wahoo! 'tis the original...

folks, this was my original online aol journal; however, my current journal can be found at: http://debrasdose.blogspot.com/

thanks!

warm snugglies on a cold and dreary

The past few days, I've been in constant discomfort...which did not actually become pain until last night.  But when it hurt, it hurt lots and I cried.  sniff, whimper.

So this morning, I called the trusty CRNP's office to see if they had an available appointment for me.  They did, I drove in, and I attempted the range of motion test.  The pain in my tail-bone is radiating down my legs and shoots into my ankles.  EEeeeek.  I felt wimpy for sniveling so, over what is surely a common complaint.

Turns out, it probably isn't so common.  My CRNP chided me for not coming in earlier.  She thinks it sounds like arthritis, especially since I used to do construction and then there's the fact that I am terribly klutzy.

Also, she said that most of the folks with achy joints have been in to see her this week.  It's the weather.  Dreary, cold, damp...

So, I changed into my cuddly pjs, brewed some tea, and am about to settle into my comfy chair to read some (or maybe watch a movie that a friend taped for me).  My tea mug is a tan colored bear with glasses, holding a book.  It's my snuggle-mug.  sigh.  grins.

Killing me softly...

Scalzi's Weekend Assignment #45: It's karaoke time. Pick a song to sing and explain why you chose it. Note that not everyone sings the song you expect them to sing: I remember being at a karaoke bar one time and watching a six-foot bald guy with a gravelly voice and a tattoo on his neck sing Olivia Newton John's "Have You Never Been Mellow?" And it was brilliant. So by all means, reach for the stars here. This isn't American Idol.

When I lived in Colorado, was 29, and drank enough to have an inflated opinion of myself; there was a local bar I was traipse into and do karaoke with a woman I met there.  We'd do Sinead O'Connor's (Prince wrote it for her) "Nothing Compares".  Every now and then, I would get up and sing something else, by myself.  But I cannot remember much from those days.  Ahem.

So, I'm 34 now.  Haven't participated in a karaoke evening since.  Unless you count my singing along with the radio in the car or accupelo in the shower.  But in the public sense, I have not sung since.

If I were to do so now, I think I'd pick Roberta Flack's "Killing Me Softly" to karaoke.  When I was a little girl, my mother and I used to sing this song together as we drove along the interstate, going to where ever we were heading that weekend.  Now that I am older, I can feel the song.  It's beautiful, haunting, touching, and vivid.

Killing Me Softly With His Song
Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style.
And so I came to see him to listen for a while.
And there he was this young boy, a stranger to my eyes.

Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

I felt all flushed with fever, embarrassed by the crowd,
I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud.
I prayed that he would finish but he just kept right on ...

Strumming my pain withhis fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

He sang as if he knew me in all my dark despair.
And then he looked right through me as if I wasn't there.
But he just came to singing, singing clear and strong.

Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

He was strumming, oh, he was singing my song.
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...
With his song ...

Getting settled

Yesterday, I had a good day.  I did some errands and spent most of the day with a dear friend, catching up on things.  When I got home last night, nausea hit me like a ton of bricks.  I was putting up the groceries but I realized that the propane should not be obvious.  I checked my heater, my pilots on the stove and oven, and I really couldn't find anything wrong.

When I woke this morning, the house was filled with fumes and the stench was awful.  My mind was terribly muddled but I checked the heater.  It had gone out, so I just assumed that the gas had been leaking out instead of burning.

When I got home today, I just about gagged.  This time, I checked the tank out back.  I had absolutely no gas that was gaugable.

So, I called the company.  They have caller ID.  They recognized my name, because every time I've dealt with their office, it's been because they have displeased me in a major way (like failure to deliver, incorrect billing, etc.).

I try to be polite.  So, I said that the last time I called for gas, they had told me that the driver would check automatically on his route, if my gauge was low.  So, since it seemed to irritate them for me to call to let them know I needed gas, I tried to just let them do their job.  Like they informed me they would do.  So, should I call them when my tank gets between 30-40% (which is what they wanted me to do before) or should I wait for them to auto check (which is what they told me last time I called to tell them I needed gas)?

She assured me that they would send a driver right away.  See, I originally had them years ago, for about a year.  Then they really upset me.  So I changed companies.

Then that company I changed to bought the one out that I changed from.  So now the one I had left is mine again and this time there is not an alternative company to go to.  EXCEPT, I do have contact with the home office because sometimes, that's the way it goes.

I've been giving the merger time to adjust.  Give that company time to get the local office in shape.  Give them time to get settled.

In the meantime, I am getting settled myself.  Back home.  Back into routine.  Developing some new ones.  keep on keeping on.

pruning

Earlier today, I went through my journal and cut some entries that were focused on things no longer germaine to my current situations. So it may appear as though there are gaps in which I have not delivered a daily dose. Most days, however, I do write, even if it is not something profound.
I believe that the past does affect me, making me into the person I am today. The past helps to shape me into the person I will be tomorrow. But periodically, I feel the urge to purge, allowing myself to focus on other things. Focusing on the present and the future has merits, I believe.

Party faux pas

That rascalee guy, John Scalzi, has called for this:  Weekend Assignment #44: Recollect for all a humorous story of a party gone wrong. Well, back in the days of undergrad school, my roommates and I had a spectacular idea.  Once or twice a semester, we would host a semi-casual party-dinner.  This gave us all a chance to take a break from the samo samo grungee days and wear.  We all had those nice outfits that were too dressy to be worn to class, to a bar, or even out for a dinner.  So, we decided to give our place and friends a little pizzazz and spice up the semester, too.

The way it worked was like this:  there were three of us; so one would do the hor d'ourves or salad or antipasto, another would do the appropriate entre, and the third would whip up some fabulously decadent dessert.  We would ask that everyone bring whatever they wanted to drink.  Usually, most folks would leave the open bottle and it would join our stock for the next party.

It was a great way to have fun, meet some new folks, and not get too crazy.  We thought we were mature and tasteful.  Most of the time, I think, we were.

But, our last semester together was very odd.  Nothing went right.  Sometimes that was ok, because it was more fun.  Our oldest roomie was graduating and we were very sad to see her go.  The following semester, the other roomie would graduate.  I was the youngest and the last to graduate.  But that was to be our last semester together, and the last semester any of us would be in that rickety apartment.  So it was with bitter-sweetness that we hosted our last gala.

First off, one guest arrived way way too early.  I answered the door while still flossing my teeth.  It turned out that he was the secret heartthrob of one of my roomies.  She was mortified when she came into the livingroom, heading to the bedroom, still wrapped in her mickey mouse robe with matching slippers.  Our third roomie had her head on straight and was presentable, so she took over and lead him out to the kitchen so we could scurry into the bedroom and finish preparing ourselves.

There is a reason I do NOT wear white.  Especially white skirts or pants.  But, my ex-boyfriend had given me this really cute denim mini-skirt that was white.  I'd finally lost enough weight to wear it well, and I did not want to pass up the opportunity to wear it.  So, there I am looking all cute and all curvee in my pink satin shell and white mini; hair all punked up and dangly earrings.

There had been a major miscommunication about the dinner duties.  I made the salad.  But no body made the entre.  We had two really wonderful desserts with lots of creamy chocolate.  Most everyone was having a great time, anyway.  We ordered a sub up so there was some actual food to munch on.

Someone had found a great radio station and there was a little dancing.  I met some very funny folks that were making me laugh non-stop (glad I flossed, cuz the ole pearlees were visible all the way back to the tonsils).  I was afraid to indulge in the desserts until after everyone left and I was outta my delicately hued outfit.

THAT'S why I had the jelly-bean in my mouth.  It was black, cuz I love licorice.  I had thought I was safe, though.  WRONG!!

Just as I was about to swallow the chewed-up black juicee mess, I laughed in response to the Funny Folks mentioned earlier.  I bent slightly and turned away, but there was another group of people right behind me and I was by this time laughing at the situation and trying not to choke, so instead I was hurking in this so unattractive way.

Tears were streaming down my red face, as I thought, "I am gonna die laughing" and laughed even harder.  Well, the worst part was that all the attention was now focused on me and I am not graceful by any means.  Let alone, when I am spazzing from hysterical guffaws.

My roommate grabbed ahold of my hand that was over my lower face, and pulled it away.  She looked shocked.  The other roommate gasped and grabbed some napkins from the table and rushed over, screaming, "tilt your head back!" at me.

I did.  But, while they thought my nose was bleeding and that I was choking from that....THIS IS GROSS:  I actually had passed the black jelly-bean thru my nose.  eeeeeeewwwww.  But at the time, all I could think was, 'omg, this feels so George Carlinesque'.

Later, I realized that I sprayed black juice all over myself, my pink satin shell, my white mine, and a bit of the nearby wall.  I might have even gotten some innocent bystanders involved.  That was our last party.

It would have been the last, anyway. I liketo tell myself that. 

Flags for the masses

is the focus for John M. Scalzi's weekend writing assignment #43: Congratulations, you've become your own soverign state! Design a flag for the United States of You, using no more than three colors and one symbol (the symbol can be of any color). Explain your design choices. Don't worry about actually making the flag -- you can just tell us about it.  Extra credit: make a picture of the flag. Because, let's face it, that's time-intensive.

Ahem, well as egocentric as this is, I have chosen a huge semicircle as the shape of my flag.  It would resemble a "D", doncha think?  grin

The background of the flag would be yellow.  It would symbolize wisdom and intellectual energy.  Bright yellow makes me think of happy, sun-filled warm days.

Slightly in from the yellow border on the verticle flat backbone would be a slash of deep blue, almost indigo.  This would symbolize higher knowledge and introspection.  The slash would be heavier, denser, wider at the top and becoming sparser as it descended (similar to a laden paint-brush stroke, the end of which allows the yellow background to show through, until we see stark yellow with no blue hue at all).

Bowed from the top, almost but not quite meeting the start of the blue slash, would be a lush, vibrant green symbolizing fertile life, growth, and well-being.  This is a lovely color, associated with the heart chakra.  It, too, would fade a bit as it descended in an arch.  The fullness of the rounded frontal portion of the colorful "D" figure within the "D" shaped fabric also shows flexibility and health.

In the center, perhaps a rich red silhouette of a dog's head, would be appropriate.  The color symbolizes action which would balance out the other, loftier thought-oriented chosen hues.  The dog is often associated with noble character and loyalty, serving and protecting those for whom it cares.

Yes, I think that sounds busy, but visualizing it...well, I think that it might be quite nicely representative of the United States of You.  I think we could do with some meditative thought behind our loyal actions, aimed at the well-being of our country.

Pancakes

I love pancakes.  To me, they are as comforting as a quilt.  Some like "pigs in a blanket", sweet fruited ones, plain ole flapjacks, silver dollars, wholesome multigrain ones, and the like.  I like them just about any way I can get them.

 

A few years ago, I was spending quite a bit of time in Memphis.  It was there I discovered the Pancake Shop.  Oh!  I fell deeply, madly in lust.  I feverishly ordered pancakes filled with chocolate chips and served with whipped cream.  The waitress even brought me extra whipped cream when she saw what rapturous delight I was experiencing.  sigh.

So if you are any where close to Memphis, I deplore you...rush to Summer Avenue and indulge yourself.  They have pancakes of every type, for every one, and for a very reasonable price.  I promise, if you like pancakes even a smidge, then you will absolutely love the Pancake Shop.

"The Pancake Shop is heaven-sent for those who work or party late. Why? For starters, this breakfast joint's open 24 hours and there's usually a seat available to get your grub on with neighborhood locals, hungry school kids or the local beat cops. The coffee flows freely and the conversations linger as you prepare your tastebuds for specialties such as the Belgian waffle with fruit toppings, chocolate chip pancakes and the famous Everyday Special: eggs, choice of bacon or sausage, biscuits or toast and hashbrowns. You won't break the bank either to enjoy this hearty food and rich atmosphere. In fact, you could probably dig up enough coins between your couch cushions with prices this low."

Sometimes

my mind is mud-wrestling.  Competing thoughts are roiling, boiling, burbling, and turning.  The ref is no where to be found and the rules are discarded.

The trick here is, not to make it go away, but rather; learning to cope with things as they are.  Experience has shown that if I try to Make It Go Away, then the state of my sanity tends to worsen in very short time.  So much so that I can work myself right in anxiety episodes, the likes of which are not a joy to witness let alone being the panicked person (me).

Sometimes I am deliriously happy and joyful and want to share the wonderful euphoria amongst all of mankind.  We all should feel so gladdened and, well, just great and swell about everyone and everything.  This can be an extremely dangerous time for me, because during phases of mania, my sense of judgement is not the best.

I am still responsible for all my actions and the consequences, but I am particularly vulnerable to what I call "the super syndrome" in which I think "it's ALLLLLLLLLLLL goooooooooooooooood (aahh)".  Impulsive behavior becomes problematic, if I don't keep a close rein on myself.  Therein lies the crux of the matter, for I feel so good that I don't want to be rational.  Actually, sometimes what seems rational during those times can be some of the oddest ideas to be conceived.

Sometimes, in my self-monitoring, I can become obsessive and worry about a pleasant feeling.  Is this happiness ok, or is it an indication of mania and I need to be extra aware and tone it down?  It's times like those that I can talk myself right into being so confused, doubtful, and anxious that I become depressed.

Sometimes, that is what life is like, for me.  It might be similar to what someone you know experiences.  Especially if that person is dealing with bipolar disorder (manic depression).

Bottletree Bakery

Just off the Square in downtown Oxford, sits the wonderful Bottletree Bakery.  I have had their decadent chocolate treats and honey  and cream~cheese danish, but I wanted to actually go inside and taste.  So this morning, my guy took me to the eatery so that I might enjoy the entire Bottletree experience.  And what an experience it was!

The mosiac patterns of bits of embedded glass and tile into the concrete are eyecatching.  The artistic renderings of bottle-trees, the Deep South version, are intriguing.  The rest of the trendy folk-art interior, complete with a flavor for the old, but favoring of the new, works well to complement the entire feel.

I had the sweet, light, Australian ginger scone and the flavor of the day, Mocha Java.  My guy went with the tried and true honey cream danish and Joe.  It all was delicious!  Truly a soothing experience for the soul.

 
The Mississippian author, Ms. Eudora Welty (1909-2001) wrote a short story called "Livvie", which features bottle-trees.  "Then coming around up the path from the deep cut of the Natchez Trace below was a line of bare crape-myrtle trees with every branch of them ending in a colored bottle, green or blue. There was no word that fell from Solomon's lips to say what they were for, but Livvie knew that there could be a spell put in trees, and she was familiar from the time she was born with the way bottle trees kept evil spirits from coming into the house--by luring them inside the colored bottles, where they cannot get out again."  
  
Bottle Tree Brachychiton sterculia

  There really is a "bottle-tree".  Legend has it that this type of bottle tree stores water for drought, kinda like the camel of trees.  In mythical tales, the sly fox stole the key, unlocked the trunk, and the waters gushed forth, drowning the fox but providing all the waters for the lakes, rives, ponds, seas, oceans, and such.
I invite you to poke around the net and see some other beautiful bottle-trees!!

Walking in a winter wonderland...

I grew up in North East Pennsylvania, where the Pocono Mountains reign supreme, the snow drifts were incredible, and snow-days were built into the school-year.  Hence I have many winter tales to tell.  But I gotta pick just one for Weekend Assignment #42.  Mr. Scalzi sez, "Share your favorite story of Winter cold -- preferably (but not necessarily) involving something freezing inconveniently and humorously.  Extra credit: Name a song that reminds you of winter that's not Christmas-themed."

I did not have heat in my bedroom during my high-school years.  So, my bed was covered with layers of quilts and blankets.  I slept in between blankets, rather than use sheets that were bitingly cold.  The thin blankets were still chilly, though.  I wore cuddl duds (or other thermal underwear), socks and long sleeved night shirts that covered my wrists and a good portion of my hands.  I even had a red knit stocking cap with a red and white pom-pom for extremely cold nights when my breath would fog and my ears would ache.

It was not going to bed that I minded, however; it was getting up and ready for school that made me clench my teeth and brace for the cold.  I had developed a routine to help deal with these mornings.  It went something like this:

Hop out of bed at 7:30, dash across the room, turn off the alarm and scoop up the clothes laid out the night before; throw them into the warm nest, vacated only seconds prior, and flip the covers over them to hold what heat there was in to defrost the clothing; dash to the bathroom, perch precariously, splash frigid water on face, washing hands and brushing teeth; return to bed and hop in on top the still-chilly clothes and lay down til my heart beat slowed enough to stop panting and my hands thawed; dress in stages, allowing one portion of me and my clothes to become slightly acclimated before shocking my sensitive skin with the next frigid item; fly down the steps, grabbing my coat on the way; position myself over the kerosene heater, warming my shoes and then my coat before wriggling into them; run down the street to the bus-stop, thus keeping warm, getting my daily exercise, and maintaining that lovely pink-cheeked glow....

I coulda been a contendah (in the winter olympics for decathalon...ok, tricatholon...alright, none of the events).

As far as a song goes, at this time, I can only think of a portion from "The Rose...just remember, in the winter, far beneath the bitter snow, lies a seed that with the sun's love, in the spring, becomes a rose."

Let's start the New Year write with the JMScalzi weekend assignment...

Pet peeves?  Nope.  Well, maybe.  My pet, Shaddow, probably has bunches of peeves about me.  But she doesn't verbalize them.  Much.

Pet resolutions.  I wish that Shaddow would resolve to quit searching for ways to flee the yard and escape into the other 200 acres of farmland.  She always comes home, I know.  But, I worry for all sorts of reasons.  Besides, our yard is ample enough to romp around in.  It's bigger than my living quarters.  And she is smaller than me.  She is, however, more active.  Soooo.....

I bet that she would like for me to be more active with her.  Play with her and spend physical time tussling with her.  So that's my PET resolution.

When I was six...

I would tell myself elaborately long detailed stories that had no beginning and no ending.  Much like life, the various pieces of a story, any story, are like the various uneven lengths of thread woven into some wonderful tapestry.  My stories that I would tell myself, aloud, were like chapters in some unnamed novel.

When I was six, my brother was eight.  We were still each other's playmates but he was faster than I.  He was tougher and rougher than I was.  He was a boy and I was not.

When I was six I was even more sensitive and more clumsy than I am now.  I was a pale, thin, befreckled child with long, long blonde hair and a huge grin.  I loved mommee, but I was daddy's girl.

Weekend Assignment #40:  Celebrate John M. Scalzi's daughter, Athena's 6th birthday by sharing a story from when you were six.

Earlier this year, my parents had taken a trip back up to Pennsylvania.  They visited with the Mennonite family that rented the old farmhouse to us when I was six.  This was outside of York Springs, PA (close in to Gettysburg).  The missus remembers my brother and I as being "spindly children".

What I remember of Elmira and Sandy and their numerous hardy children most was when they would come to cut, bale, and stack the hay.  I was six at that time.  I would try to drag around the hale bales and they would chide me not to hurt myself and so I would perch out of the way and watch everyone else.

Elmira would bring snacks, plastic baggies of sliced green bell peppers.  For years, whenever I had bell peppers, I would think of the Friendly Mennonite Family From the Farm.  I would taste the coolness of the juicy peppers against the dustiness of my throat.  My nose would recall the dry chaff filled air.

When I was six, perched close to the action but safely out of the way, my clothes and hair would fill with bits and pieces of scratchee dry hay.  When I was six, I loved the loud clanking machine that would move the bales up to dump them into the loft.  When I was six, the farm was the best place to be.

When I was six, I was a very happy kid.

OMG, omg, oh my gawd...

Dudes!!
Yippitee-skippitee!!  I made the AOL Personal Finance Pages!!  Wahoo!!  I'm not exactly sure when they rotate off and new folks are featured...but, WOW, I am thrilled to be there now!!
http://pf.channel.aol.com/financetalk
Charity Begins at Home

Homemade Is Best
Debra tells Scalzi to spend his spare change on a special Christmas gift for his wife.  Read Her Advice

WHhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat??!?

TIME cover with Bush as the Person of the Year.


 "The first TIME poll since the election has his approval rating at 49 percent. Gallup has it at 53 percent, which doesn't sound bad unless you consider that it's the lowest December rating for a re-elected President in Gallup's history. That is not a great concern, however, since he has run his last race, and it is not a surprise to a President who tends to measure his progress by the enemies he makes."
 
It's all in how ya look at things...why, I guess that ""measuring progress by the enemies made" method is working; the man has lots of folks who aren't too fond of him.  This latest announcement by Time disappoints me, but does not surprise me.  sigh.

I forgot to say....

hip, hip, HOOOrayyyy

hip, hip, hoooRAAYY

hip, hip, HooRay!!

CONGRATS to my guy...  I am so very proud of you and all you do.  Not only do you work and go to school and have a life, but you do all those things so well.

My guy's 4.0 is a great way to start work on his PhD, doncha think?

Ain't no dummee...

Weekend Assignment #39: Tell us about the toy you had to have for the holidays when you were a kid, only to find out it was kinda disappointing once you had it.

Extra Credit: Tell us the most unrealistic holiday gift request you ever made.

Well, I gotta say when I first looked at the John M. Scalzi Weekend Assignment, I had more than a momentary pause of nothingness.  I thought that I never had one of those whiney kid pining for THE toy that ya just hadta have.  Not me.

Right.

Then I remembered...

One year, I was about 10 or so, all year long I was certain that I wanted to be a ventriloquist.  I just knew that I could learn to throw my voice and that if I had a real dummy, then I could be the funniest kid around and well on my way to breaking into show-business.  Why, it'd be better than joining the circus...which I could do, if I had an act with the dummy.

I yammered on about it endlessly.  If mom or dad was around for long enough, I would yap about how I really wanted a dummy.  I was a child who did not ask for lots of things, and certainly not repeatedly as a habit.  If I asked mom for something, she said "no" or "we'll see".  If you pushed it, then the "we'll see" became, NO.

So, when I talked about the dummy, I had to tread carefully.  I wanted it so badly, so I built a case for having it.  I asked dad if we could make one, in his shop.  I talked with mom about sewing one.  Dummies were not terribly popular, not a fad.  So even looking for them was hard.  Cuz lots of stores just did not have them.

My birthday came in November.  No dummy.  I had resigned myself to the fact that I was not going to get my dummy and I was going to have to make some sock muppets for me.

But what to my unbelieving eyes should appear under the tree for me that christmas eve?  A SIMON SEZ DUMMY!!!  He was hard plastic, with a hinged jaw and a head that turned.  His shirt was yellow with blue "SIMON" and his pants where red.  Love at first sight.

I was so ashamed throughout the following months about how little I actually developed my skills to use the dummy.  I have no idea how much it cost, but I felt that it must have cost lots and there I was, barely using it.  I did not find the dummy to be nearly as life-changing, or thrilling, as I had built it up to be.

I set myself up for a big disappointment.  It made me feel bad that I did not appreciate it as much as I thought I should.  I mean, that was a big treat from my folks.

As for the unrealistic present I've ever asked for...I honestly can't think of one.  I know that I've had unrealistic wishes, but not for any particular present.  I wished I was graceful and strong, could be a gymnast, or ballet dancer, or ice-skater.  I wish I was more energetic and more fit, more lean and tone, less pudgee.

Weekend Writing Assignment to the rescue

By the way...  have ya seen this week's writing assingment, brought to you by that dude, with the bedside laptop...

Weekend Assignment #38: It's the Holidays! Create your own festive Holiday Character and give him, her or it at least one seasonally appropriate magical ability (or use its native traits and skills to save the holiday season).

Khin Khee, the camel cricket, has a very special talent that is absolutely essential to the completion of Santa's mission.  Now you may be familiar with the miners' best friend, the canary.  This fine feathered friend would descend into the pits with the first few miners.  He would be merrily chirping along, letting the men know it was safe to go further.  The canary would stop singing, indeed cease living, if noxious fumes and poisonous gases that are odorless to the human olfactory organs infiltrated is little lungs.  He was the early-warning system of days gone by.

Well, Khin Kee, the camel cricket, is also called a cave cricket.  He likes the dark and can function quite well is those places.  Now, I don't know if YOU'VE ever been in the sorta situation which would necessitate peering up or down a chimney.  I certainly have not.  Nor have I ever managed to get stuck or jump freely down one, let alone ascend to the rooftop.

But Santa, well, he NEEDS to be able to see down, skinny through, do his business, and alight back to the sleigh so that he can go on to the next chimney.  Now of course not all homes have chimneys.  But for those that do, Khin Kee, the camel cricket, has the most important task of preceeding the jolly fat elf down the chimney to give the all-clear signal.

Why, if it weren't for Khin Kee, the camel cricket, who knows in what state of affairs we all would be?

That is why, my friends, the children with chimneys sing with glee, their joy for the Khin Kee, the camel cricket.  You'd've heard of him, before this, I am sure, if there were but more homes with chimneys, galore.

Holiday Traditions, cont'd (and some randomness)

Some of you may remember my mother and me have a traditional cookie baking day, monday after Thanksgiving.  Well, this year, it was the first day of the bizarre Bazaar, so we decided to wait til I join her at the Christmas stay.  A few entries ago, I wrote of some Christmas traditions.

We also have New Year traditions.  Well, I hail from Pennsylvania Deutschland (which sometimes is confused with PA Dutch, sorta similar, but not the same).  In our family, we usually would have the crockpot of sauerkraut and pork, some hotdogs, and a huge pot of mashed potatoes.  Ya gotta have a strong stomach to handle this at midnight.  Especially if you've imbibed in the New Year cheer.

Now, we usually have the meal new year's day.  In the South, folks do up the hog jawls, greens, black eyed peas, and cornbread.  My first New Year in the South was in North Florida, just south of Valdosta, Georgia (where I lived).  I was just getting used to greens, black-eyed peas, and cornbread...but the hog jawls were something new all together for me.  I don't recall my reaction, except I must have had one, cuz the entire family of folks I was visiting was fascinated with me.  That was also the first time I had rutabaga.  THAT is a tought tuber, dude!  Good, but damn! lotsa work...hacking and chopping, I said, dudes, next time, I'm opting for the canned stuff.

I paid all the bills I have so far, and some I don't (but will show up in the mail soon).  I am waiting for the paper reminder for my tag renewal because I made the mistake ONCE of going to get the tags for my car without the paper, and I like to have never gotten outta the office.  Folks working in that office been there since before computers and they don't care much for us newbies that have no people locally.

Now, I got people, it's just they don't live here, in this town, county, state, or even region.  So, instead of telling folks I'm from Pennsylvania, and that's where my people are (actually they aren't, they are scattered to the winds), I just tell folks I'm not from around these heah parts.

It's funny, but friends from up North hear me, think I have a southern accent.  Folks down here know I don't.  There was an ol' man, fixed me with his good-eye gaze, and said that he knew I wadn't from Miz'ippi, I wudn't foolin' him none, girly.  Now, where's my people, anyways?

Holiday Traditions

One year, when I was about 8, my brother was about 10 and we lived in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania.  That Christmas, we decided everything would be homemade.  You could even work on the others' gifts, right up til the final stages; because they couldn't get too nosey.

Even the wrapping paper was homemade.  It was blank newspaper that we drew pictures and made colorful.  All the ornaments that year were handmade, so the tree looked sparse, but it felt right.  We strung popcorn to hang.  We found garland runners under the snow, and mistletoe.  We even cut down our own tree from our woods behind the house.

We never were a family that tore into all our presents and christmas giving was over in 15 minutes.  We would take our time, getting up, stopping to answer the phone, make coffee, hot chocolate, and/or tea, and sometimes even having a break for breakfast or mom's stickee-buns.  Friends would stop by to enjoy Christmas morning with us.

The rule was that before that morning, you could look under the tree, but no touching allowed.  Then either my brother or myself would distribute one gift at a time.  That person would make their best guess.  Sometimes others tried to guess too.  Then after the gift was unwrapped, everyone passed it around and inspected it.

We could make an entire day out of it.  I was always amazed at my friends who were fairly wealthy and would receive so much stuff, and yet always be bored or not seem to value anything.  My gifts, I would carefully arrange under the tree when we were through.  I would usually receive a turtleneck, some socks, some underwear, some books, maybe perfume, and a pocket calendar.  Gifts were practical as well as pretty.  They were always appreciated.