b is for bouncing baby

We recently went to visit the Bear's parents, a journey that takes about an hour and a half by car.  The dogs were very good for the car ride but when we got there they needed to release some energy so we let them run in the garden for a while.  It's a good thing for little Phoenix because I think that she might have exploded otherwise. 

Look at the air underneath her! Fly! Be free!

parental quotations (and photos)

Here are some of my favorite quotations from my lovely parents while they were here. I love them. I love them very much.

Upon seeing our back yard for the first time, my mother started this conversation:

Mom: “Your garden is cute - it looks so…English.” [“English” was whispered so the neighbors wouldn’t hear her.]
Me: “You don’t have to whisper. I’m pretty sure they know they are English.”
Mom: “Just in case.”

{Inside Windsor Castle}

Here are some quotes from one of the train rides to and from London.

“Your green bag matches my eye.” – My mother, who has one green eye and one blue eye.

“My adrenal glands are like prunes. London sucked them dry.” – Mommy

“Maybe you need to get somewhere and lie down.” – My dad to my mom after her fifth giggling fit.

After several hours of trekking around London:

Me: “How are you? Okay?
Dad: “Fine. Fine. This is fun!”
Mom: “I’m fine too.” – pause – “Wait, I’m getting a message from my legs: NOT FINE.”

{More taking photos of photos, in front of Westminster Abbey.}

While driving around in random parts of England:

“Ooo…another round thing. Weeeee!” My mom upon the approach to a roundabout in the car.

“Let’s go back to Pilladiccy Circus. Pickle-dilly. Whatever.” My dad, who loved Piccadilly Circus

{My mom and dad at Piccadilly Circus.  My dad loved this part of London.}

As we were walking around in Cambridge:

The Bear (to dad): Are you good at multi-tasking?
Dad: I’m not even good at tasking.

{In front of a phone box in Cambridge}

Laura goes to the potty on command because she’s going to be a guide dog some day and it’s important that she does everything at the appropriate time. To get her to go the command is “busy-busy.” Rest assured that both of my parents took the opportunity to use that on each other at every turn. If one of them was in the bathroom the other would walk by and yell, “Busy, busy!” through the door. Mature.

{In front of the open market in Cambridge.}

They left today and I already miss them so much.

[PS: A hint about yesterday's post:  The answer is in one of the tags. I'm surprised it was that difficult.  Not surprised if you didn't bother reading it.  Should have put some photos in there. And some candy. Come on!  I know you can do it! ]

an insight

The time has come.

I’m moving to a different nation. It’s not a permanent move. No, it’s more like a vacation place. There’s so much to do to prepare and I’ve only just begun. I’m anxious but also elated. I know I’ll get there okay, even if it takes me a while. I have the best map there is.

I need a place to escape to when life gets to be too much. Or too little. Somewhere safe to go. Life is often to small to hold all that my consciousness can produce. It becomes wild and crazed. My mind needs stretching room. There is a place where I can be all that I am. I’ve been looking for it for a while. I think I have found it. The true test is to move there and submerse myself in it. It’s bigger than the world we live in and I want to consume it all.

One bit at a time.

I’m learning the language but it takes time. Sometimes it clicks into place quickly and sometimes I struggle to get the words just right. I see signs…or books I want to read…and none of it looks familiar. You can’t bring books of another language to this place. I must learn to read what is already here. I must study. At one moment I think I have it and then realize that I’m not saying exactly what I thought I was. My guide whispers the corrections to me gently and I make notes. At least I’m not completely alone. I’d never make it. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

It’s not enough to simply learn to speak. I must also absorb the culture. Why do people do things in this way? What are the rules of communicating? There is right and wrong, but it’s often ambiguous. How did these people get to this stage of civilization? It is important that I find out. Everything depends on it. I must know so that I can choose where I will spend my time. Will I be known as a resident of this village or that part of town? Which parts of this culture will I adopt as my own? Will they accept me?

And then there are the people.

I’m slowly being introduced to them. Actually, my guide points them out to me from afar. We can rarely talk to them. Not yet. However, I know about their families. Their histories. Some of their motivations for coming to this place. We’re all immigrants here. Some were younger when they arrived, some older. Some have a bigger home and some are well known. Many are like me. We come to escape and recuperate. We carve out our small space to enjoy. We are alone and connected all at once.

I have to pay attention. I am learning whose words I’d like to repeat, if only in a more inferior voice. I’m learning who will challenge me and who will calm my raging thoughts. Who will bring me joy with their words and who will travel with me as I lament? These are heavy burdens because my joys can carry me beyond what mere human life can withstand and my lamentations are greater than the ocean to a drop. These people will help me when life becomes too much to bear. They will meet me when I arrive. They will always be there.

My guide is trekking with me. He has made the journey many times. I know nothing about him but his reason for travelling must be similar to mine. I don’t know of any other reason to leave home, alone, and seek a strange new place. A familiar old place to your soul. If the need doesn’t arise from within, there is no explanation to those without. We don’t really talk, my guide and I. Not with the language of everyday life. He speaks to me in my new language. It’s good for me, but limiting. I must learn to speak faster. No. I must learn to speak clearer.

I hope that one day my guide will be one of the people I get to study and know. I trust his directions even when I’m uncertain or uncomfortable. Even when I am a stubborn sojourner he has always been kind to me, nudging me forward at the appropriate heading. Maybe this extraordinary place breeds patience in its inhabitants. Maybe I’m just fortunate to have crossed his path. Maybe it’s fate.

Thinking it’s fate makes me feel better because I know I’ll belong one day.

I have memories from childhood of the feelings I get in my new…old…home. I was here before. Even then, I travelled mostly alone. There are photos in my mind of words, books, sounds, scenes, guides, landmarks. Now and then I recognize something I see in a bookshop. My mind sometimes surprises me with its recall. It is still difficult to be present in life while at the same time cultivating my new nationality. I need both. I want both. All of my consciousness is finally engaged. For now.

At first I stalled. I tried to pretend that I didn’t need deliverance from the monotony of maintaining my piece of the human machine. I thought I could will myself into calling my journey a whim, a dance. One song and I’m healed. I now know that I must make the pilgrimage often. I must run toward this new permanent temporary habitation and I must do it everyday. This is where I will go to save myself from me. I can’t pretend I don’t need the quest anymore. It is a good need. A strong need. A wilful need. An imminent need.

The time has come.


{This is a fraction of a glimpse into a sliver of my life at this present moment. My life is a metaphor. Everything is something else.

Are you making a journey? Have you made this journey before? Do you understand? Do you know what the metaphor means?}

more outtakes

Yesterday while I was taking this photo of my beautiful mother...

...I also got this photo:

*sigh*

outtakes

Between the four of us, we've taken hundreds of photos since my parents arrived.  I thought I'd give you some of the ones dubbed "not blog worthy."  Keeping it real and all.

Like this one.  I finally get the two parent children to cooperate and take a decent photo and look who decides to mess up the shot:

Nice.  Now I have THREE kids.  Wonderful.  Or this gem that got snapped as we tried to take a family photo.  Never work with kids or animals.  Here's photographic proof of that statement.  Dad's eyes closed, mother looking angry, cat trying to get away, dog trying to get cat, guide dog trying to get me, me trying to get away.  Yep, all around great photo.

Awesome.  Or maybe this one.  I had just said, "I'm going to get a photo of us in the car.  Ready?"  "Ready!" they all say.  And then click. 

The Bear was driving but he could have at least smiled.  My mom has no excuses apart from her two second attention span.  How about this next one: "I'm gonna need to call you back.  I need to take a photo." 

This would have been a perfect shot...iiiiiiiiiiif the idiot photographer (that'd be me) had gotten the focus right.  FAIL.

The next one captures the happiness they all felt for being on the London Eye.  Absolutely mesmerized.  Dad: "What are you talking about?"  The Bear: "Where's my candy?" Mom: "I dare you to scream 'fire.'"

The best outtake so far has to be this one my mom took at the Tower of London.  WIN!   She totally meant to take a photo of my shoulder.  That yeomen just happened to be in the background. 

Ah, the perils of photography.

more of my parents in london

If you’ve just tuned in, my parents are visiting me from the states. It has been most enjoyable. They are easy to get along with and great vacationing companions. They are also really, really funny.

{Taking a photo of taking a photo at the Tower of London. Photo taking is a serious art that must be documented thoroughly with more photo taking.}

We’ve been to London twice and they loved it like kids love candy. Everything was the greatest thing ever. They managed to fit in with the locals pretty well, too. (Except maybe the backpacks.  And the cameras.  And the neon signs around their necks that said "TOURIST.")

{My dad LOVED Picadilly Circus.  More about that later.}

Anyone who’s been on the London Underground knows there are those people who will push you out of the way to get a seat. My parents are apparently those people. They always managed to find a spot to sit even at rush hour. Once I looked up and my dad had found a spot near where I was standing and my mom was halfway down the car in a seat next to strangers. I only looked away for a minute. They have a rare talent. And people didn’t mind. If I had done it, I’d have gotten told off. Or I never would have found a seat. I suppose some people are natural Londoners and some people are me.

{On the tube.  They whisper and giggle all of the time.  Like the children they are.}

While we were there, I saw a Starbucks and asked them if they’d like some coffee. My mom, being addicted to coffee (see this post from a few months ago about their coffee addiction) screamed, “COFFEE!” as loud as she possibly could while also waving her arms around. In the crowded street. In the middle of London. And not a single person looked at her. I love this city.

{At the Starbucks beside Tower Bridge.}

On the way home from London I gave my dad a mint flavored licorice all sort to try. He hated it. He made a face that resembled that of the best W.C. Fields impression. Yet he continued to eat it. And much to the amusement of our fellow train travelers, complain about it. Loudly. Like a four-year-old. I had to give him a cookie to get him to quiet down. Who needs kids, is all I have to say.

{Very tired and about to exit the Underground.} 

I have several of their finest quotes ready for a blog post, too, but that will have to wait for another day.

a is for always

As in...what am I ALWAYS doing (or as it seems, I'm told)?  This:

I took 8GB of photos yesterday.  I was so busy snapping that I didn't even take off my sunglasses.  What was I taking so many photos of?  Here are some clues:

Twenty points if you can tell me what this is (and you've not already seen it on my Facebook page).

I'll tell you later this week/weekend and show you more photos.  I'll also tell you about how my favorite electronic baby SLR camera died this week and the quest to decide on a replacement.  It's a difficult story.  But just for you, I'll tell you about my pain. 

Now, off to backup all of these photos...

more hank

Remember my friend Hank? I thought we should talk about him again.

Since he lives stateside and I’m over here in merry ‘ol England, I chat with him on the phone pretty regularly. The last time I talked to him he was telling me a story that still gives me nightmares. And now I’m going to tell you. Because I clothe and feed this blog and I’m sending it to college and I can say what I want on here.

So we were talking and he just started casually telling me about how the other day while he was at this hotel (because he travels for work) an odd thing happened. He had gotten completely dressed and was eating breakfast when he felt something in his shoe. It was an odd sensation, he tells me, a sort of wiggling. Then he looked down and saw a head pop out around his sock. And then a bug crawled out and made a break for freedom. A live bug crawled out of his shoe. A live bug crawled out of his shoe. A live bug. Shoe.

When I bug crawls out of the shoe you’re wearing and walks away because it’s so hard core and bad – a** that you standing on it in a confined space for twenty minutes doesn’t phase it you don’t need to stay at that hotel again. EVER. Do what you’ve got to do to keep away from the place. Sleep in the rental car. Pitch a tent. Whatever you’ve gotta do.

That was my official advice to him. He told the story sort of nonchalantly, like it could happen to anyone and any time. If that is true, what kind of world do we live in? Tell me, is there no safety?

Because, as I screeched to Hank, if that happened to me I’d be killed dead on the spot. Deader than 80’s fashion. I’m not afraid of bugs but if a live one crawls out of anything I’m wearing life just isn’t worth living any more.

I think I just threw up on my mouth a little just telling you the story.

If you’ll excuse me.


PS: More about my precious parents later.  I haven't had time to wrangle the photos yet.  But since I talked to Hank today I thought I'd check in and keep you updated.  Because I'm a good blogger that way. 

my parents in london

Having my parents here is a real treat.  They are sweet, wonderful people and such good houseguests.  They are also silly.  And regressing.

They've gotten to about four years old.

You'll see.  Over the next several days I'll post some of the things they've said and done.  It's like having two toddlers.  But they are cute toddlers. 

Case in point: This is a conversation I had with my mom about a week before they left home to come and visit us.

Mom: “Will you take us to the grocery store when we get there?”
Me: “Sure. But we’ll have food in the house. We won’t need to.”
Mom: “Yes, but it’ll all be healthy. We want junk food.”

See.  Four.

[On the way to London by train]

Then there's this conversation on the way home from the airport after picking them up.  Granted, they were weary from the journey, but that's not where this came from.  No, my friends, this is everyday material.  Every.  Day.

Mom (to my dad, kind of in a panic): “Did you see where I put my glasses?”
Dad (to mom, completely unphased): “You’re wearing them.”
Mom: “Oh.”

I'll be back with many more moments.  Because this is only the beginning.  I've already filled a sheet of A4 paper with things they've said that I must share with the Internet.  Still going strong, too.

I love them dearly and wouldn't take anything for them and their entertainment value. I'll be back with more as soon as I feed them and put them in front of a movie so I have a few minutes.

[In front of the Tower of London]

odds and ends 11

I’ve got some random and in no way connected stuff to tell you. It’s important. It involves sweaters and Disney princesses.  And London (sort of).

Okay so remember when I was whining about how my precious chiropractor, Dr. Rich, wouldn’t move with me to another continent? Well, I have another story about the quest to find a suitable replacement. (To read the original post from a few days ago, click here.) So I went back to The Marshmallow Clinic to give them a third try. I asked for an osteopath instead of a chiropractor this time, just for kicks. You know, to try my luck and what have you. When they called my name, out came Sabrina to take me back to her office. Imagine if you will a tiny twenty-something girl who looks remarkably like a Disney princess. There you have Sabrina, my new osteopath. I may have laughed out loud at the sight of her because my first thought was, “What is that tiny little person going to do? I mean, I’m not big either, but my spine is going to need a little muscle to twist it back into shape.” That thought was followed immediately by, “Very funny, Universe. Very funny.” Well, people of the Internet, I stand corrected. Little Disney princess got the job done. She was very strong – I wouldn’t challenge her to a fight. I suppose that just goes to show you that you can’t judge a book. I’ll be keeping her as my go-to spine tamer for the time being. But she’s still no Dr. Rich.

The End.  And now for something completely different...

I have a pretty big family so at Christmas instead of everyone getting everyone else gifts we draw names from a hat so we only have to buy one gift each (except everyone buys a gift for Gramma, because she’s Gramma and that’s how life works). I love the idea until I get the name of someone who is difficult to buy for. You know what I mean – the person who has everything or worse – hates everything. All I can say is that I buy a lot of books. You can almost not go wrong with a book of some kind in my family. Or a sweater. Because even though my family lives in a climate that is hotter than that of the chromosphere of the sun, every one of us seems to think receiving a sweater for Christmas is awesome. Some things in life make sense just because they do.

I realize that this “odds and ends” is only two things so I should probably have called it “odd and end” instead. Well, it won’t be the first inaccuracy on my blog and I’m confident it won’t be the last.

Oh, wait…that last thing makes three. Now I don’t have to change the title of this post. HOORAY! (It’s the little things in life, people.)

PS: We're having some priceless moments over here with my parents visiting.  We went to London yesterday and OH the stories I have to tell.  Just the quotes alone will be a blog post.  Stay tuned - when they are down for their nap, I'll try to get some photos and tales ready. 

page 101

It’s pretty obvious that I like English men. Got one of my very own. Surrounded by them. It’s not something I set out to do, but I like them nonetheless. At first I couldn’t explain it. But after all of these years, I think it may have started with this guy:

{image here}

John Winthrop.

That’s right, the governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony in the 1630’s. I know you already knew that but I was just stating it for the record.

You see, back when I was in the eighth grade I was spending a hot day in Mr. Mann’s history class bored out of my mind because at the time I detested history. (I’ve since done a complete 180 on that, but I digress.) I was sitting in one corner of the room and my friend Nadia was sitting in the far opposite corner because for some odd reason we always got separated during classes. Anyway, I glanced over at Nadia who appeared to be in pain with laughter and she caught my eye.

She mimed the numbers 1-0-1 and pointed to our history textbook. I flipped to page 101 and what to my wondering eyes should appear but the handsome chap above. John Winthrop. Due to (what I hope are) obvious reasons and the fact that I was about 12 years old, I immediately erupted in laughter. What else is an eighth grader to do? His face was the funniest thing I’d seen in my life to date.

We got sent to the principle’s office with a thunderous boom (Mr. Mann kinda had a temper). We laughed all the way there and probably through the detention we got for the whole ordeal (my only detention, ever). It was totally worth it. I had detention with my favorite teacher, Mr. Mehaffey, so it was okay.

For weeks after that, we bribed and begged people to rip that page out of their history book and give it to us so that we could have a collection for posterity. We amassed about 30 copies from what I remember. Defacing school textbooks – GOOD TIMES. Even years later when we were in high school and the textbooks were updated, we got the eight graders at the time to rip the new, improved photo of Mr. Winthrop out of their textbooks.

{image here}

His face has become burned into my brain for all eternity. About once a year or two either Nadia or I will find his photo and email it to the other, more than 15 years later. I’ve even looked at her in a restaurant or when we’re out on the town, pointed to a stranger and said, “He’s a real 101.” Mean…but funny.

So, John Winthrop, Mr. Governor, this blog post is for you and all of the happy times you’ve brought me.

Maybe this also explains why I tend to like older men. Much. Older.

how to torture satan

As most of you know, I’m learning to play the piano. If you ask me if I can read music, my answer would be yes. If you ask my piano teacher the same question, the answer might be closer to “Almost” or “We’re optimistic about the future.” I played the clarinet for about six years in school (which was years ago) so I’m pretty good with treble clef. It’s bass clef that gets me. I’m learning but it’s still a slow process. I can eventually work it out and when I do I can play through the music, remembering what I’ve worked out. I’m just not quick at picking out every note yet (as in - it takes an age).

{image from here}

Which brings me to sight reading, or as I like to think of it – what you’d use if you wanted to torture the devil. I despise with fiery eyes the thing they call sight reading. Who came up with this and can we have them executed? There are ways to practice but I don’t want to. I just want to take a pill and be good at it. Playing the piano = fun!  Sight reading = NOT FUN.

{image from here}

Also adding to the problem is the fact that my right hand is much, much stronger – and consequently more obedient – than my left hand. If my right hand is the most popular kid in school, president of the senior class, head cheerleader and valedictorian, my left hand is the kid who still eats paste. I’m currently in negotiations with my left hand to get its act together, but the process is much akin to squeezing hemoglobin out of root vegetable.

I’m not sure why I’m telling you this except that I’m about to go downstairs and start practicing again. I will probably take an exam soon and I need to hustle to get ready. I’ll not only be representing myself but I’ll also be representing my piano teacher so I’ve got to do well for the team. He’s the best teacher I could ever have found for me and a really nice guy but I know that he must be at least a little stressed about the impending doom exam and what I might manage to score.

To be fair, if I were him I’d be nervous, too. He has no idea how awesome I can be (maybe). And that I can’t just pass – I have to pass and get to the top level. Basically, I must overachieve. Because I’m like that. And a little bit because most of the people taking the test at this level are about seven years old, so I need to bring my extremely old woman A game. You know how it is when you need to beat little kids at something so you don’t feel you’ve passed through your best years never having accomplished what you could have. What? You don’t know what that’s like? OH.

Anyway, I need to pound out some scales and all that so I can reclaim the glory of my childhood achievements. Wish me luck. And if you have any of those sight reading pills, send me a case. I’m good for it.

wales

We took a trip to Wales last weekend.  We loaded up the puppy dogs and a picnic and drove.  Here are some of the photos.

We stopped in the parking lot of this pub to take photos of the surrounding area. 

Pretty, no?

As per the norm, there are sheepies everywhere.   This one was not amused at my photography antics. 

One of our intrepid babies.

Phoenix decided that a little La Traviata was appropriate for the occasion.

I have her pegged as Mimi.  Don't you think?  [Shutup Paige, no one listens to opera.]  Anyway, here's another shot.  For some reason I have a morbid fascination with photographing cemeteries.  No idea why.  Can't resist.

We had a really great day.  Everyone stayed fed and happy and the weather was excellent.


*Check out Laura's blog - she's remembering all those who are sad on this day.

roses are red…and a mission

Roses are red and violets are PURPLE.

Because violets are in no way blue. The color violet is purple. I just needed to clear that up.

Now.

I need to write about something violet (which is NOT, in fact, blue) to support my Alphabe-Thursday habit. No idea what to write. Maybe I’ll go around the house and see if I can find things that are purple and photograph them for you. Wait a sec…I’ll be right back. (Really am going to go right now while I leave this waiting on my laptop. The is cutting edge spontaneity you’re witnessing. Okay, so I’m going now…)

I’m back. I have to tell you that pickin’s are slim for things of the purple persuasion in the Paige, Bear and Menagerie homestead. We’re not a purple people, it seems. But because I’m dedicated to the cause and have no shame whatsoever, I dug through cupboards and shelves, closets and boxes, just to find something violet to show you. YOU’RE WELCOME.

Get ready for the excitement and the insight into my life. Also, get read for the flash on my compact camera because A) It was handy and B) We may not tolerate purple under our roof but we have a plenitude of darkness. (Mood lighting is much more flattering on the yoga clothes I wear around the house. Yeah.)  AND I didn't edit any of these except for size, border and my name.  I didn't want to distort the color (read: I couldn't be bothered).

Anyway, exciting item number one is soap.  Yes, two kinds.  Both purple.  Purple is a shunned color here until it brings us soap.  And then it's welcome.  Welcome, soap of all colors.

Next up we have this dog toy that my parents sent to Phoenix last Christmas.  Our dogs have umpteen million toys but they sent this anyway because, "They are our granddogs.  They need gifts."  Who can argue with that?  Incidentally, both Phoenix and Laura love this toy.  It makes a lot of noise.  Yay.

Here's another violet thing - this tank top I got at JJill a few years ago.  Yep, those are the tags still firmly in place.  Why do these things happen?  How could it have gotten overlooked?  Did I wear it with the tag on?  These are the mysteries of life.

I also found three - count 'em - three spools of thread, all varying shades of purple.  Odd.  So odd.  Well, if I ever get around to wearing that shirt and I manage to get a hole in it (such a thing is not beyond the realm of possibility) I'll be able to mend it with thread enough to spare.  I will rest easy tonight, my friends.

Oooo....and I found this book written by my ayurvedic doctor (that is a whole post on its own which I will share with you one day).  I read it cover to cover.  Good stuff in there.  Charts and so forth.  You know.  Don't look for it on Amazon, though, because I'm sure it's not there.  I got this copy from the trunk of his car.  I mean he got it from the trunk of his car and gave it to me.  I wasn't just rummaging in one of my doctors' cars.  Well, maybe if was open and no one would find out....  KIDDING.  I kid.  Ha ha.  Ha.

Moving on, I found another book, also about ayurveda, also in purple.  I wonder if there's something about the color violet that is good for your constitution.  Maybe it's just a popular color in India.  Not that I would know what colors are popular in India because I've not made it there...YET.  It's on my list, though, and blog about it I will.  Maybe I've thought about this too much.  Hmm.  Look at this purple book and save me from this monologue with myself.  Quickly.

My cousin, Leslie, gave me that book and another one about ayurveda for Christmas one year.  She drew my name (we do that - another blog, another time).  She asked me what I wanted and this is what I said.  She was like, "Okay, whatever."  Then she got them.  You have to love people like that.  Keepin' it simple and all that.

Anyway, moving on to the next thing... 

I found this cd in the Bear's stash as I rummaged.  This is the first time I laid eyes on it and I was filled with a mix of thinking it's kind of funny and being a little worried about that woman on the front cover.  She looks like she's happy, though, which supports the title.  And she's wearing purple.  And the letters are purple.  For those things, the cd goes in as exhibit G.

I'm not sure why I saved this for the grand finale because it's just a purple box with paper inside.  We use it to write each other notes about when Laura was last fed, what time the Internet people didn't call today and picking up a pint of milk with which to make smoothies.  It's our life line, as you can see.  And it's the appropriate color for this lovely themed post. 

So there you have it - we're boring, clean people with clothes we don't wear, cds we don't listen to and enough dog toys to keep a small zoo busy. And we write letters to each other about important life details on scraps of paper.  And we read books about things people believed in India thousands of years ago. 

Don't you wish you could spend a week here?

:::Postscript::: Due to my outrageous omission in yesterday's post, here is a picture of our cat, Jessie.  She is not purple, but she is pretty.  And now she's represented with a little blog love.  I like this picture of her because it kinda looks like she's just a giant head on two tiny feet.

letters from furbabies: food

Dear Laura,
Stop eating out of my food bowl.
Thanks.
Phoenix

Dear Phoenix,
Stop eating out of my food bowl.
Thanks.
Jessie

Dear Jessie,
Can I nibble on you?
Please?
Laura

Phoenix

Laura

Yeah.  I don't have a new photo of Jessie.  Apparently it's not equal opportunity for cats on the blog.  Ah, well.

dr rich, this is for you

I love my chiropractor. He’s the cutest little thing you’ve ever seen. Cuddly, I’d venture. He zips around and gets so much done at once that I’ve always kind of been in awe of him. He’s very no nonsense when it comes to spines, which I like. When I twist mine beyond human capacity he snaps that baby back in place with a swift and certain motion, slaps on the little electroshock therapy thingies and leaves me to wallow and revel in my new found comfort. Just how I like it.

Plus, he always remembers everything about you. Literally, everything. Even when I’d skip my appointments for six months or so, he wouldn’t miss a beat. He would bring up stuff about me in the conversation that even I forgot about me. And believe me, he would take time to talk to you….about your life. Because you mattered. We all mattered. ILOVEDTHATMAN.

There’s just one problem with him: he’s now in a different country. Because he refused to move with me to the UK.

When I got here I started my “finding a new chiro” adventure. And an adventure it was. I found this one woman who did “gentle” chiropractic care. By “gentle care” she meant she could heal my wayward vertebrae with her mind. HER MIND. I am not making this stuff up. She moved me about gently and massaged my aura. I do have to admit that I did feel a little better after having my aura smoothed and rubbed. Psychological or not, I think I might have a dodgy aura that needs sorting.

Then there was the osteopath I went to that one time. The first time I went to the clinic I got cute Swiss guy and he did a few rubs and moves and stuff, but it didn’t fix my mangled back. I even giggled appropriately and stuff. Then the next time I went to that clinic (because I’m desperate and a glutton for punishment) I told the woman that I need some serious work and she proceeded to do this thing that frightened me a little. I remember thinking, “My personal space is a little invaded, but okay. Wait, why are you hugging me? What’s that? I need an adult! I need an adult!” So….I’ve not been back there. That place even had a soothing name like “The La La Clinic” or “Marshmallows” or something equally inoffensive.

So. This is my plea to get my original wonderful, bubbly, happy, remembers-everything-you’ve-ever uttered, perfect chiropractor to move his family to the UK so that my back can be a happy member of society again. Please, Dr. Rich. My spine needs you.

PS: His name is "Dr. Rich" short for Richard.  It's not because he charges an arm and a leg, just in case someone decides to ask.

can you say this about yourself?

You know how sometimes a song says it better than you can? I have a lot of those. I like it when it’s just so perfect it could be me singing. (Except hopefully it’s not me because as my piano teacher will tell you – I cannot sing. But I digress.)

This song pretty much sums me up. Suits me up one side and down the other. I even like the music. Can you say this about yourself? Do you have a song that sums up how you feel about you?

I'm gonna make a mistake-
I'm gonna do it on purpose
I'm gonna waste my time
'cause I'm full as a tick
And I'm scratching at the surface
And what I find is mine

And when the day is done, and I look back
And the fact is I had fun, fumbling around
All the advice I shunned, and I ran
Where they told me not to run, but I sure
Had fun, so

I'm gonna **** it up again
I'm gonna do another detour
Unpave my path
And if you wanna make sense
Whatcha looking at me for
I'm no good at math

And when I find my way back,
The fact is I just may stay, or I may not
I've acquired quite a taste
For a well-made mistake
I wanna mistake why can't I make a mistake?

I'm always doing what I think I should
Almost always doing everybody good
Why-

Do I wanna do right, of course but
Do I really wanna feel I'm forced to
Answer you, hell no
I've acquired quite a taste
For a well-made mistake, I wanna
Make a mistake, why can't I make a mistake

I'm always doing what I think I should
Almost always doing everybody good
Why-

Song: A Mistake

Artist: Fiona Apple