Monthly Archives: September 2011

Yard Art

The other day, my husband walked into the kitchen where I was sitting, doing I-forget-what, and announced he was going to go mow the lawn. I don’t completely understand what happened next (I must have blacked out or something), but before I knew it, I was saying, “I’ll help…I can mow while you edge!”

I know!  Weird, right?

I’m not a natural yard person.  I like to think I am sometimes, especially when I get the urge to buy flowers and plant them in the concrete planters I bought several years ago during another, particularly expensive bout of self-delusion.  My husband would vouch for this, and agree I’m long on ideas and short on follow-through.  He knows exactly what I mean when I say, “you know what we ought to do?”  He braces himself against his chair, and waits for the blow to fall.

“You know what we ought to do? We ought to dig a flower bed over there between the pool and the fence…wouldn’t that look really cool?

‘And,” I usually continue, “you know what else we could do?  We could lay a stone walkway that runs from the back porch to a small stone patio where we can put a gazebo with a hot tub!”

I repeat, I’m not a natural yard person.  I have to work at it.  So, anyway, I get about three-quarters of the backyard done when my sister shows up for a surprise visit.  I shut the mower down, and leave it where it sits.  Hubby gets done edging and takes up the mowing where I left off.  I’m half-watching him from the kitchen window and half-listening to what my sister is saying, when I see him look around at what I’ve done, shake his head slowly from side-to-side, and throw up his hand in resignation.

I cannot believe my eyes!  And I cannot believe he has no idea whatsoever of what all I go through to mow HIS lawn.  If I’m not battling heat stroke, I’m battling boredom.  As a result, I like to just wander where the mower takes me.  I am careful, though, to keep the rows straight (or sorta-straight, since I am not—contrary to what he may have told you—completely ignorant of the finer points of lawn care), but sometimes the yard ends up looking like a maze right out of Alice in Wonderland.  (I can’t remember if there was a maze in Alice in Wonderland…it just seems like the kind of story that ought to have one.)

Apparently, I am, deep down, a free spirit.  And, apparently, deep down, he’s not.

So, perhaps next time, he’ll think twice about accepting my offer to help, and perhaps, next time, I’ll think twice about offering it.  Either way, I think we’ll both be better off.  I know the lawn will.

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Thank you…I accept!

Many thanks to Sher A Hart, my fellow campaigner,  who saw fit to bestow the coveted Versatile Blogger Award on me!  I didn’t think I would ever win this honor, so I don’t have an acceptance speech prepared.  I would have liked to have thanked my fans, but I don’t have any…yet.

Per the rules, I will pay it forward by choosing other worthy bloggers for this prestigious honor (I forget how many, but I’ve chosen five).  Now, also by the rules, I’m supposed to list seven things about myself.  Geez.  Seven.  Might as well be seventy.  But, here goes:

I.

I wear a size 8 shoe.  It seems that the older I get, the bigger my feet get.  And, the bigger my feet get, the shorter I get.  It’s like I’m melting into a ten-toed puddle.

II.

I love the word “puddle.”  I love the word “cuddle,” too.  Shoot…I love any word with “uddle” in it.

III.

I can play “Scarborough Fair” on the piano.  And, I play it over and over, because, frankly, it’s the only song I can play with both hands without looking at the music…which is a vast improvement over “Home Sweet Home,” a song I picked out on my aunt’s piano when I was little.  I managed to get only a bar or two before she made me quit, so, it’d go, “Be it ev-ver  so hum-ble, there’s no-o-o place like home.”   Period.  The end.  Should I die tomorrow, I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I grew in at least one area of my life.

IV.

I’m contemplating getting a tattoo.  Now, I’m not that fond of body art (particularly for this body), but I’m getting to that stage in my life where I just want to prove to myself I’m still capable of doing something really stupid.

V.

I hate buying shoes.  Unamerican, unfemale, unlikely…but there it is.

VI.

Once upon a time, I got to spend two glorious, fantastic weeks in Paris, France.  I think I saw every church there (including the one at St. Denis) EXCEPT Notre Dame. By the time I’d gotten around to that one, I blew it off, figuring that if I’d seen a hundred churches, I’d seen them all.  What was I thinking?

VII.

I like change.  Change is good.  Keeps me on my toes.  But, I’m noticing that the older I get, the smaller the change has to be to make me happy.  I figure in a few years, I’ll be thrilled with just changing my underwear.

So, on that pathetic note of personal disclosure, I hereby bestow the coveted Versatile Blogger Award to:

 The Voice of Stobby – The name reminds me of Dobby in Harry Potter…so, I’m there!

 Chemist Ken – he loves castles, and chemistry…who doesn’t?

Writer-in-Transit  – aren’t we all?

Michael Haynes – A Writing Blog – he talks about reading AND writing.

Cat Rambles – apt name for a blog, and one I can relate to!

Enjoy…they’re worth the trip over.

The Art of Cubist Philosophy

A few weeks ago, I had a day off from work and decided to wander down to the world-renowned Kimbell Art Museum here in Fort Worth to take in some work on display by Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque, two famous, albeit confusing, Cubist artists.  I had been exposed to Cubist art (aka art-that-makes-no-sense-whatsoever) in an Art Appreciation class several years back, and was now ready, I thought, to boldly face what I would consider art from another planet.

If you perceive a flavor of fear in that last sentence, you would perceive correctly.  As I got out of my car and approached the museum entrance, I felt a deeply-entrenched sense of dread.   I feared that it would somehow reflect badly on me, my intelligence, and my artistic sensibilities if I failed to understand it, or failed to appreciate it, or worse yet, failed to justify my position other than to say, “because it’s, like, gross!”

So, as I walked slowly, thoughtfully, fearfully through the gallery, I stopped in front of every etching and every painting and read every informational placard to desperately glean some insight as to what mind-bending message the artist meant to convey.   And, I must say that I had somewhat limited (i.e., zero) success.  For the most part, it all still looked like something one would slap together for lack of anything else better to do.  And, if I had been changed in any way as a result of the experience, I would have to say I came out more confused than when I went in, if only because it was apparent that someone appreciates this stuff and I was obviously too dense to figure out why.

I’ve had a chance to reflect on it in the weeks since, though, and here’s what I’ve decided:  I’ve decided that all these cubist guys want is to provoke me into seeing that there is more than one world out there that I can only discover through multiple perspectives.  I believe they want me to widen, stretch, bend, and twist my field of vision, so that I am able to take in not only what I believe I should be seeing, but take in (and be surprised by) what I don’t expect to see.

In short, their message to me is life has infinite variety, if I will only be brave enough to look for it.  Which is all well and good.  But I personally believe that I would have gotten the point without the whole boob in the forehead thing.

Lost: One Muse. Reward.

I’m two weeks behind on my posts going on three.  You’d think by committing to only one post per week, I’d manage to stay on top of things.  Apparently, my muse has other plans, because it (she?) has headed for tall timber.  Disappeared.  Vamoosed. Gone bye-bye.

What a coward.

If I could disappear like that, I probably would.  The pressure has been intense ever since I joined the Platform Building Campaign.  Since then, I’ve had wonderful people, fellow campaigners, stopping by and reading what I’ve written, and I’m not used to that.  Now, I don’t dare flatter myself by believing people are counting the hours down until I post again, but I’d like to think I would have a chance to gain some (as in, one or two)  followers if (a) I could post good stuff on a consistent basis, and (b) I could put a “follow” button somewhere on here (it would be business-as-usual if I’ve picked a theme that doesn’t include a “follow” button).

I’ve opened a twitter account (here’s what I have to say about that).  And, I’ve downloaded “Tweetdeck” to help me keep everything organized.  However, I have not been able to get on there on a regular basis, and when I do, I can’t think of a thing to tweet in a hundred and forty words or less.  Being word-thrifty is not one of my strong suits.  Usually.  Except now.  When I can’t think of any words.  At all.

And, it’s not like I’ve been living in a vacuum…things are happening to me and around me.  I do have a life.  Honest.  In fact, three days ago, I was sitting on a king-size bed in a cute, cozy room in a bed-and-breakfast in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, after eight hours of sitting behind my husband on a motorcycle in ninety-five-degree weather.  The last time I was in that neck of the woods, I was riding my own motorcycle, missing a curve, hitting gravel, and (gracefully, I assure you) landing between a chain link fence and a large wooden sign that said “St. Paul’s Bible Church,” which explains very succinctly, I think, why I was sitting behind my husband for eight hours on a motorcycle in ninety-five degree weather.  Which may not seem very hot to some, especially to those of us in Texas who have been suffering from three-digit heat since Christmas…but this was a wet heat, as I discovered when I tried to pull up my soggy jeans after a bathroom break.  Almost can’t be done without an industrial-size shoehorn.  Believe me.

Yeah, things happen to me, which is normally excellent fodder for blogs, but at the moment, I’m Muse-less, and if things don’t change, this is going to be a really short campaign.

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