Happy new year--really!

I think it might be spring. Finally. At last. And may I say, It's about time. Winter has pretty much worn out its welcome.

So now I have Spring Fever. Time to clean. Time to dump stuff. Time to move forward.

And that's what it's all really about, isn't it? Moving forward. I always think of spring as the first season of the year, which is silly since the year is already three months old--three months of hardcore winter--and the fourth is undecided. Well. So be it.

I feel energized--well, that's a bit strong. I'm not energized. I'm ready. That's the word. Ready. Ready for change. Ready to shed old skin and try on something new.

If I were going to make resolutions, I'd do it now rather than on a nightmarishly cold night in the midst of winter. I'd do it while the world is tilting into something new.

I have some writing goals for this next year, and we'll see how that all goes. I also have some house goals (does it EVER end?)

What about you?

Happy new year! Spring is here!

Why I'm not a doctor

Today I decided to roast a turkey. I'm not a big meat-eater. Actually, if it weren't for bacon I'd probably be a vegetarian.

This wasn't the first time I've roasted a turkey. Over the years I've learned that there are surprise packages inside the turkey. Don't ask me why--and please, don't tell me, either. But there are. There's a mysterious paper or plastic wrapped bundle that I suspect contains something people call gizzards--and they're just as dreadful as their name implies. And there's also an icky bit that I think is a neck. It's huge and ugly and disgusting. I throw them all out.

I'll confess: I roasted a lot of turkeys before I remembered to take these things out. It became a family joke that I'd forget about them.

But not today. The little package is right there, and I throw it away pronto. Then, to get that long ooky thing--well, that requires something that usually only a veterinarian should have to do. Sticking my hand up inside the bird.

It's gross. Really, it is. But that's what you've got to do if you're going to roast a turkey, so I grimace and reach inside.

Or try to. I can't get my hand in there. I push and shove and twist, and no go. Finally I give up and decide to roast the turkey with that nasty piece inside of it.

So one last rinse with water--and what do I see? I've been digging in the wrong end of the turkey!

Color me embarrassed. I retrieve the offending bit, add it to the trash, and pop the bird in the oven.

Later, I take it out. I'm irked that this turkey, which comes from a well-known, top-of-the-line turkey company, doesn't have an "I'm done!" pop-up thing on it.

But worse--it just kind of looks odd. There aren't really legs, and it's an odd dark color. I carve into it, and it's dark meat, and not much at all. It's bones!

I'm starting to get steamed now, and, to tell the truth, sort of freaked. What is this thing?

Well, guess what. I have it upside down in the pan. I'm not carving the breast! I'm carving its, well, you know. Its underpinnings, if you get my drift.

I know that some chefs say this is the best way, and honestly, it turned out wonderfully.

And this explains why I'd make a terrible doctor. I can't tell the neck from the (ahem) bottom, and the breast from the back. Someone would come to me with a sore throat and I'd say....

Flood Poem

Water should be...

In the river, not in the street.
In the pool, not in your house.
In the sink, not in the basement.
In the bathtub, not on your main floor.

Water, listen to me!

In which I fix something wrong with the world...

DRASTIC CHANGE NEEDED! IMMEDIATELY!

What's got me cranked up tonight? Well, let me back up to last night.

I have a cat. She's a stunningly beautiful cat and I love her to absolute pieces. But she has a delicate constitution, the poor princess, and last night she had a teeny tiny upset in her teeny tiny tummy and urped a big gigantic nasty thing on my bed, right by my pillow.

Laundry time.

I usually don't undertake changing my sheets late at night, but it was Absolutely Necessary. Oh, I hate changing my sheets. And why?

WHO CAN TELL WHICH WAY THEY GO?

A king-sized bed is not a square, but I'll be dipped if I can figure out which is the shorter side of the sheet, especially when it's crinkled up on the ends with the elastic. I started marking the bottoms of the sheets with a big B--I am big big big on saving myself unneeded grief--but of course, the set last night had no such B, or it washed out or something.

Wrestle, wrestle, wrestle the sheet into place, only to see that I have apparently gotten it wrong as one corner pops off and I have to start again. So I do. This time there's a huge wrinkle across the middle, and the corners are poking up like tiny cloth mountains, and I know, I just KNOW, that as soon as I plop onto the bed, they'll snap free and I'll be back at square one--trying to make my bed, still, as dawn's early light creeps over the horizon because no matter how I try, I cannot get it right.

I was not happy. I was sweaty from all that exertion. And why? I have yet to get a mattress pad and sheets that actually fit a real bed--they're all just a teensy bit too small, so they spring off the second you go to the other side to deal with THOSE corners.

Do sheet manufacturers sit in their offices and chuckle all day long, thinking of this as corporate short-sheeting?

There has to be some better way. I mean really, they're sheets! We're not talking about, oh, a Large Hadron Collider or something that has scads of little parts that can go blooey. If a bailout goes to a sheet manufacturer, I want it tied into a promise that they'll clearly mark the bottom of the sheet and give us that extra inch we need to keep the sheets in place.

(And I know about the bed garters--had some. But the point isn't that I can buy something else to fix the sheets. They should make them right the first time!)

Sigh. Sheets. So complicated!

I love this....

I absolutely love this. Sound on, please.

Neil Gaiman is brilliant.

Your secret's safe with me

I love lists. It doesn't have anything to do with a failing memory, really, it doesn't. I just have a lot of stuff going on and if I don't write it down, well, I don't actually forget it--I just don't remember it exactly when I should.

I see my brain as one big CPU. There are times when I'm out of RAM--which is why I could never make it on Jeopardy. Or at least I could never win. I'd be doing those rabbit trails through my mind:

Janet: I'll take What I Had For Dinner for $500, Alex.
Alex: And the answer is: Sunday night!
Janet: Um, um, um, um...
As my mind goes through what it can piece together from Sunday night--> Sick child. Made food on Saturday, he didn't eat it. I saved it but then he got better and he ate it. So no leftovers. Sunday. Did laundry. Washed dishes. Thinking about what dishes I washed in case there's a clue there. Nope. Back to laundry. No help there. Did the Sunday crossword puzzle. Finished it, too. Brushed the cat. Fed the cat. I know what she ate. What did I eat? Boy, my brain is toast. Toast. Made toast. Peanut butter. AH!
Janet: What is: Toasted peanut butter sandwich!
Alex: Oh, I'm sorry. Too late! The buzzer went off five minutes ago, Janet.

My mind is filled with important things like: The phases of cell division are prophase, metaphase, anaphase, and telephase. Saki's real name was H.H. Munro. The members of Cream were Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce, and Ginger Baker. I lived at 513 E. Court Street when I was seven.

How can I possibly remember to buy more toothpaste? Dry the towels that are in the washing machine? Order more checks?

If you want to commiserate with me, I'd be glad to hear your tale of woe. Just don't expect me to remember it.

Happy birthday

Today's a day filled with memories--if he'd lived, he would have been 59 today.

What love can do to your heart....

Happy birthday, babe.