Writer's Block Friday

Blah, blah, blah . . .

1. I've been nursing a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper so long this morning, I finally had to go get some ice. What's wrong with me? Usually it takes me no time at all to knock back a Dr. Pepper.
** Bonus points if you can identify one of my favorite movies here.

2. Got my flu shot yesterday . . . among other annual procedures a 40 year old woman must have, not to be discussed in mixed company. It made my arm hurt all day.

3. Daniel got his flu shot today. He took it like a man -- shiny band-aid and Thomas the Train sticker and all. How come I didn't get a shiny band-aid? My industrial looking bandage left a sensitive skin rash on my arm. Why was this shot so much more difficult for me than my two year old? Perhaps you shouldn't answer. I have the feeling words like diva or whiner or wimp might be used, so let's not go there.

4. S'on Jeremy was by last night to pick up his new-to-him car. He looked ever the responsible music teacher driving away.

5. I'm sure you're wondering how my counted cross stitch eyeglass case is coming.

Slug Update

I was zooming past the front flowerbed this morning because I was late -- which is not new or surprising -- when this caught my eye.

Yes, it is poor slug eaten Dahlia making a valiant last minute comeback. And, yes, that is a fall leaf right next to it. I don't think you can see it from the photo, but Dahlia is even going to try and bloom.

Way to rally back, Dahlia! Good for you!

Haiku for Wednesday

I don't think I can really top the poem from yesterday. I hope Brenda will forgive me for posting it. It just really spoke to me right here (pointing to nose). You know what I mean?

So, on my Facebook status today I said I was thinking of writing a ragweed hating haiku and I got these responses.

From Cyberspace Sarah:
Ragweed I hate you
Ragweed fills my head with sludge
I am over you

From my lovely friend Georgia:
Ragweed is pretty
But its looks are deceiving
Sneezing and itching

Allergenic scourge
We're pining for the first freeze
For then you will die

As I'm sure we all are from time to time, I was in a Jack Kerouac mood this summer and was inspired by his desire to burn, burn, burn. I offer this:

Die, die, die, die, die
Ragweed plant allergy scum
Die, die, die, die, die

Little friend Carol J offered to do a limerick. "There once was a ragweed from Dublin," but it seems this is a work in progress.

Sniffle, snort.

A Poem for Tuesday

Friends? (snuffle) Loved ones? (snort) Is dat you? Da change of season is wildy, wary hard on by sinuses. (wheeze) I found dis blog poem dat says it all. Bless Brenda's heart. It's da best poem I've featured all year. (achoo, moan)


Ode to Ragweed blooming season: I hate you
by Brenda Gail

Ragweed and my nose

Oh, ragweed I hate you I hate you I say,

I hate you tomorrow and I hate you today.

You clog up my pores, you clog up my head,

You cause me to hate and you cause me to dread,

You cause me to talk funny when I get out of bed.

Oh, ragweed oh ragweed I hate you I say

I wish, how I wish, you would just go away

You bloom little green blooms that make me so sad

You bloom so profusely It makes me so mad

I close up the house,

I pull down the shades,

But in you creep, into my house, and up into my nose

and into my brain, and the Tylenol just doesn't cut it

and the Sudafed is not to be found, thanks to the methheads,

and my poem does not rhyme anymore,

Oh, ragweed, oh ragweed I wish you would go

Oh, well you will be here until we see snow.

The end

Sinus Evil

Friends and loved ones, I am going to mix myself a lovely fall sudafed/benedryl cocktail and put myself to bed for a little nap while Toddler D takes his. Ah, beautiful fall in Minnesota.

While I'm away, why not ponder this strange little pop culture event from the MTV awards this weekend. Cutie country star Taylor Swift was interrupted by rapper Kanye West who thought Beyonce should have won.

Enjoy this article from People magazine and give yourself a break if you speak out of turn today. At least you didn't do it on cable television.

At least we know we're crazy, right?

The Smell

Having established I am not the best housekeeper, I have been hesitant to tell you about the smell in my kitchen.

I worked with a woman who had a rat chew through her television cord. It was electrocuted and died under her TV. There were those who sighed about her housekeeping, but she was a perfectly fine housekeeper. These things happen, but people will judge.

So, anyway, there was an unidentified smell in my kitchen. We just couldn't pinpoint it. We sniffed around. I cleaned out cupboards. Nothing. I would have said it smelled a little like lunch meat. Colin came home from school (which is going just fine so far, thank you for asking) and said, "Why does it smell like ham?"

Well, that was that. I started ripping things apart again and came across a perfectly innocent head of garlic which was a little softer than it should have been. It looked normal. It wasn't oozing or emitting a green cartoon like cloud of stink, but if you got really close, there it was. Lunch meat. I threw it and waved around the Lysol and lit candles.

I hope that was it. You may never know. I may not admit if it wasn't.

It's me, isn't it?

Do you remember a few months ago when Patty from Pennsylvania suggested not everyone understood what I was talking about? I am too lazy to find the link. You'll have to trust me. I agreed and then didn't think too much about it.

I'm starting to now.

A couple of weeks ago beloved friend Rita and I had a very confusing conversation about Aunt Flo. You and I shall not go into it now in mixed company. Again, I didn't think too much about this.

On Sunday, I approached little teacher friend Judy with this opener, "So you're back to school this week." And she replied, "Not this year." To which I said, "Oh, are you substituting?" To which she said, "I've had the same teaching job for three years." We went around a couple of more times until it became clear that I meant she was "going back to school" to teach, and she meant she was not "going back to school" herself.

Okay, well, that could have happened to anybody. Then last night I say to my dearest husband of 15 years. My life partner. My soul mate:

I need to buy a button. Seemed simple enough to me.

"What?" He said.
A button.

"A what?"
A button. I need to buy a button.

"Why?
What do you mean? I need to hold up my pants.

"What does that mean?"
What do you mean, "What does that mean?" My button has broken. I need to replace it so my pants will stay up.

"So you need an actual button to hold up your actual pants?"
I . . . yes!!

Friends and loved ones, do I speak so abstractly that even my own husband does not know when I need to do a minor sewing repair job?


Let me make it very clear. That was a rhetorical question.