totally random

Down the Rabbit-Hole

{Alice in Wonderland, Arthur Rockham illustration, 1907}

It has come to my attention that a trip to the Emergency Room is something akin to falling down a rabbit hole–it’s a whole other world. Over the weekend, my mum and I spent the morning/afternoon there with my grandmother. We’re becoming something of old hats, you see: as chauffeur, I drop the other two off and then attempt to find a parking spot within the same zip code. Mission accomplished, I saunter back in to find a seat furthest from the moaning and hacking. Alas, misery migrates. So, in a vain attempt to ignore kids run amok and the woman, obviously addicted to prescription meds, frantically wiping her brow, I bury my head in my phone, reading, until summoned back.

Where we wait some more.

This time, after waiting approximately 100 years, I suggested perhaps my mum would like to read, as well. No, thank you, says she. C’mon, it’ll be fun, says I. That’s when it hit me: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland may have very well been inspired by a trip to the ER. Change out a few names, and it could have been us:

CHAPTER 1

[Debbie] was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her [mother in] the [ER], and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her [daughter] was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought [Debbie] ‘without pictures or conversation?’

The similarity disconcerting, I shut the ‘book’ and waited for the doctor to arrive.

Which he did. Eventually. And when he did, he proceeded to plaster is package (if you know what I mean and I think that you do) against the bed rail. Plastered, people! While I’d like to think I remained calm and collected, I’m fairly certain my eyeballs bulged right out of their sockets at the initial sight. We were eye level, after all. Then I was struck by an overwhelming urge to giggle–but surely, if anything would evoke Rule #42, tittering in the ER would be it. So, after a stern talking to myself, I willed my eyes upward and attempted to focus on what he was actually saying, nodding accordingly.

Apparently, my mum was doing the same.

Thank goodness he had nothing life threatening to convey, because I’m certain we faltered a time or two.

Then, just like that, we were once again in the real world, with nothing more to do than traipse off for tea . . . and maybe recount our adventures to a friend, or two.

A little note on change

{We had us a bit of a sand storm this week–can you tell?}

Change and I fraternize, occasionally. I’m all for buying new shoes, for example, heading toward new adventures, or eating new delicacies–so long as they’re vintage-inspired, don’t go out of bounds in the comfort area or have unfortunate textures. I guess you could say change and I, we welcome brief encounters, at a party, say, quite thrilling like; but I typically wouldn’t invite it over for tea.

Naturally, I think nothing of this particular fact, until someone brings it up. A few weeks ago, that someone was my mum. While chatting she happened to glance down at my toes. You know, you always pick the same colors, said she. Have you seen all the fun ones out now? You should try something new.

As much as I hate to admit it, more oft than not, she’s usually right. So out I went, and–after roughly an hour of debate–settled on the bright splash of  ‘Folly.’ (Oh, the irony!)

I brought it home, carefully applied it to my nails, and waited for the affinity to kick in . . .

Two whole weeks passed, nothing. Finally, I looked down at my toes and exclaimed, I don’t even know you anymore!

And that, was that.

Lucky for me, my mom decided to take her own advice. Figuring her love of dance and all, she purchased ‘Dancing Nails’–she didn’t really love it. But I did. As a matter of fact, the color I chose, she had chosen before; and hers? It just so happens to be one of my favorites.

All is right with the world.

So yes, we’re both back to our old standbys; change is but a fleeting memory.

It just goes to show, sometimes it’s best not to mess with fabulous.

Let’s talk dirt

I once had a roommate who loved to clean bathrooms. Oh, you read that correctly. I remember the first time we cleaned our apartment for inspection, I poked my head through the bathroom door to ask a question, only to find hers halfway in the toilet; she was scrubbing away. She looked up mid-hum and smiled, “I don’t know why, but this has always been my favorite part!” I just stood there, dumbstruck. The mere thought was beyond comprehension.

Similarly, down through the years I’ve come across those who live for the organization of closet space or the pulling of weeds. If you happen to be one such individual, I salute you; for I, myself, am not. I love the end result, mind you, which is why I perform the devilish deeds–but I do not love the act of getting it done. Needless to say, when I happen upon a trick to make things easier, I’m all for it. Here are a few of the latest . . .

Down the toilet. We had a bit of a toilet bowl issue. Mainly, dark, rusty looking streaks took up residence one day and refused eviction. For months I fought those suckers-layering on the Comet, shooting streams of bleach, taking out decades worth of frustation with the scouring of a pumice stone. I broke a nail, scraped my knuckles, uttered a few choice words–I may have shed a tear or two. All for naught, my friends, all for naught. Then one day I found myself in possession of Bar Keepers Friend. Seeing you could use it in the bathroom I gave it a go. One application and the streaks were gone–gone, I tell you–and I didn’t even have to work up a sweat. How can it be so miraculous? I don’t even want to know. All that matters is it’s Awesome!

Growing like a weed. If cleaning the toilet is the #1 scourge of my existence, pulling weeds is a close second. I mean really, they’re such wily fellows–you’ve got to nip them in the bud a soon as you can, roots and all. Therein lies the dilemma: pulling up a full network of roots is often easier said than done. Do you agree? If so, here’s a little gem for you: twist as you pull. Works like butta.  Sure, there will always be those in which you’re forced to dig halfway to China to retrieve the root system; but more oft’ than not, the twist-n-pull method will get it done, with little to no lasting trauma.

Balloons in the house. Bonus! This one has absolutely nothing to do with cleaning, indoors or out. However, once cleaning lies safely behind me for yet another week, I like to reward myself by cutting fresh flowers to bring indoors. And while I love the Chinese Bellflower (fondly referred to as the Balloon Flower), it can be a persnickety cut flower. No matter how fresh the bloom, it always seems to wilt the moment it’s brought indoors. Well, here’s the thing: you must cut them when they’re still a bud (or balloon, as the case may be)–and don’t forget crush the end of the stem or otherwise seal it. With that, they should last a good week, at least.

So there you have it. Of course, you may have finished reading these deep thoughts and promptly exclaimed, “That’s it?! But everyone knows that!” Maybe so; but maybe there’s one person I’ll save from gloom and despair–in that, I shall be a success.

*Have a cleaning tip all your own? Do feel free to share with the rest of us–please and thank you, naturally . . .

Benefits of the easily amused

I worked partway through college at a local Intensive Care Unit.

Thanks to that particular endeavor, my character knows no bounds. But it didn’t happen overnight. My hair, you see, may not be completely red, but it’s there–I have the feistiness to prove it. So, when I would come in at 5 o’clock in the morning to plastic bags stuffed to overflowing with soaking wet bed linens, while male nurses sat idly by as their patients slept, I would give them a piece of mind–it usually involved asking if they had some sort of mental impediment that would prevent them from being a decent human being.

The result was not quite as I had hoped.

Most chuckled and bestowed upon me the moniker “Little Miss Sunshine.” One, apparently, was enraptured. Surely, with such passion, I was the woman of his dreams. For weeks afterward, every time we’d work together, he’d sidle up to me and ask the same question: So, what do you like to do? Every time I’d answer the same, Read, write, travel, drink copious amounts of tea and coffee while chatting with friends–basically, if there’s even a chance of a story being involved, I’m so there.

Around the tenth No really, what do you like to do? I could take it no longer: Well, when I’m not training for my ultra marathon I like to freeride, hang glide, windsurf–I’m especially fond of wave jumping, I’m set to try aggressive inline skating, and while I’ve yet to bungee jump into an active volcano, it is on my list.

Poor fellow; he looked so happy. Telling him, No, not really, felt something akin to telling a child Santa Claus does not exist.

All I’ve got to say now is it’s a good thing I’m easily amused. Other than the occasional coffee, tea, or meal shared with friends and family, my nose has been pressed to the grindstone. But who are we kidding? Even the garden has occasion to make me giddy.

Flowers that took a mere decade to bloom, for instance . . .

{Who knew St. John’s wort was so lovely?!}

Or the fact that we did not murder our honeysuckle . . .

{It lives!}

Seeing what comes of the hostess gifts dropped off by feathered visitors is pretty exciting, too . . .

{It looks like there just might be a splash of color, too.}

{The ever popular violets–if only they lasted the summer.}

{Snapdragons . . . bringing the butterflies to the party!}

{Sunflowers . . . just in case there’s not enough food to go around.}

Although, I must admit, after hours spent watering, digging, and pruning, I just might be ready for something extreme–like a real, honest-to-goodness holiday. What would that be like?  I don’t know, but I’m thinking pretty great.

A symphony of sights

{The pups played the french horn, the baboon took up the fiddle, and before you knew it . . . }

Animals live double lives, you know. How can I be so sure? Well, around the time of my third birthday, as I squatted down to partake of a bit of Puppy Chow, I found the cat giving me the same look I was sure to receive from my mother once she discovered my shenanigans. Actually, the cat’s eyeball held a bit more snobbery; I could practically hear her say, ‘That is incredibly improper; a lady would never do such a thing!‘  It was an epiphany; from that moment forward, I knew. Sure, they may look simple, docile even, but it’s all a ruse. If only we were to catch them at home, behind closed doors, with their guard down–that’s where their true selves shine. They drink beer and watch action flicks (or period pieces, as The Intern is sure to point out); they bake pastries and hot pot pies; they host grand parties where they play and dance and tell stories of the amazingly ridiculous humans they happen upon each day.

But this post is not about talking animals, nor is it about imagination run amok. No, this post is about a fun little site happened upon yesterday: Vintage Printable.

Have you paid visit? If you have, I’m not at all surprised. I do tend to be late to the party on such things. However, if you’re likely to join me, then by all means–click the link, above, and have yourself a perusal. Textures, posters, illustrations–yes, even animals acting human–there’s something for everyone. And so many possibilities–correspondence, wee framed prints, or maybe just a little inspiration.

So go on, get–after all, it’s Tuesday. And Tuesdays are perfect for wasting copious amounts of time . . .