Watching clouds appear, disappear, and reform has been a pastime of mine my entire life. As a child, my mother would peer through the kitchen window and yell that I should stop daydreaming, and "do something." I remember laying there thinking that must be what a dog feels like. They understand the intention but not the words. Her intention was serious, but I did not understand what she meant – "do something." Annoyed at being interrupted at my sky gazing, I’d skirt the side of the house, out of her window range, and find a shady new spot to lie down.
It’s been forty years, and I continue to have my head in the clouds. The Weather Channel is now my channel of choice. Watching the moving path of nationwide precipitation still thrills. The Doppler shows a far reaching pressure system, which will create, dissolve, and build all of my personal favorites – cumulus, cirrus, and lenticular.
I imagine children looking to the sky; lying in the cornfields of Kansas, horseback riding across the plains, or maybe looking up from sunny parks in New York City. It makes me happy to know that they see them too. We’re like a club where we know other members are out there, we just don’t know who they are. Today I’m hoping that God will take a long deep breath and blow some new clouds my way. Wherever I am, I promise to look up.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Happy Valentine's Day
This Valentine’s Day, I celebrate the love of someone special and in doing so, pay homage to St. Valentine. Legend has it that Valentine, a Roman Catholic priest in the third century, railed against emperor Claudius II, who had outlawed that any young men marry. Single men make better soldiers and Claudius was deeply committed to maintaining a hearty army of young men.
Valentine, in his effort to support romantic love, secretly married the young lovers. Once discovered by Claudius, Valentine was imprisoned and sentenced to death. And in an odd twist of fate, it was here that he personally found romantic love. The jailer’s daughter, a frequent visitor to the confined priest, inspired his own letters of love. In his last post to the young girl, he signed “From Your Valentine.” I use the same inscription today as I sign my words of love.
Canonizing Valentine after his death ensured that “Saint Valentine” lived on in the memories of those smitten by love. By the Middle Ages, he was easily one of the most popular Saints in England and France.
I know that this is only one of the legends surrounding the celebration, but it’s the one I liked best. This day continues to be an acknowledgment that we have someone special in our lives. When I write “From Your Valentine” I’ll think of that dedicated priest who gave his life for love. We should all be so lucky.
Valentine, in his effort to support romantic love, secretly married the young lovers. Once discovered by Claudius, Valentine was imprisoned and sentenced to death. And in an odd twist of fate, it was here that he personally found romantic love. The jailer’s daughter, a frequent visitor to the confined priest, inspired his own letters of love. In his last post to the young girl, he signed “From Your Valentine.” I use the same inscription today as I sign my words of love.
Canonizing Valentine after his death ensured that “Saint Valentine” lived on in the memories of those smitten by love. By the Middle Ages, he was easily one of the most popular Saints in England and France.
I know that this is only one of the legends surrounding the celebration, but it’s the one I liked best. This day continues to be an acknowledgment that we have someone special in our lives. When I write “From Your Valentine” I’ll think of that dedicated priest who gave his life for love. We should all be so lucky.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
M is for mockingbird
While not a professional bird watcher, I think each of my friends is remarkably like the bird species I watch each day. A myriad of birds gather on branches outside of my window in unusual combinations of color, size, and voice; very much like my circle of friends. Though they are clearly different species, they join together in a cacophony of sound, bird to bird, much like woman to woman.
The mockingbird, which is personally one of my favorites, is so full of life that her voice radiates delight wherever she goes. Her social concentration is so keen that her initial greeting makes you believe that you are the most important person alive.
The mockingbird is drawn to anything shiny and she never leaves home without armfuls of silver bangles, sequined skirts, and silver earrings hanging long from her ears. Eyes darting and chattering rapidly, she twirls amongst the crowd and without knowing, draws the attention of every man in the room. Her shoulders often languish above a wide boat neck sweater and her short blonde hair darts in every direction. With her sparkling attire and swift movements, she often looks like a fast traveling comet. Her trail of stardust leaves most guests sorry for her early evening departures.
She’s as beautiful as a peacock and as charming as a lovebird. Quick to chatter, easy to charm, my friend the mockingbird has turned me into an avid bird watcher.
©2007
The mockingbird, which is personally one of my favorites, is so full of life that her voice radiates delight wherever she goes. Her social concentration is so keen that her initial greeting makes you believe that you are the most important person alive.
The mockingbird is drawn to anything shiny and she never leaves home without armfuls of silver bangles, sequined skirts, and silver earrings hanging long from her ears. Eyes darting and chattering rapidly, she twirls amongst the crowd and without knowing, draws the attention of every man in the room. Her shoulders often languish above a wide boat neck sweater and her short blonde hair darts in every direction. With her sparkling attire and swift movements, she often looks like a fast traveling comet. Her trail of stardust leaves most guests sorry for her early evening departures.
She’s as beautiful as a peacock and as charming as a lovebird. Quick to chatter, easy to charm, my friend the mockingbird has turned me into an avid bird watcher.
©2007
little prayers
The world is a sight to behold. Each day as I read current events on CNN, I hold my breath. Things are considerably more complicated now. I’m thankful that I’m not trying to figure out the never-ending puzzle of world politics. It’s a difficult task.
I am amused that the daily news has forced a new habit on me. When I read through articles, I have begun to say little prayers. When the young men of war are counted as numbers, I close my eyes and whisper “go in peace.” When kidnapped children are found, I say “thank you,” and when foolish people do foolish things I say, “it takes all kinds to make an interesting world. Thank you for the variety.”
I don’t know when it started. I’m not even sure where it comes from. Growing up my family rarely – if ever – attended church. I have no desire for affiliation or religious community and yet, a new and simple belief has entered my life. I imagine that my prayer is the intention of warmth that pushes at the back of those traveling to parts unknown. I want them to know that another is wishing them well on their way.
People talk about world consciousness. Maybe there is. Maybe there isn’t. I’m not sure, but just in case, I want to do my part. It’s not much, but each day, as I read the news, I whisper my little prayers.
©2007
I am amused that the daily news has forced a new habit on me. When I read through articles, I have begun to say little prayers. When the young men of war are counted as numbers, I close my eyes and whisper “go in peace.” When kidnapped children are found, I say “thank you,” and when foolish people do foolish things I say, “it takes all kinds to make an interesting world. Thank you for the variety.”
I don’t know when it started. I’m not even sure where it comes from. Growing up my family rarely – if ever – attended church. I have no desire for affiliation or religious community and yet, a new and simple belief has entered my life. I imagine that my prayer is the intention of warmth that pushes at the back of those traveling to parts unknown. I want them to know that another is wishing them well on their way.
People talk about world consciousness. Maybe there is. Maybe there isn’t. I’m not sure, but just in case, I want to do my part. It’s not much, but each day, as I read the news, I whisper my little prayers.
©2007
Friday, January 5, 2007
i never wanted to be pretty
When I was a child, I’d look at myself in the bathroom mirror and wonder about my blank looking face. As I watched Anna Magnani and Sophia Loren on black and white TV, I’d think to myself, I want to be handsome like THAT. I never wanted to be pretty. I’d manipulate my face with my hands, trying to imagine what I’d look like as an older woman. I thought sexy was having laugh lines and sad eyes, round hips, and an attitude. Being blonde and blue-eyed I knew I’d never have the earthy look of the Italians I loved, and I spent hours wondering about that.
Forty-five years later, I see I finally have a “face.” Years of work, family and experiences have created a very public roadmap. Being single at 55 has added more laugh lines.
Some friends have chosen plastic surgery. Others are seriously considering. It puzzles me. Does lifting your eyelids, sucking fat, and inserting plastic implants make your life different? Personally, I’m not convinced. I’ve clearly had a life – and it shows. After all that, why would I erase it?
Attitude and intellect have their benefits and a confident woman is formidable. Yes, my eyelids now resemble Simone de Beauvoir…but I always thought she was one sexy woman. She probably wouldn’t play well to the plastic surgery crowd, but I’m not a member. Perception is everything. I’m not pretty, but I’m still working on handsome.
©2007
Forty-five years later, I see I finally have a “face.” Years of work, family and experiences have created a very public roadmap. Being single at 55 has added more laugh lines.
Some friends have chosen plastic surgery. Others are seriously considering. It puzzles me. Does lifting your eyelids, sucking fat, and inserting plastic implants make your life different? Personally, I’m not convinced. I’ve clearly had a life – and it shows. After all that, why would I erase it?
Attitude and intellect have their benefits and a confident woman is formidable. Yes, my eyelids now resemble Simone de Beauvoir…but I always thought she was one sexy woman. She probably wouldn’t play well to the plastic surgery crowd, but I’m not a member. Perception is everything. I’m not pretty, but I’m still working on handsome.
©2007
in the night
She felt like a woman who'd been told she was loved, by a man she didn't know. It had been years they’d been together and more years they’d been apart. She’d never understood how the silence had grown between them. The burning of her cigarette was often the only sound in the room heavy with night. Some evenings when she woke, she could see his outline against the glass of the windowpanes and knew that he had not slept.
He pulled her close as they walked on the cobblestone streets, fog dampening the sounds of their boots on the stones. She kept with his quick pace. With steps taken in time, they hurried towards the town center, hoping to arrive before dawn. She slowed as they turned the corner and saw the lights through the thickening fog. It wouldn’t be long now.
Muffled voices came from the alleyways as they moved closer to the cars. Lights became brighter but those standing in the darkness did not move. She could hear the tires roll across the wet pavement as the fog turned to rain.
With a firm hand he guided her towards the door of the black limousine. With no sound, the back door swung open. Without a glance, she ducked in and quickly pulled the door closed. He stood and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, when he remembered it had been years since he’d smoked. She had always had that effect on him.
©2007
He pulled her close as they walked on the cobblestone streets, fog dampening the sounds of their boots on the stones. She kept with his quick pace. With steps taken in time, they hurried towards the town center, hoping to arrive before dawn. She slowed as they turned the corner and saw the lights through the thickening fog. It wouldn’t be long now.
Muffled voices came from the alleyways as they moved closer to the cars. Lights became brighter but those standing in the darkness did not move. She could hear the tires roll across the wet pavement as the fog turned to rain.
With a firm hand he guided her towards the door of the black limousine. With no sound, the back door swung open. Without a glance, she ducked in and quickly pulled the door closed. He stood and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, when he remembered it had been years since he’d smoked. She had always had that effect on him.
©2007
the birdcage
Francis was 96 years old when he fell in his house. They placed him in a convalescent hospital, which he named “The Birdcage.” Staff said he had to gain back his strength, and once he did, they still didn’t want him to leave. But Francis had his champions and those neighborhood women fought to bring Francis home. He’d often joke about how he’d “flown the coop” and how he was never going back.
Caring for the elderly can be a fulltime job, but Francis was fiercely independent. Neighbors joined together and delivered his meal each evening. As his eyesight dimmed and he could no longer read the newspaper, he’d listen to the radio. Occasionally he’d turn on his TV, which provided a snowy screen, but to someone with limited eyesight, he thought his rabbit ears were working just fine.
Francis was married for 56 years the first time. He never dreamed he’d find love again, but at 97 years old, Francis fell in love. Each day, he’d make his way to the laundry room and there his arthritic hands would slowly iron his shirt and trousers. Nobody can remember a time when Francis wasn’t perfectly dressed – ever.
Francis died this week at 98 years old. Quick in mind and generous of spirit, he was the quintessential gentleman. As we stood at his grave, I could not help but smile as I thought to myself, he’s really flown the coop this time.
©2007
Caring for the elderly can be a fulltime job, but Francis was fiercely independent. Neighbors joined together and delivered his meal each evening. As his eyesight dimmed and he could no longer read the newspaper, he’d listen to the radio. Occasionally he’d turn on his TV, which provided a snowy screen, but to someone with limited eyesight, he thought his rabbit ears were working just fine.
Francis was married for 56 years the first time. He never dreamed he’d find love again, but at 97 years old, Francis fell in love. Each day, he’d make his way to the laundry room and there his arthritic hands would slowly iron his shirt and trousers. Nobody can remember a time when Francis wasn’t perfectly dressed – ever.
Francis died this week at 98 years old. Quick in mind and generous of spirit, he was the quintessential gentleman. As we stood at his grave, I could not help but smile as I thought to myself, he’s really flown the coop this time.
©2007
a new discussion
He cried the first time he read his story out loud. She said it was because he was "sensitive”. I'm not sure that's true. Death is a topic that brings many to tears and most Americans are busy practicing "active denial". Though all of us are headed there, the journey is the only thing people want to talk about. Bring up death at your next dinner party – or over your next beer – and see what I mean. You'll be branded depressed, moody, and dark. Your next invitation will take awhile.
Death is the unspoken surprise we are all waiting for. Maybe each of us believes that by not talking about it, our most certain destiny will be altered. The superstitious refuse to say the word out loud. They fear that "death" will hear its name and suddenly appear. Close calls, accidents, and family deaths are all reminders of our own mortality – and of all those we love.
The fear of death robs us all. By not integrating this experience into our being, we rob ourselves and each other, of an awareness that will encourage lives well lived. By making the word and the discussion part of our everyday experience, we honor that we are here for a spell and understand that one day we won’t be. Nobody knows what happens next, but knowing that one day it will all be over makes every sunset you see, just that much brighter.
©2007
Death is the unspoken surprise we are all waiting for. Maybe each of us believes that by not talking about it, our most certain destiny will be altered. The superstitious refuse to say the word out loud. They fear that "death" will hear its name and suddenly appear. Close calls, accidents, and family deaths are all reminders of our own mortality – and of all those we love.
The fear of death robs us all. By not integrating this experience into our being, we rob ourselves and each other, of an awareness that will encourage lives well lived. By making the word and the discussion part of our everyday experience, we honor that we are here for a spell and understand that one day we won’t be. Nobody knows what happens next, but knowing that one day it will all be over makes every sunset you see, just that much brighter.
©2007
the cube
I’ve always been interested in how people think, and I sometimes daydream about having dinner with interesting characters. What do they feel was their greatest achievement? How did their families change them? Who had they loved? Though I have many possibilities, my first guest would be the designer of the infamous gray corporate cube.
If you have escaped the talons of corporate America, bravo. If you live 60+ hours a week in a gray cube, then you know that of which I speak. You arrive at work refreshed, enter the building, turn into your aisle and immediately join the drones in the “gray zone.” Gray is the standard – and dull is the workforce. Inspiration leaves in a flood. What the hell was that designer thinking?
People need a rich environment for inspiration and creativity. High-level executives do not hold strategic sessions in cafeterias in Detroit. They hold them in Aspen or Santa Fe. Executives clearly recognize their creative thinking is inspired by environment. They just don’t believe in the cost of inspiring their workforce.
I say revolt. Choose a Friday, stack ‘em up in the parking lot and burn baby, burn. On Monday, put your laptop on an apple crate, decorate your imaginary 6 x 6 foot space with your goldfish and make it your own. Nod at your co-conspirators. Remember why the hell you were hired in the first place and then write the best piece you have ever written.
©2007
If you have escaped the talons of corporate America, bravo. If you live 60+ hours a week in a gray cube, then you know that of which I speak. You arrive at work refreshed, enter the building, turn into your aisle and immediately join the drones in the “gray zone.” Gray is the standard – and dull is the workforce. Inspiration leaves in a flood. What the hell was that designer thinking?
People need a rich environment for inspiration and creativity. High-level executives do not hold strategic sessions in cafeterias in Detroit. They hold them in Aspen or Santa Fe. Executives clearly recognize their creative thinking is inspired by environment. They just don’t believe in the cost of inspiring their workforce.
I say revolt. Choose a Friday, stack ‘em up in the parking lot and burn baby, burn. On Monday, put your laptop on an apple crate, decorate your imaginary 6 x 6 foot space with your goldfish and make it your own. Nod at your co-conspirators. Remember why the hell you were hired in the first place and then write the best piece you have ever written.
©2007
it's the coffee
I blame it on the coffee. Nowadays, caffeine can give you an immediate out of body experience. People rarely sit for a cup and the caffeine seems to exacerbate our lifestyle. Fast cars go faster when fueled by a one-handed driver with a latte. Since it takes two hands to signal and drive, nobody signals anymore. Like a school of fish, everyone depends upon automobile telepathy as they weave in and out of traffic.
The news is filled with stories that make you wonder about caffeine. Could it be a substance that contributes to the craziness in the world? I began to think so.
So, I tested my theory and stopped drinking caffeine for a week. I did notice that I wasn’t in such a hurry. I also had a headache the size of Texas. I felt as if I’d joined the NASCAR circuit and my car was stuck at 50. Coffee in hand, drivers tailgated, cut in front, and sped at unbelievable speeds – I feared for my life.
So knowing that we won’t be celebrating a “CAFFEINE FREE” Day anytime soon, I’ve rejoined the masses. The difference is that now I am aware. I drink my coffee before I get in the car and I use my blinkers when I switch lanes. I don’t drive as fast and I’m still annoyed that people risk my life to get to their job on time. I blame it on the coffee.
©2007
The news is filled with stories that make you wonder about caffeine. Could it be a substance that contributes to the craziness in the world? I began to think so.
So, I tested my theory and stopped drinking caffeine for a week. I did notice that I wasn’t in such a hurry. I also had a headache the size of Texas. I felt as if I’d joined the NASCAR circuit and my car was stuck at 50. Coffee in hand, drivers tailgated, cut in front, and sped at unbelievable speeds – I feared for my life.
So knowing that we won’t be celebrating a “CAFFEINE FREE” Day anytime soon, I’ve rejoined the masses. The difference is that now I am aware. I drink my coffee before I get in the car and I use my blinkers when I switch lanes. I don’t drive as fast and I’m still annoyed that people risk my life to get to their job on time. I blame it on the coffee.
©2007
motor on
For those of you in the midst of the mysterious throes of menopause, I offer my sympathy. At 55, I understand. While there are those that tout the benefits of women being older and wiser, I believe they should also understand that the transition to this new way of being takes some time.
Do you remember learning to swim when you were a child? In summer pools, anxious and full of energy, you pulled an inflated tube around your waist and kicked wildly? It didn’t seem to bother us as children that this ring circled our middle. It kept us buoyant and safe. Life was good. Happily – we motored on.
I thought of this the other day as I crawled behind the wheel of my car. I was suddenly aware that my body had changed. Significantly. A newly grown tire was sitting around my middle and this time, I couldn’t take it off. I wondered how the new appendage could have grown in such a short period of time. It didn’t look like me and it surely didn’t feel like me. I had always been a girl with a waistline. And now, I had the sit-down shape of a cylinder.
While riding in my car each day continues to remind me of my menopausal condition, I’m trying to get comfortable with the new me. I’ve discovered that much like swimming as a child, all I can do is – motor on.
©2007
Do you remember learning to swim when you were a child? In summer pools, anxious and full of energy, you pulled an inflated tube around your waist and kicked wildly? It didn’t seem to bother us as children that this ring circled our middle. It kept us buoyant and safe. Life was good. Happily – we motored on.
I thought of this the other day as I crawled behind the wheel of my car. I was suddenly aware that my body had changed. Significantly. A newly grown tire was sitting around my middle and this time, I couldn’t take it off. I wondered how the new appendage could have grown in such a short period of time. It didn’t look like me and it surely didn’t feel like me. I had always been a girl with a waistline. And now, I had the sit-down shape of a cylinder.
While riding in my car each day continues to remind me of my menopausal condition, I’m trying to get comfortable with the new me. I’ve discovered that much like swimming as a child, all I can do is – motor on.
©2007
my man, Johnny
Johnny Cash once talked about his life before he found God. With a face like that, you knew it was no picnic. He talked about his burning addiction to drugs and alcohol, and how he felt he wasn’t worth a dime. He just didn’t see any way out and drove alone to the desert. Discouraged, he crawled into a dark cave and laid down, just waiting to die. Hours later, he realized he really wanted to live and he walked out of the cave and signed into rehab.
I didn’t know why I came to the desert alone. Lost love had sent me on an unexpected journey. Looking back, I realize that I wanted to see if my heart would stop, just like that.
I drove thousands of miles watching the clouds cross the wide-open plains. I watched skies change color from morning ‘till night. I didn’t talk to anyone and nobody talked to me. I never did lay down in a cave, and my heart never stopped.
Johnnie never knew it, but we were kin. We both became different people in the desert. When you think you are going to die, I believe that sometimes you do. And, sometimes you don’t. Maybe DNA forces you to go on, or maybe God has a different plan. What I do know, is that last year Johnnie took another chance and laid down to die, and this time he didn’t get up.
I didn’t know why I came to the desert alone. Lost love had sent me on an unexpected journey. Looking back, I realize that I wanted to see if my heart would stop, just like that.
I drove thousands of miles watching the clouds cross the wide-open plains. I watched skies change color from morning ‘till night. I didn’t talk to anyone and nobody talked to me. I never did lay down in a cave, and my heart never stopped.
Johnnie never knew it, but we were kin. We both became different people in the desert. When you think you are going to die, I believe that sometimes you do. And, sometimes you don’t. Maybe DNA forces you to go on, or maybe God has a different plan. What I do know, is that last year Johnnie took another chance and laid down to die, and this time he didn’t get up.
french lingerie
I think women spend too much money on shoes. I think they should spend more on bras and panties. Van Morrison sang, “women walk by dressed up for each other.” In America they do. In France, women dress for men.
French women know the secret of wearing beautiful lingerie. If you’ve ever sat in a Parisian café, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, let me explain. French women are thin. They wear bare legs in the summertime and their ability to tastefully expose colored bra straps is a rare art form. A man’s imagination immediately runs wild. Do the panties match? Are they lacey? Do they tie up the back? Are they silk? or please, God, is she wearing a thong?
Men hail the fact that there are no French words for full coverage bras. They simply don’t exist. French bras push breasts into Renaissance shapes. Half-cups, lace-cups, low-cups, or stretchy-cups. Nipples pointed, cleavage aligned, with just enough lift. To wear French lingerie is to experience yourself in a whole new way. And when you pull on a pair of French panties, it is easy to make believe that Michaelangelo created them just for you. Women’s French panties feel engineered.
I suggest you try it. Women will take notice and men will stare. You may have to practice how to casually slip your bra strap off your shoulder, but I guarantee you, your effort will be rewarded.
©2007
French women know the secret of wearing beautiful lingerie. If you’ve ever sat in a Parisian café, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, let me explain. French women are thin. They wear bare legs in the summertime and their ability to tastefully expose colored bra straps is a rare art form. A man’s imagination immediately runs wild. Do the panties match? Are they lacey? Do they tie up the back? Are they silk? or please, God, is she wearing a thong?
Men hail the fact that there are no French words for full coverage bras. They simply don’t exist. French bras push breasts into Renaissance shapes. Half-cups, lace-cups, low-cups, or stretchy-cups. Nipples pointed, cleavage aligned, with just enough lift. To wear French lingerie is to experience yourself in a whole new way. And when you pull on a pair of French panties, it is easy to make believe that Michaelangelo created them just for you. Women’s French panties feel engineered.
I suggest you try it. Women will take notice and men will stare. You may have to practice how to casually slip your bra strap off your shoulder, but I guarantee you, your effort will be rewarded.
©2007
honey do
There are reasons I'd like a man around my house and sex is not in the top five. As a single woman, a man with mechanical abilities, and a hefty tool belt, is always is of interest. If he has all that and a desire to please, well, I'm a goner.
Last night the chirping began at 1:30 am. The smoke alarm went off every 20 seconds indicating the alarm needed a new battery. Naked and rummaging though the junk drawer, I discover every other kind of battery, but no 9V. So, back to bed with my head smashed between two pillows, I count chirps like sheep. At 5:30 am, silence is a priority and I crawl up to pull out the battery. Not being mechanical, I did not know that the alarm continues to chirp without a battery. With no recourse, I pull on my clothes and madly race to Safeway, where I purchase a dozen batteries. From now on, I will always have a 9V in my junk drawer. As I pull into my driveway, I can now hear multiple alarms chirping in 20-second cycles.
While I believe that stopping hormones is a good idea. This morning I'm wondering the wisdom of it all. I feel the blood rush to my face and I instantly imagine myself running like a mad woman through the house beating each and every one of the alarms silent with a broom. The thought that I might set off the entire alarm system keeps me paralyzed. Now I start to cry.
The “Honey Do” man is my next call. I’ll pay the money. And I guarantee you that my first party question to that man of interest will be, “Say, are you mechanical?”
©2007
Last night the chirping began at 1:30 am. The smoke alarm went off every 20 seconds indicating the alarm needed a new battery. Naked and rummaging though the junk drawer, I discover every other kind of battery, but no 9V. So, back to bed with my head smashed between two pillows, I count chirps like sheep. At 5:30 am, silence is a priority and I crawl up to pull out the battery. Not being mechanical, I did not know that the alarm continues to chirp without a battery. With no recourse, I pull on my clothes and madly race to Safeway, where I purchase a dozen batteries. From now on, I will always have a 9V in my junk drawer. As I pull into my driveway, I can now hear multiple alarms chirping in 20-second cycles.
While I believe that stopping hormones is a good idea. This morning I'm wondering the wisdom of it all. I feel the blood rush to my face and I instantly imagine myself running like a mad woman through the house beating each and every one of the alarms silent with a broom. The thought that I might set off the entire alarm system keeps me paralyzed. Now I start to cry.
The “Honey Do” man is my next call. I’ll pay the money. And I guarantee you that my first party question to that man of interest will be, “Say, are you mechanical?”
©2007
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