It seems like I might end up dying alone and molding in an apartment.

Today I went to this luncheon for the chick club I belong to.  I do not exactly know why I belong to this club anymore.  The only thing I do is avoid going to board meetings as often as I can (because these biddies make me want to poke my eyes out with a sharp stick), make the annoying directory, and go to the luncheon where we have to stand up a hundred times and be appreciated and get our pictures taken (both things I could skip doing for the rest of my life thank you very much).  Except that today the luncheon was actually quite entertaining and the food was good and dessert was a chocolate cake that would send you right to heaven.  I digress.

Anyhow, after the luncheon, I was walking to the parking deck with a long-term friend.  She was the first friend I made in this town when I moved here.  Her family moved in two months after we did.  Our kids are friends.  We’ve gone on vacation to the beach together for many years (except this year and last year, boo hoo).  She (my friend) started telling me this story about her mom and her mom’s friend.  How her mom got a letter from a friend that said something like you haven’t heard from me in so long you probably think I died and am molding in my apartment alone.  I just looked at her.  Then she went on.  How she (my friend) woke up in the middle of the night thinking about this woman (before she knew her mom had gotten a letter) and how that turns out to be roughly the time this woman was dying and how nobody found her for days.  I was creeped out.  But it gets worse.  (well.  I mean, it can’t get worse for this poor woman.  She died alone and molding in an apartment.)

Because the next part of the conversation is where my friend says she doesn’t want to exactly say that her mom and her mom’s friend were opposites, but…  And then she goes on to say that she’s a lot like her mom and I remind her of her mom’s friend.  So, what you don’t know is that my friend is Donna Reed.  She puts the capital R in responsible.  She never misses appointments, deadlines, birthdays.  She does everything and very well.  She’s organized and polite and smart and just every darn thing that a woman should be.  And she mentioned that her mom’s friend was permissive and disorganized and creative and always laughing- I just remembered she did say that.  And, yea.  Perhaps I am very much like her mom’s friend. After all, I was an hour late to do my part at this luncheon today and I forgot to bring money to pay since I forgot to pay in advance and the battery of my phone conked out in the middle so I couldn’t tell what time it was.

And then there’s the fact that my friend on her birthday gave herself a concussion.  I asked her who she called- since she didn’t call me (and I’m a bad friend for wishing her a happy birthday on facebook for crying out loud).  And she called no one.  Hello?  She calls me when there is a puzzle emergency, but not when she cracks her head on the driveway.  I mean, really.  Am I that irresponsible?  I do know where the emergency room is.  We’ve been there several times.

Back to the waking up in the middle of the night thinking about a random person who just died.  I mentioned a book I recently read that addresses just this sort of thing, but that I didn’t think she’d be interested in it.  (Tao of Psychology.  Very interesting. thank you @songoftheheart for clueing me in.)  Then we went on our merry way.  A little while later I got a message from her asking about the book while she was near my house.  Well, I actually missed the message because I was at her house delivering the book to her completely flabbergasted hubby (with the luncheon money slipped in.)

And then she said to me “I’m glad you’re in my life. We should hang out more.”  And I answered, “I completely agree, but next time you get a concussion, you’d better call me.”  Of course this is all through facebook messages, because I can’t have too much live interaction in a day or something scary might happen.

So I might die alone and molding in an apartment someday, but as long as there’s facebook my friend will know right away?

Awkward change of topic.

OBL wanted to see my jelly creations.  The stuff on the right, which is very light pink, is the violet jelly that is actually jelly but not very violet.  The stuff on the left which is totally twangy and divine and a fabulous red but not jelly at all (even though I tried 3 times.  apparently it’s best to follow the recipe exactly.  who knew) is red bud “jelly”.  We’re thinking ice cream topping and daiquiri flavoring or something. 

I reserve the right to write poetry tomorrow for npm.  Because I’m always late.  So there.

somebody wanted to see the volcano cake.  so here it is.

happy monday peops

My day was poetry.

I worshiped in the church of the beautiful day.  Bluest sky without a single cloud in it.  Sun just warm enough.  It was a day made just for me and I claimed it.

Something like first thing this morning I went searching for violets.  Because darn it, I was going to make violet jelly today and that is that.  LLO was going to help me, but you know how that goes.  The violets were a little scarce this morning.  I’ve seen plenty since then.  But I found enough to steep into the most fabulous green/blue on earth and it smelled lovely. 

But if you’re going to make flower jelly, you can’t possibly have too much of a good thing, right?  So I discovered that periwinkles are not edible, but redbud is.  So my girlies and I exfoliated one of our redbud trees, and I steeped redbud blossoms all afternoon.  Not as pretty a color, not as nice a smell.  In fact at this moment, the “tea” smells like dead leaves, and I’m not sure that I’m committed to this project.

I mowed the grass.  Something I like to do.  Really.  And now we won’t get a ticket from our neighborhood for having an overgrown field.

Then we decided that we needed a picnic.  LLO earned this bribe for doing some darn thing or another, but I’d have done it anyhow.  I laid in the sun for a while with pine cones under my head. And then spouseman and I played catch in a big grassy area (full of violets).  Where I discovered that our playing catch in the back yard is not hindered by the trees but by my girlie arm.  Sigh.  Still fun.  Then I walked home, which was a nice change since I usually walk my neighborhood in the dark.

Here’s the treeface I saw at the park.

And then I grabbed my bench that’s been waiting for me to paint.  I didn’t make a whole lot of progress, but it was delightful to sit outside in the sun and see what happened.

Then it was time to see what violet jelly is like.  Well, my violet jelly is like pink sugar yumminess.  Yes, of course I like it.  LLO’s friend (before she burned the roof of her mouth) thought that it smelled delicious.

And now we’re making an edible volcano. 

Aside from the volcano, this day was all about doing what we felt like doing.  If I had somewhere I was supposed to be, I didn’t go (and I’m not checking the calendar to even find out.)  This is the first Sunday since January where I haven’t had something looming over my head.  And whatever drama I might have in store tomorrow, I can’t do a thing about it today.

Poetry.

Go ahead.  Tell me it isn’t.

npm. of course.  bluemooncat enormous thing 40.  write a poem using the words: map, rye, saint, exoskeleton, paint, turnips

Not a saint. Never once. A fool perhaps

Sometimes a liar, sometimes a truth-teller

The truth is too hard to find on the map

What seemed like truth was less than truth

Reality distant, a memory pushed far away

As tiny as a kernel of rye imbedded in mashed turnips

Unpalatable, tasteless, formless, dull as gray

When false truth is bright and growing

Planted deep in the garden of flowery visions

Shimmery, shiny, slippery, sly

Painted with the colors of daydreams

The exoskeleton crumbles under the pressure

Revealing the shiny illusion of papery pretense.

You write a poem using turnips and see where it goes.   completely unrelated song that i really like HERE.  Can you tell I don’t care for turnips?  Some foods can come out of the ground and some cannot.  Radishes are even more disgusting, but at least they aren’t cooked.

Should I tell you that I was speaking of ingredients for rum and coke at dinner and did a spoonerism?  Nope, I probably should not.

The other day, Littleloudone walked home from school with her nose in a book.  I told Spawn when I picked her up from school.  Spawn then used her powers of subtlety to spy on LLO sitting on the couch reading.  She took incriminating photos and everything.  Then she and I went in the kitchen and did the quiet happy dance. You’d think we were crazy (which we probably are) if you didn’t know that our LLO is an alien.  In a house full of people who always have their noses in books, LLO doesn’t choose books for fun and avoids reading situations.  She got a slow start on reading because she didn’t give a rip.  She had to go to remedial reading at school in second grade, thank goodness, because that helped turn the corner.  She is a good reader.  She really is.  Shocked the heck out of me that her test scores in reading are high.  But she just doesn’t like to read.  One day last summer, I suggested we go to the library.  Her response:  “Why would I want to go there?  There’s nothing there for me.”  I nearly cried.

Anyhow.  So she had her nose in a book.  She got up this morning to read too.  And I’m happy.  Because the series she has started has a whole bunch of books.  There’s potential for her nose to be in a book for a week or two.  And then maybe her teacher will suggest another series. (She certainly doesn’t take my suggestions.)

Today is crunch day for the earning of the family movie.  She did the bulk of the stuff.  And now she has lost interest.  Perhaps I’ll explain to her that either way she is doing the last 40 minutes.  She might as well earn the prize by doing it in time for my deadline.  I mean, really.

I had a weird dream last night.  A teacher who retired from my school last year (one I had very little to do with) repeatedly asked me if I had flavored the roses.  I wasn’t even ready to flavor the roses.  I’m not sure what needs to be done to roses before they can be flavored, but I definitely hadn’t done it.  Then I discover that flavoring the roses means dipping them in chopped nuts.  All righty then.  Maybe this is related to the violet jelly that I’ve convinced myself I’m going to make.  Why did I have to see that particular person in my dream?

Speaking of nuts, the kids at school have been squirrelly.  In fact, a little boy who was serving some recess time (probably for not paying attention, not shutting his trap, and/or not doing any work- because he rarely does), accused me of being mean.  And perhaps he’s right.  But if you never listen to me little boy, why should I listen to you.  The odds are good I’m going to be mean the rest of the week.  I hope I’m better next week.

There a couplet for freaking npm.

ribbons tied around my heart

holding it still when it wants to fly

holding it tight when it would burst

with the wishing

to feel your breath from close of day

to the promise of the sunrise

to hear your voice from shadow to shadow

to know everything there is to know

and then more

your eyes in mine

seeing all that is there

your words, both said and unsaid,

making all creation sing

a thousand notes, a hidden melody

an overture that never ends

npm.  there needs to be a 12 step program for me and my cinquain habit.

When I was a teenage girl

Mousy, but hiding fire

I watched my neighbor

Well-dressed, well-spoken

In a time when a working woman

Was an oddity

She had two sons

She called me Carrie Anne

I never corrected her

One night her oldest son

Turned on the car in the garage

She still called me Carrie Anne

But she wasn’t the same

npm, bluemooncat enormous thing 23. first experience with death (give or take)

and, yes, i pretty much am that too.  so this is what i have.  the end.  too many people this week talking about death.  too many deaths.