could be bad. In a moment of weakness, I joined Pinterest. You know how I am–I love all sorts of things. That, I feared would be my problem. You see, I understood the “organize and share” aspect–I didn’t anticipate the inspiration. Oh the inspiration! It’s not so much a time suck, as a springboard. So if you, like me, just aren’t sure, I’m telling you now, give it a try. Of course, that being said, I’d appreciate you staying on alert: should I disappear for days on end, with nary a warning, we may need to hold an intervention.

With that, here’s to a new week. Let’s make it a good one, shall we?

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*My other {mis}fortune cookie: when I returned from college, the only job I could find was sitting a chain-smoking elderly woman with whom I had to fight every evening, tooth and nail, to put on her seat belt before we’d go out to dinner. The only thing that worked was threatening to shuffle right back inside for TV dinners. Seeing how she loved going out, the seat belt clicked. One such evening we went to Chinese food, and that’s where my fortune read Past disappointments may resurface now. True story. And definite low point.

Humiliating episode #673

Clogs are a gamble. One, there’s a fine line between fashion and faux pas. Two, the very thing that ensures you don’t err on the side of frumpy, may very well serve your demise. A fashionable clog, you see, is made for sauntering. It’s made for long strides–deliberate steps marked with the occasional pause, one foot extended, hands on hips, head held high as if to say, Why yes, I am quite fabulous. One misstep and you’re doomed.

I thought was prepared. The clogs worn Saturday are brown, fur lined, with a platform sole and a heel you give an inch and it climbs a mile. They have the first step down. And while I knew I’d be walking downtown, to lunch, it’s usually a casual stroll–nothing of which to concern myself.

This was all right and good–until our return, when we hit four lanes of traffic, with seven seconds left on the clock, and the rest of my group decided to make a run for it. Like a lemming, I jumped right in after them. Almost immediately I lost one shoe and twisted my ankle.  Nothing if not determined, I shouted a war cry, stuffed my foot back in my clog, and shuffled off. While the details are a bit hazy, apparently, in order to propel myself forward, eyes locked on the DO NOT WALK sign, feet in my shoes, I felt the need to hold my purse either up over my head or straight out in front of me.

The bad news: there were people waiting at the light. There were witnesses to this particular low point. I didn’t have the heart to look up and see if I knew any of them, if any of them were hot, if any of them were flipping me off, or holding camera phones.

The good news: I lived to tell the tale. I lived to sound a warning. So take heed, my friends, take heed–and mind your shoes.

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Special thanks to the ever-talented Jessica Hische for providing us the Daily Drop Cap.

With the wind in my hair

While Skyping with family over the weekend, my brother walked in his new bicycle–a handsome velocipede if ever there was one.

It got me thinking of my first ride–candy apple red with matching banana seat, flecked with gold and gold stripes, and red and gold handlebar streamers. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Thankfully, it was also well made for the first time I rode it, I panicked, hit a mailbox, and landed bike down, in a ditch.

Once I got the hang of it, however, I was off and running … or riding, as the case may be.  I even managed to get the hang of a ten speed. Mine was black, pink, and turquoise, thank you very much.  I was totally cool cruising the ‘hood with friends.  No matter that we had nowhere in particular to go, we were out on the “open road”… anything was possible.

Of course, I haven’t owned a bicycle for years–decades even. There’s a good chance it’s for the best. The last time I road a bike was with friends–at least I started with friends.  They decided it would be great fun to end our stay at Ponderosa State Park with a mountain bike excursion; I decided that sounded like hell, but kept it to myself.

We rented bikes and helmets, and set off on an “easy” trail. Seeing how I hadn’t been on a bicycle for ten years or so, I lagged woefully behind. For the most part, I’ve blocked it from memory.  I recall dirt and rocks, and an extremely narrow path that plunged to horrific depths below. It was precarious at best.  I’m not exactly sure what transpired.  All I know is by the time I reached my friends–waiting and laughing atop a MOUNTAIN–not only was I near dead, my helmet sat askew on my head, and there were tire tracks running down one leg.  Considering I was the only bike for miles, it appears I ran over my own leg.  Yeah,  no one knows; but I’ve yet to get back on a bike.

And yet, when I see something like this, I recall only those days of carefree abandon…

{Studine Classic Balloon by Velorbis}

Surely, a bicycle like this provided inspiration from whence, “it’s like riding a bicycle” was coined.  Surely, a bicycle like this, even the likes of I could ride–in a skirt and heels, no less!

At the very least, it allows a girl to dream …