How does your garden grow?

We always go grocery shopping on Fridays, because we are People of Habit. Not "habit", as in blogging regularly, but "habit" in a looser sense.
We go to a succession of stores, depending on the weekly advertisements. We visit a few stores so that Tim can do his shopping, and use his vast selection of coupons. Sometimes he lets me push the cart.
Other times, like this week, I simply sip my Starbuck's and gaze adoringly at him while he does all the work. It is my job to look nice and keep him company.
So, there we were in the meat isle (meat market?)
An elderly lady with a mischevious smile approached me and said,
"My dear, I learned something forty years ago:
There are tulips in the garden and
there are tulips in the park
but the tulips that I like
are the two lips in the dark!"
She sagely patted my arm and moved slowly away. I stood there watching her leave while I laughed out loud. Tim glanced 'round from his steaks to ask, "Did you make a new friend?"
I said, "Yes, I suppose I did. She must have noticed something about the way I look at you." And I told him her little rhyme.
It must be true what they say, that wisdom comes with age, because that lady was right on. Tulips are fantastic!

Vampire Needed

I've decided that the reason my liver is inadequate relates to an inefficient transportation system within my veins. I did not come to this alarming conclusion all on my own.
Rather, I did, but not entirely without provocation.
The provocation arrived in the person of a very kind nurse.
This nurse was presented with the daunting task of obtaining a blood sample from the arm of yours truly. Any time I must face a medical professional who has not yet drawn my blood, I feel compelled to open with a brief caveat. It goes like this, "Please be prepared for a challenge,as I have no discernible veins. You have three tries, and then you're done."
They always smile and nod in a patronizing way. It's very predictable.
This nice nurse lady first poked about at the center of my inner elbow with a finger. Apparently most people have a vein there. Oddly enough, I do not. She then ventured to the outer reaches of that area where she developed enough confidence to want to attempt to actually sink a needle there. It didn't work. She did not, however, remove the needle. Convinced that she was near, this fine lady began to twist and maneuver until hitting a rather sensitive nerve. I was nerved, she was un-nerved. I would rather have been her.
She decided that more caution may be in order, so we worked together at a tourniquet/flexing exercise designed to plump up my feeble lines. She dug in her bag for a tiny little baby-sized needle, which she called a butterfly. I think this was to make it sound harmless. Fortunately, this little poker had far less of a bite. It also was no more successful than the first go-round. I was thrilled with the lack of agonizing pain, and so was more inclined to feel optimistic.
Sweet nursing lady was having a bad day. She seemed to feel that this inability to drill sucessfully for blood, when blood ought to be so plentiful, was indicative of some shortcoming on her part. I was not overly worried about it, as this sort of thing has happened to me on more than one occasion. It's awfully fun.
So, the "third time is a charm," as they always say.
They are wrong. Why do they say things like that?
The third time involved another grown-up sized needle, and elusive veins. I called it quits, and the disappointed lady admitted defeat.
She told me that in 10 years of drawing blood, she had never failed. In fact, she had never ever come across veins that she couldn't...well...come across. I am a freak of nature.
You know what's funny? I cut myself shaving in the shower this morning, and bled like an amputee. I should have called the nurse.

Dead on a Wednesday

My BFFs went to a graveyard tonight, without me.

Which reminds me of something funny my Mother said.

Mother is an effervescent communicator. She is always so enthusiastic about a subject change. Mother lit up and leaned in, and said, "Do you know who is buried in the Saratoga Cemetery?" When Mother has a tid-bit like that, she looks all amazed, with big eyes.

Faline and I looked at each other, and said "no."

"Jack Brown!" She authoritTIVELY ANNOUNCED. ( I was gonna erase the 'caps lock' there, but it actually seemed accurate.)

Faline and I glanced between ourselves with a hint of bewilderment, and came up empty.

Mother sought to enlighten us, "He was a black man from the Civil War.... Actually, he wasn't buried there, it was his wife and children."

I have no idea how she knows that, nor why she sought to educated us with this random bit of knowledge.

Neither have I any particular idea why my friends are in the graveyard tonight. Although, I am glad they are not dead. I actually thought they might die, all at once, which I would find very inconsiderate.

My BFFs are all off to the East Coast on a Girl's Only trip. I love these women from the depths of my being; it's a sisterhood. Yet, I decided to stay behind with my husband. He and I are determined not to spend a night apart, except under the most horrific circumstances. It's a hard thing to be away from my friends, and a part of me is dying not to be there.

But I wouldn't change my decision, even if I could. I'm with Tim.

I still feel like a chunk of my heart is off with the girls.....You know, in the cemetery, dying, and entirely deprived of wine.

In which I extol the wonders of coffee, again

I'm on my third cup of coffee, already, and I haven't even gotten out of bed yet. If I were Empress of the World, I would make every day Saturday so that All people could enjoy this luxury. Tim brought me my first cup at 9. He refilled my cup after he put the bacon on to sizzle. He brought me a third before he began his voluntary role as Saturday Short-order Cook.
I've smiled and sipped and thought and prayed and read. Now I'm blogging. Soon, I should get up. No doubt my breakfast will be ready by then, made to order. Hate me.

If I were Empress of the World, I'm pretty sure I would not be any more spoiled than I am right now. Although, my clothing allowance might be more. It might not.

Truly, I have nothing much to say, beyond how fantastic coffee and Tim are.

Bottoms Up

Coffee matters to me more than is perhaps entirely healthy. We've previously discussed my delight in the fruit of the vine. I am a celebrant of all things beverage. You'd suppose such as I would be well-hydrated and possibly slim.

Today I made a lovely concoction for myself; a vigin Cape Cod. This amounted to Cranberry juice with crushed ice and a cocktail umbrella. The real adult beverage has a bit of Vodka thrown in. I am, as you know, exploring ways to add more creativity to my beverage opptions, while keeping the alcohol content to a minimum. The virgin Cape Cod was too sweet. Not that that stopped me.

I find that alcohol is not really something that I crave. What I want is the specialness of a drink. I got straws at the dollar store that have those paper parasols right on them, and those help. I also found plastic stir-sticks shaped like pink flamingos, and those help too. I found that anything blended with ice lifts my spirits. Chosing the right glass is fun; anything tastes better in crystal.

Kara came over for lunch today, and we ate in the dining room with china and candles and music. It was lovely. She had a real Cape Cod, and seemed tickled that there was an umbrella on her straw. She talks about football even at a ladies luncheon. She is entirely obsessed with BSU football. But she's also fond of my cooking, so that enthusiasm covers a multitude of sins.

But we were talking about drinks.

Which makes me thirsty.

Boo

I think that Halloween is macabre and quite demented.

We were in the grocery store today, and I was watching Tim do all the grocery shopping for the week with his list and his coupons. Love that man. I was admiring all the fresh produce, and also Tim's legs. This time of year is such a celebration of harvest. I'm all for pumpkins and squash and apples, and the like. I'm all for Tim's legs, too, if you want to know the truth.

On the way to the store, there was an add for one of those corn maze things. They were announcing that the local corn maze and haunted outbuildings had people screaming in terror. This was designed to woo the general public into an enthusiastic visit. It was apparently working, as the children in our car were all ready to sign up. How is that a good thing? Is that supposed to make me load up the kiddos in the SUV, and dash on out for a night of fright? If fear is the goal, I can just serve the kids cooked spinach, and make them scrub toilets. I guarantee there will be screams of terror. And my way is cheaper.

Who designed a holiday around death and fear? Have you thought this through? There are skeletons and gravestones and occult activity, punctuated with lots of candy. It's weird, is what it is.

I love costumes. Have you seen my closet? Many of my normal clothes are quite costume-ish. I own a full-length black velvet cape which I wear in public, for goodness sake. I'm pro-costume. Last year, Tim and I were Caesar and Cleopatra for Patti's 40th birthday party. Can't we have a holiday about life and joy and candy, with costumes?

Having faced my share of death and fear, I simply wonder at the cultural hoopla over Halloween. It's so convoluted.

We practice it now, though. I didn't for years. While my boys were little, we developed our own weird traditions. We'd use no electricity on Halloween, and we'd light all the candles. Then, we'd surreptitiously peek out the windows at the neighborhood children. It was fun.
Tim has always taken his kids trick-or-treating, so once we got together, my boys got to go too. Because that's how committed I am to my conviction.

This year, being the mom of 4, it is my responsibility to outfit these kids. Faline is going to be a gypsy. Aaron is the grim reaper (!?), and Michael and Don are going as "Flowseidon" (like Poseidon, only the god of Lacrosse). I am channeling Minnie Mouse this year, because I found the cutest polka dot shirt, short skirt, and really trampy red patent leather stilettos at the thrift store. I was trying to get Tim in suede fringe and denim to let his inner cowboy fly, but he wasn't embracing the "Brokeback Mountain" vibe. He'll come up with some kind of costume, though. You'll see.

Life, joy, candy, and costumes. Let's do Halloween my way this year.