Aaarrghh!

Few non-torture-specific physical irritants are worse than forgetting one has applied mascara to one's eyelashes and, thus, rubbing those eyes with a vigor which quickly reminds one that said mascara IS now not only on the eyeLASHES but also IN the eyeBALL!  Aarrrrghh!  Hold on . . . got it.  That was annoying.

And therein lies the rub!  No pun intended but punted just the same.  November.  The month of my birth.  Hence, my post-forty practice of celebrating Birthday Month (though to be fair that extends to all in my nuclear family).  But this eleventh month of the year has been less sacred and celebratory and more a string on Mondays . . . an seemingly endless succession of days which were evidently not informed as to their proper identities, save for the actual two Mondays which did come and go with their stereotypical gusto.  I can hardly be angry with November.  In facts, I think November may actually be angry with us, as in the U.S.  Those first six days of the month, unceremoniously shoving their way through the door along with Thanksgiving gratitude countdowns and elaborate salivating-worthy meals heaped high with festive sides and luscious pies, were loud and vainly proud.  And fearful.  And rife with polarizing clamor and enough rhetoric to raise the level of the Pacific ocean a good foot!  On most days, I'm in love with the human race and desire to serve my fellow men and women, but it can be most difficult to LIKE people during Presidential Election years.  Perhaps a swarm of stickers like mine should have been handed out in January: "Sir.  Ma'am.  Put your vote where your mouth is.  Thank you.  Move along with your life.  Prepare for Armageddon if you must but please be gracious while you do so.  The starving and dying in the Third World countries can hear you!"  

Reapplying my OWN sticker now.



Let's move on.  Shall we?  I'd like to keep this entry light.  THAT wasn't so very light.  Speaking of light, the reflected light on the hood of this SUV all at one mirrors the suburban setting AND tells the story of an adventurous feline.  Oh, the things to be discovered on the morning walk.

After an energetic weekend afternoon in the yard with my husband, spent tearing down vine and clipping away at overgrown shrubbery, I dropped my gloves and clipper to answer my phone.  Of course, I found a reason to compose a shot with my Hipstamatic camera app on my iPhone.  But I forgot the film I chose could randomly insert an eclectic frame.  That doesn't fit.  However, the saturated color is swell.  I wasn't done yet, though.  

 THIS turned out to be the winning shot in my book. Pale frame.  Faded color.  Everything intimately entangled.  THAT, my friends, is autumn surrendering to winter.  'tis a thing of loveliness.

'tis a thing of handsomeness and spousal patience . . . 

In Middle Tennessee, a land beholden to deciduous abundance in both species and numbers, the windfall of leaf-fall IN the fall provides a feast for the eyes AND for the rake.  Or whatever fancy lawn-riding gadgetry the man o' the house may drive out of the garage and on to the fading turf.  I gathered several bags from this pile of maple leaves at a neighbor's house to spread along the sidewalk leading to our front door for Halloween: the trick-or-treaters must traipse through the crackling future- composted-matter to beg for their sweets.

The ornamental pear trees which are as ubiquitous a tree as you'll ever hope to see around these parts drop handsome heralds of seasonal change.  I have to stop myself from collecting EVERY great specimen I happen across!

I can't blame the democratic process for EVERYTHING this month, though.  In all honesty, a significant portion of my unrest can be traced to two things: 1) the efficacy of my anti-depressant has decreased and upping the dose, while alleviating my anxiety, also alleviated my ability to function as a human being in charge of a home and family; and, 2) my female form has made a unilateral decision to tentatively step foot over the threshold of menopause, possibly PRE-menopause, with several well-placed hot flash episodes and hormonal activity SO off the hook that I wake up with a very sincere apology to my husband on my lips for everything I will say during the course of the day.  Same to my son and daughter.  They've all been targets . . . and being a fast mover has had very little effect on the impact of my grouch factor.  My appetite has been considerable.  And after spending the summer tightening up and trimming down with a ten-pound weight lost, my sudden ability to strip the siding off the back of our house, dip it in homemade salsa and devour, rather scares me. 

To my credit, I've taken action to correct what is within my power to correct here.  FaceTiming with the young married in Germany lightens my heart considerably.  A visit with my doc last Friday resulted in a diagnosis of SAD, or Seasonal Affective Disorder, which went off like a dirty bomb in my brain.  A V-8 moment!  Amazon took my order for TWO well-researched light-therapy lamps: one white-light sitting unit and one blue-light mobile unit.  Further, we decided to switch anti-depressants.  I'm moving from Celexa to Effexor.  I know I need it.  My friends and family notice a different when the levels are steady.  I notice the difference.  I'm simply a better version of myself.  More relaxed.  Less internally agitated.  Able to hop of the internal hamster wheel and trade up to a rocking chair on the back porch.  Coffee in hand.  

Along with all of that, I keep my wittiness about me.  And find the humor in everything possible.

Today's 'funniest moment prize' has to go out to The Dollar Store over on Old Fort Parkway.  Where nestled amongst the batteries and lighters and other important SELF tests, once can pick up a bargain-priced drug test for marijuana!  Keep it in the glove box for those road trips to Colorado.  You'll need to see if you inhaled in the state once you leave and enter federal stomping grounds: a.k.a. every other state in the union, save for Washington.

As my head begins it's late-night bobbing-and-weaving act, I'll leave you with this.  Five of the ten, TEN, puppies which my sister's dog, Bella, whelped last Monday.  That makes them almost ten days old.  Through the miracle that is FaceTime, I watched the white pup, a female, make her debut on the world stage.  She's the eldest of the bunch.  My son and I became rather emotionally attached to her and convinced my husband that Hankie Mutt would make good use of a young playmate.  Further, Panda won't be around for much longer.  Which prompted my husband to blurt out, "Yeah!  About that!  WHEN is going to die?  Every time I turn around, she's making a comeback.  At this rate, she may live another five years!"  (He really wasn't being insensitive to our old girl.  He's quite compassionate toward her.  It's simply the fact that she's been on death's door a good many times over the past year.)

Bella got rather carried away in her grooming of the white pup and accidentally bit the tiny tips of her baby's ears while cleaning the blood and afterbirth from it.  Poor little dear!  We have already named her.  In memory of my niece, Zachary's precious little cousin, Grace, the pretty white pup will be Gracie.

I think Hank may meet his petite match.  Come December, we'll see.

Adieu.  Adieu.  To ya and ya and ya-a.