The Gardens - In the Beginning

Saturday, January 25, 2014

The Wine Cellar


When a young version of me existed, bedroom eyes were mentioned more than once.  I took it as a compliment.  I guess it's a compliment when someone thinks you're sexy, but it was just an observation...that person was not into me at all.  He also commented that I used too much makeup.  In my twenties, I worked with a crew of four men.  He said this in front of the others leaving me embarrassed and hurt.  If I could have just melted into nothing and disappeared I would have, but life has a way of making you a target with nowhere to go.

I guess he did me a cruel favor.  I made it my mission to be made up without looking made up; you know, translucent foundation, quality liner and mascara used very lightly, a smidgen of color on the cheeks, nose and brow all set with a light dusting of baby powder.  It all worked in my favor with job hunting, boyfriend acquisitions, twisting of heads and cat calls from the manual labor guys on the street.

I never thought of myself as being very pretty, but I was often told I indeed was.  Of course, it was all an illusion.  Without my veil of makeup I was just plain Jane, take a number.  A person is more than just a face, but it's the first impression that sticks in your targets head.  It matters whether they like what they see or not.  Sometimes it's the only chance we get at being accepted or booted out the door...cruel world, sometimes.

Somewhere down my path of life in the real world other things began to matter.  Plagued with bouts of troubled skin, a routine of salicylic acid, glycolic, and benzoyl peroxide began. It works like magic, but if I skip a day or two my face screams out my transgressions.  Eventually retinol night resQ, eye and upper lip cream, and dark circle correctors were added.  I was happily on my way to maturity purgatory.

I've been blessed with my dad's genes, I guess, when it comes to not shriveling up like a dried out prune, but plagued by someone else's bad genes, I suppose, when it comes to the dark circles under my eyes since birth.  The older I get the darker they appear, or maybe it's just that my eyes are retreating to the back of my head and the shadows around the pits would disappear if I only ventured out after dark.

If it weren't for my crowd pleasing silver salt and pepper locks that still have the illusion of being thick as they are thinning, thanks to their poufability, I would have received the last compliment on my outward appearance for the rest of my life years ago.  It's like, no matter where I am, I'm invisible these days...ordinary, a part of the landscape, too plain or old to matter.

There was a time when I wouldn't be caught dead...but now I'm caught alive quite often with no makeup at all in broad daylight with people all around me...even at work.  No one notices, although they've begun to open doors for me more often; bend over backwards with a helping hand; and ma'am is the new word I love to hate. I'm beginning to feel like I've outlived my shelf life.    







Keeping up with the other halves ~

It's Saturday and I slept right through half of it...not complaining...cause I was wishing I had slept right through the whole of it as the topping off the pond ceremonies commenced. Anytime I'm outside these Antarctica days, I'm outside my comfort zone...period!    

Vic's email declares he's settled into his digs quite nicely.  Two compounds exist...the embassy one is called Downton Abbey, the other one is called Slum Dog Millionaire.  I'll let your imagination run away with that one.  Vic's not at Downton Abbey.


He was told to fly heavy, as not much available for purchase there.  So how heavy can one fly when they still have to be able to carry it all themselves after landing, and foot the extra baggage cost themselves with no reimbursement.      

Living quarters are good this time around...THICK mattress, fridge, big closet, double desk, nightstand, and bookcase...that's it...food's good...he's happy.  No mail service available at his compound.  He signed up for the first class internet service the embassy sponsors and charges him sixty bucks a month to use.

While I'm not a lover of dogs on my furniture, Dustin gets the center cushion on the couch so he has all the love he wants when someone sits on either side of that spoiled little tyke.  He now has a new pad with padded sides to make him a bit happier, but it appears he'll have to duke it out with Lacey, as she's declared it quite comfy for her very own self.


No flu shot this year, so staying away from crowds.  It's late night or early morning shopping.  Well, when I get home at night, there's no way I'm ever going out again after I get comfy and getting up extra early to shop before work...you're kidding, aren't you?  Since I slept past my window of opportunity this day for a bit of grocery shopping, it's time to rustle up a delectable concoction from a despicable collection. 

Caramelized onion omelet with cheese, too bad the onion was a tad over caramelized from someone being non-attentive; and a Katherine Heigl and Josh Duhamel movie...so pathetic.  I think I'm going back to bed.  See you next spring :)




Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Brutal today...

snow plummeting sideways...
33...31...28 and still falling -
a smorgasbord of birds
red, blue, rust
feed among the dead grass
covered in soft white flakes
             
stick a little...
melt a little...
stick a little more
             
roar of wind through trees
awesomely foreboding
of worse still looming
in the distance -
winter's dug in
getting nowhere fast
              
time to warm icy toes
by the fireplace with care
and fire up the kettle
for a steamy hot cup
of Lady Grey tea.












Difficult waking up to no one...I'll see him again for a brief two weeks in six months, but still...it is quite painful.  He flew out on a holiday; warm, jacket only, January weather....like the heavens knew he was special and paved his path with warmth and light.  He arrived at Dulles safely and flew out before sunset yesterday for Dubai.  That was all I knew until opening his email message tonight and finding him tucked in for the night safely in Dubai.  Tomorrow will be Baghdad, then who knows what next.  I miss him.


  


Sunday, January 12, 2014

...end of the road?






A walk at work on an icy grey day.








Do you believe hundreds of ways of looking at stuff, whether tangible or conceptual exists?  What percentage of these multiple perspectives actually winds up not thrusting their owners into the abyss of dead ends?


Own best friend; own worst enemy...take your pick; it's all a matter of choice what we hand-select for ourselves.  I believe I'm exactly where I should be.  Plenty of amazing and terrible decisions over a lifetime and here I am.

Do I thrive where I'm at today?  Well, let's just say I'm exactly where I put myself and I have two avenues left...kick myself black and blue, or look up at that star in the heavens and reach for it.  Kick-Me-Thons are overrated, but reaching for a star is really an impossibility all you motivational people out there.

With complacency under my feet and beyond-the-bounds-of-possibility above my head, I've stuck myself between a rock and a hard place quite nicely.  If I can elevate myself a little bit higher from the rock and a little bit closer to the hard place.......

I'm going to take a little nap, and think further on this conundrum later.




Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Southern Exposure


Vintage...


Sometimes I look like one, too.
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As my youth skyrockets to light years away, the curse of running around like a whirling top for misplaced reading glasses seems to be a daily occurrence.  Reading without convex assistance is an impossibility, but I recently perplexed the eye doc by crossing over from near sighted to normal sighted.  With new glasses to see anything within arms reach and correcting an almost normal not normal left eye, I celebrated by waiting in line two hours at the not so local DMV for 12 numbers to be called before I finally reached that counter and had Restriction: 01 Glasses sent off to Siberia.  

Hallelujah!
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To every good
there is always a
BAD
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I'd show you the driver license photo, I really would, if I wanted you to go blind; but I'm a nice little girl, I really am.
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Looking at the world through rosy colored non-prescription sunglasses...very first and last slightly expensive pair.  Teach Vic never to ask if I want to check out the choices before looking at the price tag...come on...can I help it if my subconscious has a built-in magnet for an arm and a leg kind of stuff.



Here kitty kitty-come to mama you little booger...


Someone in the neighborhood has kitties-on-the-loose


My garden's their preferred kitty poop pan
and
my birds are becoming tasty little appetizers


 I love cats...I love cats...I love cats...








What the hell...!


Someone in this family is no longer allowed to call themselves a repair person unless it is in the context of a funny joke.  Nuff said.
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You say tomaaato...I say tomaughto...


Oh, Mr. Manager, thank goodness no one did my work while I was on vacation.  You're the bestest of the best!  And you missed me so much that it was a pleasure reporting to work three of my vacation days to play catch-up.





Exposed...

I once met two brothers from the southeast of England, okay...maybe to be a bit more precise, I thought for a short moment they were from that particular region.  Their cockney accent was so thick and heavy that my noggin was working eighty miles an hour to decipher those foreign words flying from their lips.  Queens...they grew up in Queens...get out of here!!!  Queens, really?  I thought all of New York was a part of the U.S.  Obviously I was wrong.

Nevada...Nevaaada, like at spelled ad.  Get it right or you aren't from them there parts.  Nevawda made us cringe, shake our heads, and think what a duffous.  Mom and dad always said Worshington, so I can toss the blame their way when a real Worshingtonite threw up their hands at me and said WASHINGTON, its Waaaaashington!  Worshington...of course, what else could we expect from you poor Nevawdian folks.

Living in Nashville for the last twenty-some years, accents are barely noticeable.  I hardly ever hear a southern drawl...you know...Gone with the Wind kind of stuff.  We're too cosmopolitan, too much of a blend to really stand out in the accent department. This is my observation...apparently mine alone.

I've been told many times that I'm not from these here parts and asked too many times what kind of accent I put to the words that exit my lips.  Accent?  What in the hell are you talking about?  I don't have an accent...I'm from Nevaaada; we don't have accents in Nevaaada.  Okay...if you insist, I have a western accent and we'll just leave it at that...whoop-ee-ti-yi-o get along little doggies.



There's nothing that chocolate
and
good pastry won't cure.




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