I awoke to lemony sunshine. The day went up and up and up from there. Lemon curd in a tantalizingly appetizing shade of cornmeal yellow. My tongue curled as I squeezed the fresh juice and razed the thick skin against the kitchen plane. My mouth watered as I whisked the butter into the heated mixture which bubbled on my stove top in the late AM hours of the morning. Not only did the rich goodness coat the back of the spatula -- it coated my taste buds in an almost sensory overload of flavor.
The lemon theme continued with the chicken and pasta dish. Home dried tomatoes sauteed in extra virgin olive oil. Thick-sliced chicken breast browned in olive oil and flour after marinading in Italian seasoning for several hours. What a raucous of scent that cooking action rendered unto the willing nose! A delightful lemon-caper sauce married the tart and the vinegar-salty flavors quite nicely. Dessert was a spring-oriented playful display of of color and flavors. I'm reporting here that raspberry sorbet seems to have been made to place in an accepting pool of lemon curd.
But perhaps the most valuable bright spot of the day occurred NOT when the late afternoon sunshine pierced the kitchen windows without benefit of the shades and blinded my dinner guests for a time, but when I realized that this gracious and talented group of women were there not just for themselves but for me. The laughter and intellectual tidbits that we shared were enlightening and positively worth an evening's time. The energy they gave off was anything but evening, however. Their radiance was that of the morning sun which greeted me upon waking this morning come full circle. In an instant, I knew I was in exactly the place I needed to be for this time, this moment, in my life.
How many of you can say that?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Find Your Pretty
Let's not discuss my bedtime, shall we? It's 1:38 in the AM and where am I? Being constructive with my time. Between my brother on the phone and Jeff Bridges in "Crazy Heart" my brain has been overworked and overstimulated. Let's put it to good use . . . or nod off trying.
Train yourself to notice the pretty of the everyday. It's a skill. And, it's the gift that will yield returns on any given Sunday, Monday, Tuesday . . . you get my drift, yeah?
My neighbor often remarks on how, in the midst of an intense conversation, I will insert a delighted observation on the movement of the clouds against the tree tops or note the singular bloom on a clematis vine or exclaim at the sight of a perfect specimen tree tucked in the corner of one house or another. She says I tend to notice things most other people walk right on by.
I say that even when advancing along at a speedy clip, there is a need to pay homage to the microcosms in the midst of our vast personal universes of need and goings-on. We are not complete without the elements within our settings. They manage to both set our stage and exist regardless of whether we are there or not. I don't mean to beat you into submission with existentialism or some such philosophical bent. Merely, I point out that it is as rewarding to notice what's outside the box of Y-O-U as it is for what's in the box of Y-O-U to be noticed.
I noticed the pretty action of my teen daughter this afternoon. After her second bout of practice for dance team try-outs at her high school, she called to say she and her friends would continue further rehearsing at another house where the bonus room was larger. I was bummed because I'd rinsed and cut two healthy trays of fruit and veggies, plus picked up Sun Chips and Vitamin Waters, for the girls to enjoy before they practiced for a second time at OUR house. But, I recovered and fed the fruit to my men and prepared to pack away the vegetables for another time. Suddenly, a herd of wanna-be-dancers floods the kitchen. My girl wanted to honor my efforts. She and her friends did a bang-up job of that before leaving for their hours of step memorization.
Today, I absorbed the pretty of the serenely tall and beautifully blue first iris in my perennial bed . . . and the compassionate sacrifice of time by my growing-up girl.
Find your pretty and look it over today.
Train yourself to notice the pretty of the everyday. It's a skill. And, it's the gift that will yield returns on any given Sunday, Monday, Tuesday . . . you get my drift, yeah?
My neighbor often remarks on how, in the midst of an intense conversation, I will insert a delighted observation on the movement of the clouds against the tree tops or note the singular bloom on a clematis vine or exclaim at the sight of a perfect specimen tree tucked in the corner of one house or another. She says I tend to notice things most other people walk right on by.
I say that even when advancing along at a speedy clip, there is a need to pay homage to the microcosms in the midst of our vast personal universes of need and goings-on. We are not complete without the elements within our settings. They manage to both set our stage and exist regardless of whether we are there or not. I don't mean to beat you into submission with existentialism or some such philosophical bent. Merely, I point out that it is as rewarding to notice what's outside the box of Y-O-U as it is for what's in the box of Y-O-U to be noticed.
I noticed the pretty action of my teen daughter this afternoon. After her second bout of practice for dance team try-outs at her high school, she called to say she and her friends would continue further rehearsing at another house where the bonus room was larger. I was bummed because I'd rinsed and cut two healthy trays of fruit and veggies, plus picked up Sun Chips and Vitamin Waters, for the girls to enjoy before they practiced for a second time at OUR house. But, I recovered and fed the fruit to my men and prepared to pack away the vegetables for another time. Suddenly, a herd of wanna-be-dancers floods the kitchen. My girl wanted to honor my efforts. She and her friends did a bang-up job of that before leaving for their hours of step memorization.
Today, I absorbed the pretty of the serenely tall and beautifully blue first iris in my perennial bed . . . and the compassionate sacrifice of time by my growing-up girl.
Find your pretty and look it over today.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
My Left Foot
I should be in bed. But that's largely the case every night if you check the time at which I choose to write these things. I have no defense. Except that insomnia, to varying degrees, runs in my immediate family of mother and close siblings. Might as well make the very best of a trying situation.
Back in November of last year, I cut my hair from long to a mid-length. A significant change for a woman's coiffure. Especially as the years advance and things like hair and nails tend to regenerate at a slower pace -- unless the hair is found in the nose and ears and the nail is a hangnail!
Well, then restlessness seemingly kicked in this past month and I found myself once again in the black chair in front of the mirror with Vickie, my hair gal, leaning over me with spray bottle and thinning scissors. Though I narrowly averted bald (been there, done that at 30), I did walk away looking more like Julia Roberts in 'Hook' than Julia Roberts in 'Steel Magnolias.' (Really, our narrow doppelganger issue has resolved itself in the last decade as we've steered our bodily ships in opposite directions.)
What you may not know is the REAL reason behind the cut. Drum roll-l-l . . . I had to sell the danged tresses to afford new shoes for this growing lug of a boy we affectionately call our son! I mean come on, folks! His Christmas tennies are pushing against his toes because the 9 1/2 length which knocked me off the Ski Foot Podium (finally!) in December has transmogrified into near 11's this month! Even my super-sized left foot is a distant second to my 14 year-old's suddenly unchecked growth spurt.
After three stores and growing drama over the merits of 10 1/2 versus 11 (while the larger size will crease the leather toebox over time, the smaller size guarantees we'll be back in a month for more!), we selected a matte black leather pair of Nike something-special-or-anothers for $69.00 before the 20% coupon. He put up $35 of his own lawn mowing earnings toward the investment. We thanked the guy who added his own 2 cents per the pros and cons of fitting and style and such. And, we headed home in amazement that it hadn't taken longer or cost more or created a significant rift between parent and child.
My two girls went through a phase where they desperately wished their feet would grow and outstrip my planks. Fortunately, their prayers went unanswered. As Garth Brooks said, one of God's greatest gifts -- especially in this instance. I promise you my boy wishes his tootsies would stop inching forward as surely as my checkbook protests the constant ka-ching! that coincides with the ominous phrase, "Uh, mom? Come feel my toe in these shoes?" which seems to occur every other payday! "Didn't we just GET you these a month ago?" I invariably groan as I realize he's not just conning me or trying to wrangle a cooler pair of Nikes out of us. One of the very few times I wish he was lying to me. Grrr.
I think my mother put it best tonight when she posted this comment on my Facebook status per all this fancy footwork: Growing waits for NO wallet. The truth really hurts. And by the way, I need new shoes.
Back in November of last year, I cut my hair from long to a mid-length. A significant change for a woman's coiffure. Especially as the years advance and things like hair and nails tend to regenerate at a slower pace -- unless the hair is found in the nose and ears and the nail is a hangnail!
Well, then restlessness seemingly kicked in this past month and I found myself once again in the black chair in front of the mirror with Vickie, my hair gal, leaning over me with spray bottle and thinning scissors. Though I narrowly averted bald (been there, done that at 30), I did walk away looking more like Julia Roberts in 'Hook' than Julia Roberts in 'Steel Magnolias.' (Really, our narrow doppelganger issue has resolved itself in the last decade as we've steered our bodily ships in opposite directions.)
What you may not know is the REAL reason behind the cut. Drum roll-l-l . . . I had to sell the danged tresses to afford new shoes for this growing lug of a boy we affectionately call our son! I mean come on, folks! His Christmas tennies are pushing against his toes because the 9 1/2 length which knocked me off the Ski Foot Podium (finally!) in December has transmogrified into near 11's this month! Even my super-sized left foot is a distant second to my 14 year-old's suddenly unchecked growth spurt.
After three stores and growing drama over the merits of 10 1/2 versus 11 (while the larger size will crease the leather toebox over time, the smaller size guarantees we'll be back in a month for more!), we selected a matte black leather pair of Nike something-special-or-anothers for $69.00 before the 20% coupon. He put up $35 of his own lawn mowing earnings toward the investment. We thanked the guy who added his own 2 cents per the pros and cons of fitting and style and such. And, we headed home in amazement that it hadn't taken longer or cost more or created a significant rift between parent and child.
My two girls went through a phase where they desperately wished their feet would grow and outstrip my planks. Fortunately, their prayers went unanswered. As Garth Brooks said, one of God's greatest gifts -- especially in this instance. I promise you my boy wishes his tootsies would stop inching forward as surely as my checkbook protests the constant ka-ching! that coincides with the ominous phrase, "Uh, mom? Come feel my toe in these shoes?" which seems to occur every other payday! "Didn't we just GET you these a month ago?" I invariably groan as I realize he's not just conning me or trying to wrangle a cooler pair of Nikes out of us. One of the very few times I wish he was lying to me. Grrr.
I think my mother put it best tonight when she posted this comment on my Facebook status per all this fancy footwork: Growing waits for NO wallet. The truth really hurts. And by the way, I need new shoes.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Standing In The Grocery Line
It's a quick dinner tonight. In my bag is a jar of spaghetti sauce, garlic bread, and bagged salad. All of it on sale. The pasta and pre-cooked burger awaits me at home. $8.18 to feed six people. Not bad. I can roll quite pleased with myself on that and even overlook the white bread because the pasta is whole grain and the meat is grass fed.
From the slick cover of PEOPLE magazine, J'Lo sits prettily, her uber bronzed skin glowing, her hair and face gleaming as only a true Hollywood beauty can radiate. The headline proclaims the secret to her best in-shape body ever is just inside the pulp pages of this ubiquitous pop culture rag.
While I stand in the self check-out line at the Kroger on Memorial Street, holding my core in, irritatingly aware of the extra parts of Savannah my hips and mid-section have smuggled back from Savannah and it's 'Back In The Day Bakery' counter, I ponder her secret for about a millionth of a millisecond.
Girl, please!
Air brushing. Personal trainer. The best dental work money can buy. Hair extensions if needed. I must say her flawless skin appears to be a work of heredity and heritage -- more power to her. My heredity includes a map of spider veins and pot holes of cellulite. Any spare change I possess will not be lining the coffers of cosmetic surgeons and aestheticians. Natural beauty I most definitely have, but it's quickly rubbing up against natural ageing, too. I do push-ups over push-up bras. J-Lo appears to have more to push-up these days while I have ventured deeply into the opposite direction. C'est la vie.
The only secret here is the mystery of why anyone would read this stuff and liken it to their own lives or expect that they could possibly be close to that popstar image in reality with all the money and time we don't have?! It's not escapism. It's waste-ism.
Nothing against you, Jennifer Lopez. I rather like you and your booty, too. (I got me one of those, for sure!)
From the slick cover of PEOPLE magazine, J'Lo sits prettily, her uber bronzed skin glowing, her hair and face gleaming as only a true Hollywood beauty can radiate. The headline proclaims the secret to her best in-shape body ever is just inside the pulp pages of this ubiquitous pop culture rag.
While I stand in the self check-out line at the Kroger on Memorial Street, holding my core in, irritatingly aware of the extra parts of Savannah my hips and mid-section have smuggled back from Savannah and it's 'Back In The Day Bakery' counter, I ponder her secret for about a millionth of a millisecond.
Girl, please!
Air brushing. Personal trainer. The best dental work money can buy. Hair extensions if needed. I must say her flawless skin appears to be a work of heredity and heritage -- more power to her. My heredity includes a map of spider veins and pot holes of cellulite. Any spare change I possess will not be lining the coffers of cosmetic surgeons and aestheticians. Natural beauty I most definitely have, but it's quickly rubbing up against natural ageing, too. I do push-ups over push-up bras. J-Lo appears to have more to push-up these days while I have ventured deeply into the opposite direction. C'est la vie.
The only secret here is the mystery of why anyone would read this stuff and liken it to their own lives or expect that they could possibly be close to that popstar image in reality with all the money and time we don't have?! It's not escapism. It's waste-ism.
Nothing against you, Jennifer Lopez. I rather like you and your booty, too. (I got me one of those, for sure!)
Sunday, April 25, 2010
What Did I Miss?
Wednesday last I embarked upon a girls' trip to Savannah, Georgia with a few close friends.
There's four in our non-club. We swell the ranks on occasion with any combination of eldest daughters had by three of us. We call ourselves Earth Divas. I'm the junior member and relative newcomer as the other three have known one another for years upon years. But as a collective, our association began well over a year ago. As we wade ever deeper into year two, the common bond which links our very individual personalities continues to strengthen.
I'm fairly certain that Godly bond is a straightforward combination of food and laughter and a desire to care for our families while expressing ourselves through the passions which drive our talents. When one of us forgets we are talented or tires of the foot race in this life, the others rally with a proactive persuasion which cannot be denied or ignored.
Today I returned home after five days gone. Two on the road. Three fully engrossed with my ladies. I haven't laughed so long and hard in years. Sustained, ear-wrenching (don't ask) gut-busters which left us crying for more. We walked and we talked. There was touring and coffee pouring. You know about the food. Some of us slept. Some of us slept and uttered fascinating guttural exhalations. Some of us sneezed like wolves. A couple of us were renamed. We played our low key version of mah-jongg. And, there were pictures to upload and Facebook statuses to update and comments to be made.
No TV. No radio. No news. Limited telephone.
A killer tornado took 30 lives in parts of Mississippi and other areas. The validity of pot for profit was written up in The Wall Street Journal. 4th brother, John, is again in his local news because two people quit their positions under his leadership. My husband and son rearranged the living room furniture. The dog either put on a few pounds or is experiencing sympathy bloat with me. And, the first hydrangea blooms are opening after the heavy rains yesterday.
I missed all that. But I didn't actually MISS it.
Because I discovered I throw back my head when I laugh.
There's four in our non-club. We swell the ranks on occasion with any combination of eldest daughters had by three of us. We call ourselves Earth Divas. I'm the junior member and relative newcomer as the other three have known one another for years upon years. But as a collective, our association began well over a year ago. As we wade ever deeper into year two, the common bond which links our very individual personalities continues to strengthen.
I'm fairly certain that Godly bond is a straightforward combination of food and laughter and a desire to care for our families while expressing ourselves through the passions which drive our talents. When one of us forgets we are talented or tires of the foot race in this life, the others rally with a proactive persuasion which cannot be denied or ignored.
Today I returned home after five days gone. Two on the road. Three fully engrossed with my ladies. I haven't laughed so long and hard in years. Sustained, ear-wrenching (don't ask) gut-busters which left us crying for more. We walked and we talked. There was touring and coffee pouring. You know about the food. Some of us slept. Some of us slept and uttered fascinating guttural exhalations. Some of us sneezed like wolves. A couple of us were renamed. We played our low key version of mah-jongg. And, there were pictures to upload and Facebook statuses to update and comments to be made.
No TV. No radio. No news. Limited telephone.
A killer tornado took 30 lives in parts of Mississippi and other areas. The validity of pot for profit was written up in The Wall Street Journal. 4th brother, John, is again in his local news because two people quit their positions under his leadership. My husband and son rearranged the living room furniture. The dog either put on a few pounds or is experiencing sympathy bloat with me. And, the first hydrangea blooms are opening after the heavy rains yesterday.
I missed all that. But I didn't actually MISS it.
Because I discovered I throw back my head when I laugh.
Smokin' In The Girls Room
I had to get on Melissa for coughing in the restroom. The rest of us ED's (an unfortunate coincidence of initials) were hanging in the kitchen sitting area of Lizzie's compact college-student apartment. It's actually the bottom half of an older home on a noisy street here in Savannah. Quite close to historic downtown with it's quaint city squares and the spread out campus buildings of SCAD. I scolded her for smoking and asked if she needed a lozenge. Visions of her small hands waving about in a vain attempt to disperse wisps of tobacco-infused air danced in my head. But of course she doesn't smoke and, of course, I was simply harassing her for fun. Her throat is simply dry and a bit scratchy from a combination of weather and almost unending chit-chat between all of us. Four ladies over the age of 40 caught in endless chit-chat? Do go on. But, our chit is the chat which temporarily solves the problems of the world.
Lest you think Savannah is all food and no substance (though food is a highly significant substance), we tried to attend the Sidewalk Art Festival and contest at City Park but the rains hit and dampened the palettes considerably. Not our fault we were relegated to a morning of cinnamon buns -- oh my! -- and people watching at ye faithful local bakery. Little old ladies with full bladders emerging from gigantic tour busses barely able to safely clear a corner make for high times. All of us found it a bit surprising that no one purchased from the array of sweets at the counter. Evidently, the brownie sample filled their bellies or they'd recently hit a buffet elsewhere.
After a brief rest back at headquarters, checking laptops, our own bladders and that of Winslow the puppy, we agreed that our exhausting morning schedule had encouraged another round of hunger in our poor deprived bellies. So, it was off to burgers at a joint where local street names are used to label their beefy sandwiches. I rounded out my protein needs with bacon, cheddar cheese, and a fried egg atop mine. This supplied me with the energy needed to walk the three blocks, replete with constant camera-ing of quirky this n' thats, to the Wright Square Cafe and chocolatier shoppe. While the girls perused the pre-packaged offerings, my attention was fully focused on the in-house handmade selection of truffles, many with real concentrated fruit puree. I contributed generously to the local economy here for stunning little jewels to be divided amongst us at a later date. You'll need a picture. Passionfruit, fig, port, tobacco, lemon. You name it. I selected it.
The drive to the river waterfront only served to further exhaust us. You simply can't imagine the expenditure of effort with five women trying to find an adequate parking spot for one car on a tourist-busy Saturday. We opted for a drop-off with promises to return bearing saltwater taffy and pralines for the driver. That worked quite well and energized all in the end. Those pralines were as buttery rich as a sweetly drenched pecan of the South ought to be. My chauffering cohort is a HUGE fan of Paula Deen (not really y'all!) so I bought her Ms. Deen's Savannah Marinade instead of pralines, thoughtful friend that I am. She'll thank me later, I'm sure. Much later.
Another doggie-check later, we found ourselves with pre-packed snacks in purses, sitting before a movie screen for a showing of the latest Jennifer Lopez movie. We giggled and crunched our way through a decidedly chick-flickish romantic comedy (is that redundant?) before heading out to the famous 'Parker's Market' for the popular fruit-infused lemonade. Well, that's what they wanted. I wanted to see the bathroom. Not to smoke though blowing air did figure largely in the picture. The Dyson Airblade superfast hand dryer was my reason for being. And, I picked up a nice but inexpensive bottle of sparkling rose wine.
It's after midnight now. My air mattress partner has done her part with the loud compact air compressor to ensure no one's coccyx touches the floor. Everyone but me and the college student sleep. The Internet connection has suddenly been lost. I've no earthly idea how to remedy that. Four 12-packs of La Croix pamplemousse mineral water are in the trunk of the car: my big score! A generous serving of pineapple-coconut sorbetto sits in my overtaxed stomach. We leave for Tennessee tomorrow morning. My thoughts are turning to home.
But my heart has been soothed by Savannah and eased by my Earth Divas. Y'all need to git you some of that. But get your own . . . I can't share everything.
Lest you think Savannah is all food and no substance (though food is a highly significant substance), we tried to attend the Sidewalk Art Festival and contest at City Park but the rains hit and dampened the palettes considerably. Not our fault we were relegated to a morning of cinnamon buns -- oh my! -- and people watching at ye faithful local bakery. Little old ladies with full bladders emerging from gigantic tour busses barely able to safely clear a corner make for high times. All of us found it a bit surprising that no one purchased from the array of sweets at the counter. Evidently, the brownie sample filled their bellies or they'd recently hit a buffet elsewhere.
After a brief rest back at headquarters, checking laptops, our own bladders and that of Winslow the puppy, we agreed that our exhausting morning schedule had encouraged another round of hunger in our poor deprived bellies. So, it was off to burgers at a joint where local street names are used to label their beefy sandwiches. I rounded out my protein needs with bacon, cheddar cheese, and a fried egg atop mine. This supplied me with the energy needed to walk the three blocks, replete with constant camera-ing of quirky this n' thats, to the Wright Square Cafe and chocolatier shoppe. While the girls perused the pre-packaged offerings, my attention was fully focused on the in-house handmade selection of truffles, many with real concentrated fruit puree. I contributed generously to the local economy here for stunning little jewels to be divided amongst us at a later date. You'll need a picture. Passionfruit, fig, port, tobacco, lemon. You name it. I selected it.
The drive to the river waterfront only served to further exhaust us. You simply can't imagine the expenditure of effort with five women trying to find an adequate parking spot for one car on a tourist-busy Saturday. We opted for a drop-off with promises to return bearing saltwater taffy and pralines for the driver. That worked quite well and energized all in the end. Those pralines were as buttery rich as a sweetly drenched pecan of the South ought to be. My chauffering cohort is a HUGE fan of Paula Deen (not really y'all!) so I bought her Ms. Deen's Savannah Marinade instead of pralines, thoughtful friend that I am. She'll thank me later, I'm sure. Much later.
Another doggie-check later, we found ourselves with pre-packed snacks in purses, sitting before a movie screen for a showing of the latest Jennifer Lopez movie. We giggled and crunched our way through a decidedly chick-flickish romantic comedy (is that redundant?) before heading out to the famous 'Parker's Market' for the popular fruit-infused lemonade. Well, that's what they wanted. I wanted to see the bathroom. Not to smoke though blowing air did figure largely in the picture. The Dyson Airblade superfast hand dryer was my reason for being. And, I picked up a nice but inexpensive bottle of sparkling rose wine.
It's after midnight now. My air mattress partner has done her part with the loud compact air compressor to ensure no one's coccyx touches the floor. Everyone but me and the college student sleep. The Internet connection has suddenly been lost. I've no earthly idea how to remedy that. Four 12-packs of La Croix pamplemousse mineral water are in the trunk of the car: my big score! A generous serving of pineapple-coconut sorbetto sits in my overtaxed stomach. We leave for Tennessee tomorrow morning. My thoughts are turning to home.
But my heart has been soothed by Savannah and eased by my Earth Divas. Y'all need to git you some of that. But get your own . . . I can't share everything.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Burger Time!
Burger alert. We need healthy food after three days of bakery. So, what better way to remedy the absence of protein than a good hearty burger. Yeah, buddy! 'B & D Burger' joint is the place in Savannah, according to my friend and her daughter. (Daughter attends SCAD, Savannah College of Art and Design, so momma is here often for visits.) Again, I must state that there exists no actual hunger in my belly. My brain, however, has sent out the siren call for alternative food sources after a starting base of cinnamon bun, coffee, and mini passionfruit tart. Sigh-h-h.
Yesterday was push-up day for me. Squeezed in 84. Today, I push through sugar-induced sleep-deprived lethargy to birdwing my way through a few sets of 100's in multiples of 120. Eke out a wee space in my still digesting stomach pouch for ground beef and accessories.
Before I fly away, please note we nosh on homemade hummus, roasted chicken, black bean salad, veggies and fruits, whole grains, and water here at home base before venturing out. That bakery is just so darned good, it would be wasteful not to visit every single day of our time here in this gracious Southern city.
Stay tuned . . .
Yesterday was push-up day for me. Squeezed in 84. Today, I push through sugar-induced sleep-deprived lethargy to birdwing my way through a few sets of 100's in multiples of 120. Eke out a wee space in my still digesting stomach pouch for ground beef and accessories.
Before I fly away, please note we nosh on homemade hummus, roasted chicken, black bean salad, veggies and fruits, whole grains, and water here at home base before venturing out. That bakery is just so darned good, it would be wasteful not to visit every single day of our time here in this gracious Southern city.
Stay tuned . . .
Friday, April 23, 2010
'N' is for Nude Neti
I emerged from my turn in the shower on this girls' vacation to cries of, "You neti in the nude?" from one of my cohorts. Yeah. You betch'ur sweet bippies I do. My instruction manual does not specify a dress code. I neti in the nude; I also neti fully clothed. Opportunity is my leader. Time is my indicator. And if nettying ain't a verb . . . it ought to be. Look up neti pot on your own time. I'm writing while the sinuses are clear. Actually, here in Savannah, the sinuses are dry if anything.
While I'm on the subject of verbs -- as opposed to the subject of the verb -- let's review a few necessary vacation action words. 'To vacation' is the number one verb under which all over necessary verbs are housed. In order of fun and importance, there follows 'to eat old fashioned bakery cupcakes EVERY day,' 'to relax while digesting and contemplating the next meal or treat,' 'to laugh until one's ears hurt,' 'to chow, kong, and pung wind,' 'to sleep in long after the air mattress deflates,' 'to forget all about the strong pull of home,' and 'to do whatever you want to do, whenever you want to do it!'
Now, several of these verbs are specific to an *Earth Diva outing *(of which I am one and am presently carousing with three others, plus an honorary under 40 member.) And, I incorporate a few of my own personal profile verbs: "to neti" being one of them. You'll need to do the same as your situation leads you. The only requirement is that your chosen actions directly oppose the stress and automaton structure of everyday regular life. The whole 'to every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.'
After all, vacations are just that -- us reacting in opposition to our necessary lives with brazenly uncommon verbs. Enough said. I've uncommonly good things yet to accomplish. Rumor has it bakery cinnamon buns are on the breakfast menu tomorrow. I hear they incite drooling and moaning. I'm in!
While I'm on the subject of verbs -- as opposed to the subject of the verb -- let's review a few necessary vacation action words. 'To vacation' is the number one verb under which all over necessary verbs are housed. In order of fun and importance, there follows 'to eat old fashioned bakery cupcakes EVERY day,' 'to relax while digesting and contemplating the next meal or treat,' 'to laugh until one's ears hurt,' 'to chow, kong, and pung wind,' 'to sleep in long after the air mattress deflates,' 'to forget all about the strong pull of home,' and 'to do whatever you want to do, whenever you want to do it!'
Now, several of these verbs are specific to an *Earth Diva outing *(of which I am one and am presently carousing with three others, plus an honorary under 40 member.) And, I incorporate a few of my own personal profile verbs: "to neti" being one of them. You'll need to do the same as your situation leads you. The only requirement is that your chosen actions directly oppose the stress and automaton structure of everyday regular life. The whole 'to every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.'
After all, vacations are just that -- us reacting in opposition to our necessary lives with brazenly uncommon verbs. Enough said. I've uncommonly good things yet to accomplish. Rumor has it bakery cinnamon buns are on the breakfast menu tomorrow. I hear they incite drooling and moaning. I'm in!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Savannah In Parts
Savannah, Georgia. Round two. Another Earth Diva girlfriend outing. Superb travel companions but they're taken. They're mine. Go find your own. I plan on escorting my family here at some not too distant futuristic point. But, let's just live in today. Today is very, very good.
You haven't experienced Savannah if you've not engaged your palate at 'Back In The Day Bakery' on Bull Street. Or, as I like to call it FULL STREET. The eyes swell long before the belly -- but the belly's not far behind. (Behinds. That's a whole 'nother topic.) My recommendation is the guilt-free sampler method. It requires only several willing ladies (not difficult to find in my Earth Diva circle) and a selection of divine delectables. The only danger here is the decision-making process. I was emotionally distraught over lemon bar or lemon tart! UGH.
Everyone samples with abandon. (I.E. thinly disguised gluttony). The beauty of this approach is that not a one has to claim she ate a dessert: each has merely tasted from each dessert. While there is no scientific study on which to base this, I choose to believe the caloric impact of the whole is reduced when ingested in parts.
Well, we're off to walk Puppy Winslow. And whittle away the very few calories I took on in my dessert tapas escapade.
Ciao.
You haven't experienced Savannah if you've not engaged your palate at 'Back In The Day Bakery' on Bull Street. Or, as I like to call it FULL STREET. The eyes swell long before the belly -- but the belly's not far behind. (Behinds. That's a whole 'nother topic.) My recommendation is the guilt-free sampler method. It requires only several willing ladies (not difficult to find in my Earth Diva circle) and a selection of divine delectables. The only danger here is the decision-making process. I was emotionally distraught over lemon bar or lemon tart! UGH.
Everyone samples with abandon. (I.E. thinly disguised gluttony). The beauty of this approach is that not a one has to claim she ate a dessert: each has merely tasted from each dessert. While there is no scientific study on which to base this, I choose to believe the caloric impact of the whole is reduced when ingested in parts.
Well, we're off to walk Puppy Winslow. And whittle away the very few calories I took on in my dessert tapas escapade.
Ciao.
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