Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes.
Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears.
What is it else?
A madness most discreet,a choking gall and a preserving sweet.
--William Shakespeare
Once again, Will got it right! That man sure had a way with words that went right to the heart of the subject.
Remember that feeling of tortured romance when you were first in love? Before dates turned into a commitment, before the wedding, the bills and the kids?
Remember that quickening of the heart, the tingle that zipped down your arms and jumped around in your stomach because of one look at that person who you found attractive?
Wasn’t it the best formulation for a diet you’ve ever found? I think my metabolism increased to the speed of light. Wouldn’t it be great to invent a potion to replicate that feeling? On the other hand, knowing the penchant for humans to overdo everything, my bottled elixir would probably end up behind the pharmacy counter with Sudafed and the other watch-listed medications because groups of overindulgent people would drink the whole bottle and go around professing love to everyone in sight and acting stupidly giddy and then they would crash in a depressing puddle of self-incrimination and dislike for their fellow man. Self-help groups would abound. Okay, no pills or liquids.
Don’t you think that amazing feeling is the reason that romance novels and romantic movies do so well? We are trying to “re-feel” that quick kick of attraction that is oh so brief, but remembered for a lifetime. The timbre of his voice, those funny little quirks and mannerisms that are so cute and endearing (disregard the fact at this point that they will someday turn into the cause for serving divorce papers—that’s fodder for a different Blog).
I think the first feelings of love and attraction is akin to magic. You have an empty top hat and suddenly a rabbit appears. You have an empty life and suddenly “he” appears. The ordinary becomes special. Your senses are heightened. Everything smells better, tastes better, looks better. A dreary day is atmospheric. A sunny day is inspiring. Will he call or won’t he? Just to swirl his name around on your tongue is intoxicating.
Perhaps this is our momentary visit into heaven. Any more than a peak would be too much for our weak system.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Friday, April 20, 2007
Wicked Women Make the Best Characters
I’ve been writing a romance novel and I’m finding that the low-down-dirty-mean characters are so much easier to write than a heroine or hero. I don’t know what that says about my personal knowledge of the characteristics of these people. I’m sure it’s nothing my family should be concerned about.
Take my wicked female antagonist.
Tiffany Magloire. Doesn’t that name conjure up elite evil? Money and mayhem. The name reeks of it. You haven’t read about her and already you distrust her. She’s pencil thin, lives in a large gated mansion decorated with heavy drapes and art deco. She wears Prada like I wear a Target sale item—easily and without thinking about the price.
And she knows people. All the right people who jump at the snap of her fingers. I’m secretly envious of Tiffany for that. I wish I knew people of influence, or any person for that matter, who would jump when I snapped my fingers. I’ve tried and cannot, no matter how many times I’ve snapped or what snapping rhythm I use, get anyone to leave the ground at my request.
I haven’t decided whether to leave Ms. Magloire in the story or take her out. But don’t tell her that. She knows people. I might have to go into the Writer’s Protection Program. I’d have to change my name to Mehitable and wear ill-fitting housedresses. I’d only be allowed to write articles for Field and Stream magazine, but only on the condition that the words Love or Romance never appeared in any story.
Oh that Tiffany Magloire…she really is a mean one.
Take my wicked female antagonist.
Tiffany Magloire. Doesn’t that name conjure up elite evil? Money and mayhem. The name reeks of it. You haven’t read about her and already you distrust her. She’s pencil thin, lives in a large gated mansion decorated with heavy drapes and art deco. She wears Prada like I wear a Target sale item—easily and without thinking about the price.
And she knows people. All the right people who jump at the snap of her fingers. I’m secretly envious of Tiffany for that. I wish I knew people of influence, or any person for that matter, who would jump when I snapped my fingers. I’ve tried and cannot, no matter how many times I’ve snapped or what snapping rhythm I use, get anyone to leave the ground at my request.
I haven’t decided whether to leave Ms. Magloire in the story or take her out. But don’t tell her that. She knows people. I might have to go into the Writer’s Protection Program. I’d have to change my name to Mehitable and wear ill-fitting housedresses. I’d only be allowed to write articles for Field and Stream magazine, but only on the condition that the words Love or Romance never appeared in any story.
Oh that Tiffany Magloire…she really is a mean one.
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Nuances of Hair Color and Love
I thought I was done with hair stories, but as luck would have it, I have another one to tell.
My hair color changed again on Saturday. I told you I was a hair change junkie. It went back to a more red hue than the blondish golden reddish hue it had before. The nuances of color are very important in life, and in this story.
I had to keep looking at myself to decide whether or not I liked it. I’m pretty sure I do, but it called for additional opinions. I was feeling quite “new hair” perky after leaving the hair salon. My salon is close to Union Square in San Francisco so I get to walk by all the wonderful high-end shops like Dolce & Gabbana, Faragamo, Gucci, and Jessica McClintock to name a few. I’ve never actually been IN the stores; I just know their name and their window décor. I’m positive the money in my bank account couldn’t pay for one buckle on the purses they have slung over the mannequin’s skinny shoulder. I did, however, suggest to my stylist that I really liked the hairdo on one of the mannequins in the window of the shop next to the salon. Pretty interesting when the storefront mannequins have more style than you do. But this is, after all, San Francisco.
I stopped by Macy’s and decided to have my face made up with a new look by one of those wonderful cosmetic girls at the make up counter. It’s free. After you’ve left a hair salon in San Francisco you need to look for anything free of cost to offset the money you just shelled out for new hair color. Cosmetic girl suggested some colors that might look well with the “orange” in the highlights of my hair. Orange? Is she seriously color blind? Did I miss something? I sneak peaks in the mirror to validate my belief that my hair is not in any way, color, or form…orange.
When I got home I asked my husband what he thought. “Very nice,” he said after having me turn in a full circle, a ruse I suspect which makes it seem that he is contemplating my new look from every angle and giving me a completely honest opinion. I’m a sucker for this approach every time. “Is it in any way orange?” I asked. His eyebrows knit in concentration. “No, definitely not orange,” he said with conviction.
I checked with my son, Brett, next. I needed confirmation from a younger man’s point of view. He said he liked the color and denied seeing any orange. He said it was copper color, which as we all know, is no where close to orange. I’ve trained him well. When he gets married someday, I think his wife should thank me profusely.
This morning, in tribute to my new hairdo, I put on a new sweater. I really liked the sweater when I tried it on with my old hair color. But, as we all know, the nuances of color can make a once brilliant garment turn into a horribly clashing mistake. Although my husband was still asleep, I had no qualms waking him up for a color check. Some things take precedence over sleep.
He groggily and dutifully sat up. I handed him his glasses. He said he hadn’t ever realized that the color of a person’s hair and the color of their outfit was ever a concern. He has brown hair, which pretty much goes with anything. The sweater is a brown rose, not to be confused with a pink rose or mauve hue, which might not have gone as well with reddish hair. Color nuances again. I cannot stress this point enough.
He said my hair and the sweater looked fine together, and he had the good manners to remain sitting for awhile before falling back underneath the covers lest I think he was in a sleep stupor when he gave his opinion.
That’s love for you. Aren’t you amazed how I keep cleverly tying hair color and love together?
My hair color changed again on Saturday. I told you I was a hair change junkie. It went back to a more red hue than the blondish golden reddish hue it had before. The nuances of color are very important in life, and in this story.
I had to keep looking at myself to decide whether or not I liked it. I’m pretty sure I do, but it called for additional opinions. I was feeling quite “new hair” perky after leaving the hair salon. My salon is close to Union Square in San Francisco so I get to walk by all the wonderful high-end shops like Dolce & Gabbana, Faragamo, Gucci, and Jessica McClintock to name a few. I’ve never actually been IN the stores; I just know their name and their window décor. I’m positive the money in my bank account couldn’t pay for one buckle on the purses they have slung over the mannequin’s skinny shoulder. I did, however, suggest to my stylist that I really liked the hairdo on one of the mannequins in the window of the shop next to the salon. Pretty interesting when the storefront mannequins have more style than you do. But this is, after all, San Francisco.
I stopped by Macy’s and decided to have my face made up with a new look by one of those wonderful cosmetic girls at the make up counter. It’s free. After you’ve left a hair salon in San Francisco you need to look for anything free of cost to offset the money you just shelled out for new hair color. Cosmetic girl suggested some colors that might look well with the “orange” in the highlights of my hair. Orange? Is she seriously color blind? Did I miss something? I sneak peaks in the mirror to validate my belief that my hair is not in any way, color, or form…orange.
When I got home I asked my husband what he thought. “Very nice,” he said after having me turn in a full circle, a ruse I suspect which makes it seem that he is contemplating my new look from every angle and giving me a completely honest opinion. I’m a sucker for this approach every time. “Is it in any way orange?” I asked. His eyebrows knit in concentration. “No, definitely not orange,” he said with conviction.
I checked with my son, Brett, next. I needed confirmation from a younger man’s point of view. He said he liked the color and denied seeing any orange. He said it was copper color, which as we all know, is no where close to orange. I’ve trained him well. When he gets married someday, I think his wife should thank me profusely.
This morning, in tribute to my new hairdo, I put on a new sweater. I really liked the sweater when I tried it on with my old hair color. But, as we all know, the nuances of color can make a once brilliant garment turn into a horribly clashing mistake. Although my husband was still asleep, I had no qualms waking him up for a color check. Some things take precedence over sleep.
He groggily and dutifully sat up. I handed him his glasses. He said he hadn’t ever realized that the color of a person’s hair and the color of their outfit was ever a concern. He has brown hair, which pretty much goes with anything. The sweater is a brown rose, not to be confused with a pink rose or mauve hue, which might not have gone as well with reddish hair. Color nuances again. I cannot stress this point enough.
He said my hair and the sweater looked fine together, and he had the good manners to remain sitting for awhile before falling back underneath the covers lest I think he was in a sleep stupor when he gave his opinion.
That’s love for you. Aren’t you amazed how I keep cleverly tying hair color and love together?
Thursday, April 12, 2007
True Love (Part 2)
As promised, another story about how hair plays a part in true love.
It was a dark and stormy morning….
Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. Rain was predicted and it was a bit dreary looking outside, but that doesn’t have the same impact does it?
I cracked the driver’s window down about 3" to start the defrosting process. Wasn’t I so surprised as all get out when the window would not roll back up! This is bad. Dark clouds were rolling across the sky. Oh la, like Scarlett O’Hara, I’ll think about it later.
When I got to work I called the car dealership, and the guy suggested I bang on the door panel, which might loosen the wires. How fun. Look at me being a car mechanic.
I went out at lunch and as instructed, banged on the door panel, and voila...it went up. Gosh I’m good. I then did a bad thing. A very bad thing. I tested the window. Hurray! It went all the way down. Uh oh. It wouldn't come back up. This is bad, I said to myself. Very bad. I can't lock the door. What would be the point? The thieves would laugh at my attempt to maintain a sense of security with the window rolled all the way down.
Dark clouds are rolling across the sky. Fortunately, I parked in the covered garage. Unfortunately, I have to go home at some point. Maybe in the rain. What to do, what to do.
I called my husband. He suggested I come home and let HIM bang on the panel. This car whapping seems to be a guy thing.
So, I look outside and gauged whether the sky was simply toying with gloomy or had turned ominous with only minutes to spare before the big sky bucket turned upside down.
I left work thinking I might just beat those rain clouds. That would be good. As I'm walking to the garage, the sprinkles started. That's bad.
I banged on the door panel again...for good measure and then gave a peevish mad mommy look in case that would make a difference. No luck. Banged harder, just to show my superior mechanical ability. Still no luck. I left the garage as the sprinkles turned into pelting drops that were pinging off the ground like hot grease in a skillet. This could be very bad with an open window, I mentioned casually to myself.
I got on the freeway. My hair was blowing in wild abandon across my face. That's bad. I have to squint to see the road. That's bad for wrinkles (for which I spend quite a bit of money to diminish). I got my sunglasses out and used them as a headband. I'm very clever. I mentally pat myself on the back.
Did you know that quite a bit of water sprays directly into an open window when you go by trucks? Just thought you should know for future reference.
The wind, a VERY cold wind, is blowing like a North Pole Tsunami into my ear, which I'm not sure I still have since it's gone numb. That could be bad. I consider the ramifications of frost bite and the loss of an ear, which could be worse than the wrinkles forming from all this squinting.
I finally get home, as the rain lets up. Sure why not.
I take my sunglass headband off. Do you know what happens when your hair is laden with hair spray, styling mousse and a myriad of other thickening products, then pelted with water and blown by freezing wind? Just avert your eyes. I looked like an escapee from a lab that tested unsatisfactory hair products.
And here comes the True Love part: My husband just smiled at me with that sympathetic “you poor dear” look and suggested I go take a shower and put my comfy clothes on while he dealt with the car. Sometimes I wonder if his glasses are strong enough. But maybe he just doesn’t want to hurt my feelings by stating the obvious when it comes to my freakish state of appearance. That’s true love.
As a note of interest, Sid banged on the door and apparently because of his karmic connection with the car, the window went right up. I suspect there was some spiritual healing of the faulty electrical parts.
It must be a guy thing.
It was a dark and stormy morning….
Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. Rain was predicted and it was a bit dreary looking outside, but that doesn’t have the same impact does it?
I cracked the driver’s window down about 3" to start the defrosting process. Wasn’t I so surprised as all get out when the window would not roll back up! This is bad. Dark clouds were rolling across the sky. Oh la, like Scarlett O’Hara, I’ll think about it later.
When I got to work I called the car dealership, and the guy suggested I bang on the door panel, which might loosen the wires. How fun. Look at me being a car mechanic.
I went out at lunch and as instructed, banged on the door panel, and voila...it went up. Gosh I’m good. I then did a bad thing. A very bad thing. I tested the window. Hurray! It went all the way down. Uh oh. It wouldn't come back up. This is bad, I said to myself. Very bad. I can't lock the door. What would be the point? The thieves would laugh at my attempt to maintain a sense of security with the window rolled all the way down.
Dark clouds are rolling across the sky. Fortunately, I parked in the covered garage. Unfortunately, I have to go home at some point. Maybe in the rain. What to do, what to do.
I called my husband. He suggested I come home and let HIM bang on the panel. This car whapping seems to be a guy thing.
So, I look outside and gauged whether the sky was simply toying with gloomy or had turned ominous with only minutes to spare before the big sky bucket turned upside down.
I left work thinking I might just beat those rain clouds. That would be good. As I'm walking to the garage, the sprinkles started. That's bad.
I banged on the door panel again...for good measure and then gave a peevish mad mommy look in case that would make a difference. No luck. Banged harder, just to show my superior mechanical ability. Still no luck. I left the garage as the sprinkles turned into pelting drops that were pinging off the ground like hot grease in a skillet. This could be very bad with an open window, I mentioned casually to myself.
I got on the freeway. My hair was blowing in wild abandon across my face. That's bad. I have to squint to see the road. That's bad for wrinkles (for which I spend quite a bit of money to diminish). I got my sunglasses out and used them as a headband. I'm very clever. I mentally pat myself on the back.
Did you know that quite a bit of water sprays directly into an open window when you go by trucks? Just thought you should know for future reference.
The wind, a VERY cold wind, is blowing like a North Pole Tsunami into my ear, which I'm not sure I still have since it's gone numb. That could be bad. I consider the ramifications of frost bite and the loss of an ear, which could be worse than the wrinkles forming from all this squinting.
I finally get home, as the rain lets up. Sure why not.
I take my sunglass headband off. Do you know what happens when your hair is laden with hair spray, styling mousse and a myriad of other thickening products, then pelted with water and blown by freezing wind? Just avert your eyes. I looked like an escapee from a lab that tested unsatisfactory hair products.
And here comes the True Love part: My husband just smiled at me with that sympathetic “you poor dear” look and suggested I go take a shower and put my comfy clothes on while he dealt with the car. Sometimes I wonder if his glasses are strong enough. But maybe he just doesn’t want to hurt my feelings by stating the obvious when it comes to my freakish state of appearance. That’s true love.
As a note of interest, Sid banged on the door and apparently because of his karmic connection with the car, the window went right up. I suspect there was some spiritual healing of the faulty electrical parts.
It must be a guy thing.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
True Love (Part 1)
True love. When I was in high school in the throes of new-found hormones, love meant a stomach that filled with a thousand beating butterflies at the sight of the unattainable, but thoroughly hunky track and field stars. Plural because the boys who set my heart to pitty patting at the speed of light were twins. Heaven help me. Two of them. And, much to my amazement, I was lucky enough to stand next to one of them during graduation…all because I was one of the taller girls. It was the first time I blessed my lucky genes for height. I've never slumped since that day. As I recall, I made a cleverly humorous comment that they should let us tall people in the back go up first since we were closer to the sun and getting all the heat. He laughed. I’m pretty sure he laughed. For purposes of this story about love, let’s all agree that he laughed and thought I was the funniest girl he’d ever met and wondered why he hadn’t noticed me before these final days of our high school years, and gave serious thought to dumping his humorless girlfriend to ask me out on an impromptu date.
Love meant hours of listening to inspiring music like In My Room by the Beach Boys or Soldier Boy by The Shirelles. Oh, then there was the heart rendering Tell Laura I Love Her by Ray Peterson—a tragic story of teen love, poor driving, and the last words of Tommy who just wanted to get his true love a ring. Sigh…doesn’t that song just about say it all?
Now that I’m a mature adult, at least on those occasions that absolutely call for it, I think love has to do with hair. You weren’t expecting that. From track star twins to hair. This hair story better be good.
Actually there are two hair stories, but I’ll have to tell you the second one in my next post.
The first happened the day of the annual Christmas party at the company where my husband and I worked. We hadn’t been married that long, less than a year, so I can’t say that he had in depth knowledge of my sensitivities. Nor did he have any knowledge that I was going to the hairdresser with the word “change” in my head. You can feel the blood draining from your face can’t you?
Have you ever decided that you absolutely MUST have a new hairdo and you just can’t wait? I do that often. On this occasion, I had fairly long hair, which my husband loved. He also liked the color. But, like the hair-change junkie that I am, I was on a quest for new beauty.
The shop was very hip. By that I mean that most of the stylists had hair color not known in nature, wore combat boots and assorted bold jewelry, some of which was pinned through their face. Fortunately, the girl doing my hair looked quite normal. So I had complete faith in her. I really did.
Until I was sitting with the new hair color processing on my head. I had asked for something in the “auburn” realm of the color palette. But as I sat with dye saturating every long lock on my head, I looked across the sea of funky clothes and freakish hair styles and saw a girl with fire engine red hair. What if that was how my stylist interpreted auburn? I’m doomed. How can I go to the Christmas party looking like a color swatch for the local fire department?
I’m happy to say that the color was perfect. So I really trusted her when it came to the cut. I said those fateful words: “Oh, do whatever you like”, which made her very happy because most clients are very picky about what happens to their hair. Wimps.
I closed my eyes and she started to cut. I heard her say something about asymmetrical, but I was too wrapped up in the desire to have a new “look” that would just make my husband’s head spin.
Yes, it was going to spin alright.
I ended up with a very short hairdo. At least very short on one side and longer on the other. Asymmetrical. I walked out of the shop with a severe headache and the decision not to go to the party. Or work. Or anywhere that didn’t include covers or a large hat.
I was pretty close to tears when I entered my husband’s office. Ta da…the new me just stood in front of him on the verge of hair disaster collapse.
He looked up and only briefly showed signs of anaphylactic shock.
And here’s where true love kicks in.
He smiled and told me I looked beautiful. He really did. I had big fat stinging tears running down my face and he hugged me and told me he really liked the hair cut. You really have to love and admire a good impromptu liar.
I found out a few years later that my husband really hates asymmetrical shapes. He’s a symmetry-loving sort of guy…equal numbers, equal distances, hair of equal length on both sides.
But true love doesn’t worry about the shape of your hair. True love just worries about those big fat tears and makes them go away.
Love meant hours of listening to inspiring music like In My Room by the Beach Boys or Soldier Boy by The Shirelles. Oh, then there was the heart rendering Tell Laura I Love Her by Ray Peterson—a tragic story of teen love, poor driving, and the last words of Tommy who just wanted to get his true love a ring. Sigh…doesn’t that song just about say it all?
Now that I’m a mature adult, at least on those occasions that absolutely call for it, I think love has to do with hair. You weren’t expecting that. From track star twins to hair. This hair story better be good.
Actually there are two hair stories, but I’ll have to tell you the second one in my next post.
The first happened the day of the annual Christmas party at the company where my husband and I worked. We hadn’t been married that long, less than a year, so I can’t say that he had in depth knowledge of my sensitivities. Nor did he have any knowledge that I was going to the hairdresser with the word “change” in my head. You can feel the blood draining from your face can’t you?
Have you ever decided that you absolutely MUST have a new hairdo and you just can’t wait? I do that often. On this occasion, I had fairly long hair, which my husband loved. He also liked the color. But, like the hair-change junkie that I am, I was on a quest for new beauty.
The shop was very hip. By that I mean that most of the stylists had hair color not known in nature, wore combat boots and assorted bold jewelry, some of which was pinned through their face. Fortunately, the girl doing my hair looked quite normal. So I had complete faith in her. I really did.
Until I was sitting with the new hair color processing on my head. I had asked for something in the “auburn” realm of the color palette. But as I sat with dye saturating every long lock on my head, I looked across the sea of funky clothes and freakish hair styles and saw a girl with fire engine red hair. What if that was how my stylist interpreted auburn? I’m doomed. How can I go to the Christmas party looking like a color swatch for the local fire department?
I’m happy to say that the color was perfect. So I really trusted her when it came to the cut. I said those fateful words: “Oh, do whatever you like”, which made her very happy because most clients are very picky about what happens to their hair. Wimps.
I closed my eyes and she started to cut. I heard her say something about asymmetrical, but I was too wrapped up in the desire to have a new “look” that would just make my husband’s head spin.
Yes, it was going to spin alright.
I ended up with a very short hairdo. At least very short on one side and longer on the other. Asymmetrical. I walked out of the shop with a severe headache and the decision not to go to the party. Or work. Or anywhere that didn’t include covers or a large hat.
I was pretty close to tears when I entered my husband’s office. Ta da…the new me just stood in front of him on the verge of hair disaster collapse.
He looked up and only briefly showed signs of anaphylactic shock.
And here’s where true love kicks in.
He smiled and told me I looked beautiful. He really did. I had big fat stinging tears running down my face and he hugged me and told me he really liked the hair cut. You really have to love and admire a good impromptu liar.
I found out a few years later that my husband really hates asymmetrical shapes. He’s a symmetry-loving sort of guy…equal numbers, equal distances, hair of equal length on both sides.
But true love doesn’t worry about the shape of your hair. True love just worries about those big fat tears and makes them go away.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Of Mice and Men
I had a disquieting run-in with a rodent.
I was making coffee in the kitchen, and the parts were not seating well. So I shook them a bit. A bit too much. Some of the coffee beans jumped into the water reservoir. Went to the kitchen sink to pour it all out, and a mouse jumped up and ran across the counter and disappeared into the dishwasher. I screamed. Loudly.
My husband, who was in bed at the time, remained in bed. I guess he didn't think my screaming was unusual. I didn't think I normally made that much noise in the morning. When he finally got up, I told him my about my harrowing event. He asked if I had checked in the dishwasher for the mouse.
A note of importance here: My husband HATES rodents. Hates them and fears them.
I looked at him in surprise. Check the dishwasher? Are you nuts? He might jump out at me and bite me with rodent diseased teeth. That's a man's job.
My husband didn't think that should be his job at all. So, being the loving couple that we are (note seque into romantic story line), we both peaked into the dishwasher. Nothing. The mouse (or perhaps it was a rat the size of a small dog…my memory is fuzzy on this point) has disappeared and is probably laying in wait for us to doze off or something. My husband started the dishwasher. I guess his plan was to drown the creature in Cascade. I don't know.
The next day I got a text message on my cell phone. Here's how it read:
Hi, this is the mousie in your kitchen. Where's the coffee?
It was from my son. My children are very funny.
Now the mouse is back. How do I know? He stared at me from atop my kitchen counter. Eeeeek! I shrieked, which brought my husband, Sid, scurrying…or make that running…into the kitchen. Somehow he knew. Knew with the certainty of a mouse-coward that the gray, yellow-tooth scoundral was back. The mouse ran in back of the microwave and stared out at me. His black bead-eyes boring into my face with anger. Sid suggested we slam the appliance against the wall. Hard. Mouse guts on my kitchen appliance? Not in this lifetime. The mouse then jumped off and went somewhere under the countertop. Mouse feet have now been everywhere over my clean kitchen.
I purchased a mouse trap and set it under the sink. Let me re-describe it. It was probably more of a rat trap…pretty big. Sid said it wouldn't work on a small mouse. Well, the creature looked pretty big to me when he attacked the coffee pot. Anyway, I put it under the sink with some peanut butter in it. I checked it later and noticed that the trap was still set, so I took it out to look. The peanut butter was gone. Who could have eaten that? I put more peanut butter in the trap and set it on the kitchen sink. Heh heh heh. Eat that and die you gray-furred creature of the night.
I waited for the ominous sound of the plastic prison snapping down on the victim.
And waited. Went to bed and waited.
Got up in the morning and checked the trap. Aw phooey. It was still set. But HEY!!! The peanut butter was gone again.
Something small is going to die before the sun sets today.
I bought mouse traps. Many of them. All correctly sized. Put them everywhere. Went to bed. No sound of snapping yet. Drat. Maybe he and his family moved to better digs. Dream on foolish woman…what's better than free peanut butter?
Got up in the morning. Trap on the counter is still set. Went out to do laundry. Sid came in the kitchen, then yelled.
He had heard the trap snap under the sink.
"Did it get him?" I asked.
"You look," he said whimpily. "That's not my job."
I looked at him peevishly. He looked back petulantly and said, "You're the one with the 'killer gloves'." Oh right. Killer gloves from my gopher trap setting days. My reputation lingers on.
Okay. I crack open the door to check. You can't be too careful with mice. They have friends.
Squished. Gone to heaven. He ain't no more. He met his demise.
I got the doggy scooper and scooped up the whole contraption out from under the sink. No way am I going to touch that with gloves. This takes some distance scooping.
Sid mentioned that for two people who freaked about mice, it sure was funny that we thought we could live in the country in our retirement.
Yeah. Funny.
I was making coffee in the kitchen, and the parts were not seating well. So I shook them a bit. A bit too much. Some of the coffee beans jumped into the water reservoir. Went to the kitchen sink to pour it all out, and a mouse jumped up and ran across the counter and disappeared into the dishwasher. I screamed. Loudly.
My husband, who was in bed at the time, remained in bed. I guess he didn't think my screaming was unusual. I didn't think I normally made that much noise in the morning. When he finally got up, I told him my about my harrowing event. He asked if I had checked in the dishwasher for the mouse.
A note of importance here: My husband HATES rodents. Hates them and fears them.
I looked at him in surprise. Check the dishwasher? Are you nuts? He might jump out at me and bite me with rodent diseased teeth. That's a man's job.
My husband didn't think that should be his job at all. So, being the loving couple that we are (note seque into romantic story line), we both peaked into the dishwasher. Nothing. The mouse (or perhaps it was a rat the size of a small dog…my memory is fuzzy on this point) has disappeared and is probably laying in wait for us to doze off or something. My husband started the dishwasher. I guess his plan was to drown the creature in Cascade. I don't know.
The next day I got a text message on my cell phone. Here's how it read:
Hi, this is the mousie in your kitchen. Where's the coffee?
It was from my son. My children are very funny.
Now the mouse is back. How do I know? He stared at me from atop my kitchen counter. Eeeeek! I shrieked, which brought my husband, Sid, scurrying…or make that running…into the kitchen. Somehow he knew. Knew with the certainty of a mouse-coward that the gray, yellow-tooth scoundral was back. The mouse ran in back of the microwave and stared out at me. His black bead-eyes boring into my face with anger. Sid suggested we slam the appliance against the wall. Hard. Mouse guts on my kitchen appliance? Not in this lifetime. The mouse then jumped off and went somewhere under the countertop. Mouse feet have now been everywhere over my clean kitchen.
I purchased a mouse trap and set it under the sink. Let me re-describe it. It was probably more of a rat trap…pretty big. Sid said it wouldn't work on a small mouse. Well, the creature looked pretty big to me when he attacked the coffee pot. Anyway, I put it under the sink with some peanut butter in it. I checked it later and noticed that the trap was still set, so I took it out to look. The peanut butter was gone. Who could have eaten that? I put more peanut butter in the trap and set it on the kitchen sink. Heh heh heh. Eat that and die you gray-furred creature of the night.
I waited for the ominous sound of the plastic prison snapping down on the victim.
And waited. Went to bed and waited.
Got up in the morning and checked the trap. Aw phooey. It was still set. But HEY!!! The peanut butter was gone again.
Something small is going to die before the sun sets today.
I bought mouse traps. Many of them. All correctly sized. Put them everywhere. Went to bed. No sound of snapping yet. Drat. Maybe he and his family moved to better digs. Dream on foolish woman…what's better than free peanut butter?
Got up in the morning. Trap on the counter is still set. Went out to do laundry. Sid came in the kitchen, then yelled.
He had heard the trap snap under the sink.
"Did it get him?" I asked.
"You look," he said whimpily. "That's not my job."
I looked at him peevishly. He looked back petulantly and said, "You're the one with the 'killer gloves'." Oh right. Killer gloves from my gopher trap setting days. My reputation lingers on.
Okay. I crack open the door to check. You can't be too careful with mice. They have friends.
Squished. Gone to heaven. He ain't no more. He met his demise.
I got the doggy scooper and scooped up the whole contraption out from under the sink. No way am I going to touch that with gloves. This takes some distance scooping.
Sid mentioned that for two people who freaked about mice, it sure was funny that we thought we could live in the country in our retirement.
Yeah. Funny.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
The Lover's Tale
I wrote this story for my husband to explain why I fell in love with him after the first kiss. No fooling. I knew I was going to marry him after one kiss. It took him a little longer. Poor man. He thought he had a five year plan. I whittled off 4-1/2 years and called it a good compromise.
Angel Babies do not have names.
But they know each other just the same: In heaven and on earth
Once upon a time, two Angel Babies lived in complete love and bliss in their heavenly world. They loved each other with the sort of rare love that only exists in dreams and fairy tales. They were inseparable.
The time came when he began to get that faraway look that babies have when they are about to leave their heavenly garden. The journey of life was starting for the baby boy. The other Angel Baby started to cry in fear. She watched as he slowly faded before her. Their sadness became cries of anguish.
His cry was a joy to his mother’s ears. The doctor smiled as another miracle of life appeared in his hands.
Her cry was a worry to her Guardian Angel. She sat beside the baby and softly stroked her head.
“Why do you cry so?” asked the Guardian Angel.
“He’s gone.” The baby sniffed back tears. “I want him back.” The baby wept with such sadness that her tears began to drop on earth. They touched the ground and spread into the morning dew.
“Ah,” the Guardian Angel smiled. “I’ll tell you a secret that only you will know.”
The baby looked up into the light of her Guardian’s face. Her innocence and pain of lost love showing clearly on her sweet face.
“We usually do not tell our babies anything about their earthly life, but you two are very special, and have a very special purpose.”
The baby smiled hopefully.
“In four earth year’s time, you will be born.”
The baby’s tears started falling again. Four years sounded like an awfully long time to an Angel so young.
“Four years is but a blink in time. When I am finished telling you this story, it will already have come.” The Guardian embraced the baby with a loving light.
“Will I meet him on earth?” She needed to be reassured. Earth was a very confusing place. So much could happen there. So many choices that could lead to unpredictable endings.
“Yes. You will meet him there.”
“How? When?” The baby’s tears were dried, and she smiled excitedly. To see her beloved again was the only thought that made her entrance into an earthly life less frightening.
“Well,” the Guardian looked thoughtful, choosing her words carefully. “I cannot give you the answer to either of those questions. When you are on earth you will both have many choices, which could bring you together sooner…or later. It is my job to make sure that you eventually will have the chance to meet, no matter what choices are made.”
The Angel Baby was scared. She could feel the beginning pull of her trip to earth. There was so much she wanted to know. She didn’t like the way the Guardian Angel said sooner or later. She wanted to begin her life with her Angel love. She was almost ready to leave when the most important question came to her.
“How will I know him?” the baby cried out.
She was falling from heaven. She started to cry and screamed one last time to her Guardian, “Please tell me. How will I know him?”
"You will know him by his kiss" was the last thing the baby heard from heaven.
Angel Babies do not have names.
But they know each other just the same: In heaven and on earth
Once upon a time, two Angel Babies lived in complete love and bliss in their heavenly world. They loved each other with the sort of rare love that only exists in dreams and fairy tales. They were inseparable.
The time came when he began to get that faraway look that babies have when they are about to leave their heavenly garden. The journey of life was starting for the baby boy. The other Angel Baby started to cry in fear. She watched as he slowly faded before her. Their sadness became cries of anguish.
His cry was a joy to his mother’s ears. The doctor smiled as another miracle of life appeared in his hands.
Her cry was a worry to her Guardian Angel. She sat beside the baby and softly stroked her head.
“Why do you cry so?” asked the Guardian Angel.
“He’s gone.” The baby sniffed back tears. “I want him back.” The baby wept with such sadness that her tears began to drop on earth. They touched the ground and spread into the morning dew.
“Ah,” the Guardian Angel smiled. “I’ll tell you a secret that only you will know.”
The baby looked up into the light of her Guardian’s face. Her innocence and pain of lost love showing clearly on her sweet face.
“We usually do not tell our babies anything about their earthly life, but you two are very special, and have a very special purpose.”
The baby smiled hopefully.
“In four earth year’s time, you will be born.”
The baby’s tears started falling again. Four years sounded like an awfully long time to an Angel so young.
“Four years is but a blink in time. When I am finished telling you this story, it will already have come.” The Guardian embraced the baby with a loving light.
“Will I meet him on earth?” She needed to be reassured. Earth was a very confusing place. So much could happen there. So many choices that could lead to unpredictable endings.
“Yes. You will meet him there.”
“How? When?” The baby’s tears were dried, and she smiled excitedly. To see her beloved again was the only thought that made her entrance into an earthly life less frightening.
“Well,” the Guardian looked thoughtful, choosing her words carefully. “I cannot give you the answer to either of those questions. When you are on earth you will both have many choices, which could bring you together sooner…or later. It is my job to make sure that you eventually will have the chance to meet, no matter what choices are made.”
The Angel Baby was scared. She could feel the beginning pull of her trip to earth. There was so much she wanted to know. She didn’t like the way the Guardian Angel said sooner or later. She wanted to begin her life with her Angel love. She was almost ready to leave when the most important question came to her.
“How will I know him?” the baby cried out.
She was falling from heaven. She started to cry and screamed one last time to her Guardian, “Please tell me. How will I know him?”
"You will know him by his kiss" was the last thing the baby heard from heaven.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Rafe Savage and Susie Salesgirl
The little bell above the general store door tinkled brightly when Rafe Savage walked in. His spurs spun and made spinning jingle sounds, and the scuff of his heavy boots went unheard amid the low hum of conversation in the store. They were like bees, he thought uncharitably. Buzzing and humming over the latest dry goods to be delivered. No will power and then no money. They would owe their soul to this company store before night's end. It disgusted him.
He had stopped in the town to replenish his saddlebag grub. His intention was to buy only two necessary items then hit the trail, away from this madness and financial ruin.
And then he saw her. The one woman who had made his normally conservative nature turn liberal and loose. His muscles tightened with lurid thoughts of grabbing her right here in the middle of the pickle barrel aisle, but instead he tipped his hat in gentlemanly acknowledgement. She tipped her blond head in return acknowledgement, and politely excused herself from the mob of women shoppers at the fabric table.
"Rafe," she smiled, knowing full well that her charm had the power to release men and women from their hard-earned cash.
"Susie Salesgirl," he returned, knowing he had the charm to whisk her out of this po-dunk Eastern town to far off Western valleys.
The knowledge of both their abilities hung heavily between them.
"Can I help you with something?" she offered sweet as a bag of fresh peppermint.
"Nothing more than a sack of flour and 2 bags of gummie bears. I've got me a sweet tooth today Susie." His blue eyes held her captive in their intensity. She felt her breath quicken and her receipt book fall from her limp hands. He bent to pick it up for her, casually brushing her fingers as he gave it back. As though he had no idea that he’d started a heat of flames in her.
"Oh, I'm sorry to be so clumsy," flustered and arms akimbo, she batted impossibly long eyelashes at him. "I don't know what's gotten into me today. I guess it's that one can of peaches that I was hoping to take home before someone else bought them. They're from a new peach company in Southern Rhode Island that I thought might be tasty."
"Peaches you say?" Rafe's mouth was already watering with the taste of limited edition peaches. "I'll take me that can. You can add it to my other two items. But that’s all Susie," he cautioned.
"Of course," Susie Salesgirl looked dejectedly down at her sensible work shoes. "I guess I'll have to have the angel food cake without any peaches tonight. But, that's okay. We have a batch of Mad Mary's homemade cinnamon sassafras chocolate in the back room that I can put on it instead," she finished brightly, seeming to just remember the new food item secreted away in the back room.
"I've never heard of such a thing," Rafe arched a heavy eyebrow with suspicion.
"Not many people have. Mad Mary only makes a few batches of the chocolate each year,” she whispered conspiratorially. “We were fortunate to have gotten the last shipment."
"I'll take it," he said greedily. “And the angel food cake.”
"No, Rafe please. It's awfully expensive, and I'm sure you'd want to leave some for old Pete over there," she pointed to the town drunk sprawled in a wood chair in the corner of the store.
"Are you kiddin'?" Rafe raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "I'll take it all Miss Salesgirl,” he said firmly, brooking no backtalk and sass out of Susie. He smiled with the thought of eating something as exotic as cinnamon sassafras chocolate. Precious. It was all his precious chocolate. And no one, certainly not Pete, was going to take it away and get a single bite of it.
“How have you been Rafe?” Susie looked dreamily at the handsome cowboy. His chiseled features spoke to her carpentry nature.
“Fine gal. Been out riding the range.” He looked longingly at her pouty lips and pale white Eastern skin.
“You need a fine meal at our restaurant Rafe,” she breathed out the words, making them sound sweeter than honey to his ears.
“Sure, sure Susie. Would you like to join me?” he offered hopefully.
“Why…yes Rafe. Yes, I would. But perhaps you’d like to change into something more…” she looked his dusty clothes up and down. “…date like?” she said hopefully.
“Yeah,” he grinned boyishly. “I guess I do look a little trail worn.”
“You always look good to me Rafe.” Susie slanted a look at him as she took down a large pile of designer trail and all-purpose dating clothes that she knew would fit.
They ate dinner at a candlelit table, sipped wine from fine crystal, and talked about the simple pleasures of life. Rafe left a big tip to impress his darling Susie. Susie left him with a wink and a promise to return, which she never did.
With a heavy heart and saddlebags bulging and overflowing with foolish purchases, Rafe steered his horse toward the town’s exit, the sassafras chocolate already melting down the horse’s side and dripping onto the dirt the town called a road.
Rafe was a sadder, coinless man who was bound to ride the range until the next time he encountered Susie Salesgirl.
He had stopped in the town to replenish his saddlebag grub. His intention was to buy only two necessary items then hit the trail, away from this madness and financial ruin.
And then he saw her. The one woman who had made his normally conservative nature turn liberal and loose. His muscles tightened with lurid thoughts of grabbing her right here in the middle of the pickle barrel aisle, but instead he tipped his hat in gentlemanly acknowledgement. She tipped her blond head in return acknowledgement, and politely excused herself from the mob of women shoppers at the fabric table.
"Rafe," she smiled, knowing full well that her charm had the power to release men and women from their hard-earned cash.
"Susie Salesgirl," he returned, knowing he had the charm to whisk her out of this po-dunk Eastern town to far off Western valleys.
The knowledge of both their abilities hung heavily between them.
"Can I help you with something?" she offered sweet as a bag of fresh peppermint.
"Nothing more than a sack of flour and 2 bags of gummie bears. I've got me a sweet tooth today Susie." His blue eyes held her captive in their intensity. She felt her breath quicken and her receipt book fall from her limp hands. He bent to pick it up for her, casually brushing her fingers as he gave it back. As though he had no idea that he’d started a heat of flames in her.
"Oh, I'm sorry to be so clumsy," flustered and arms akimbo, she batted impossibly long eyelashes at him. "I don't know what's gotten into me today. I guess it's that one can of peaches that I was hoping to take home before someone else bought them. They're from a new peach company in Southern Rhode Island that I thought might be tasty."
"Peaches you say?" Rafe's mouth was already watering with the taste of limited edition peaches. "I'll take me that can. You can add it to my other two items. But that’s all Susie," he cautioned.
"Of course," Susie Salesgirl looked dejectedly down at her sensible work shoes. "I guess I'll have to have the angel food cake without any peaches tonight. But, that's okay. We have a batch of Mad Mary's homemade cinnamon sassafras chocolate in the back room that I can put on it instead," she finished brightly, seeming to just remember the new food item secreted away in the back room.
"I've never heard of such a thing," Rafe arched a heavy eyebrow with suspicion.
"Not many people have. Mad Mary only makes a few batches of the chocolate each year,” she whispered conspiratorially. “We were fortunate to have gotten the last shipment."
"I'll take it," he said greedily. “And the angel food cake.”
"No, Rafe please. It's awfully expensive, and I'm sure you'd want to leave some for old Pete over there," she pointed to the town drunk sprawled in a wood chair in the corner of the store.
"Are you kiddin'?" Rafe raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "I'll take it all Miss Salesgirl,” he said firmly, brooking no backtalk and sass out of Susie. He smiled with the thought of eating something as exotic as cinnamon sassafras chocolate. Precious. It was all his precious chocolate. And no one, certainly not Pete, was going to take it away and get a single bite of it.
“How have you been Rafe?” Susie looked dreamily at the handsome cowboy. His chiseled features spoke to her carpentry nature.
“Fine gal. Been out riding the range.” He looked longingly at her pouty lips and pale white Eastern skin.
“You need a fine meal at our restaurant Rafe,” she breathed out the words, making them sound sweeter than honey to his ears.
“Sure, sure Susie. Would you like to join me?” he offered hopefully.
“Why…yes Rafe. Yes, I would. But perhaps you’d like to change into something more…” she looked his dusty clothes up and down. “…date like?” she said hopefully.
“Yeah,” he grinned boyishly. “I guess I do look a little trail worn.”
“You always look good to me Rafe.” Susie slanted a look at him as she took down a large pile of designer trail and all-purpose dating clothes that she knew would fit.
They ate dinner at a candlelit table, sipped wine from fine crystal, and talked about the simple pleasures of life. Rafe left a big tip to impress his darling Susie. Susie left him with a wink and a promise to return, which she never did.
With a heavy heart and saddlebags bulging and overflowing with foolish purchases, Rafe steered his horse toward the town’s exit, the sassafras chocolate already melting down the horse’s side and dripping onto the dirt the town called a road.
Rafe was a sadder, coinless man who was bound to ride the range until the next time he encountered Susie Salesgirl.
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