No Damage…to speak of

The first good news is, Z is back, safe and sound.

Her flight was delayed about an hour and a half, but nothing like a couple of years ago, which I chronicled here, at the time.

Even now, the chills run down my spine and various other body parts, just thinking about it.

The other good news is, I made it through my bachelor weekend without causing too much damage.

At least on my end.

Unfortunately, I can’t say the same thing about the squirrels and the raccoons…especially the raccoons.

The raccoons didn't leave me a drop of gin.

The birds are okay…now.

Once they decided where to set up the nest, things got a little less hectic.

I never knew Robins were so particular.

The Cardinals less so, but believe me, they’re no saints themselves, despite all that red.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I haven’t even mentioned the broken window, which apparently is an open invitation for wildlife to waltz right in and commandeer the remote.

Which, to be honest, I kind of enjoyed the company, but after 72 straight hours of Animal Planet and Nat Geo…enough was enough.

And the broken window wasn't my fault... entirely.

There was no way anyone was going to catch that pass...and I was wide open.

Nuff said. 

At least the Golden Retrievers switched to Disney once in a while.

And the Pugs took a liking to Duck Dynasty for some reason.

At least I think they liked it.

But who knows, with pugs.

Luckily I was able to get all the critters out by the time Z walked in the door…except for the pugs, who are small and were able to hide under the couch.

I wouldn’t have even known they were still here if it weren’t for the sound of Duck calls in the middle of the night.

They couldn’t resist.

Apparently they were re-running the episode were Willie has a mid-life crisis and dyes his beard.

So I cut them some slack and let them finish watching before I sent them home.

Luckily Z slept through the whole thing,

She hates Duck Dynasty….

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Toot be Told

On top of being on my own for the weekend, the weather has been miserable here since about mid-day Saturday; right after I finished mowing the lawn.

If the weather was going to turn miserable, couldn't it have turned miserable before I dragged out the lawn mower?

But at least it was a beautiful Saturday morning as I drove to the dentist's office at 7:30 AM to have my broken molar fixed.

Yeah…I broke my toot.

I know, I've dropped the H, but it just sounds more like it should sound to me, being broken and all.

My back left bottom toot to be exact.

And of course I was home alone so had no one to play out the drama to.

Oh the pain…the pain…I broke my poor little toot!!!!

Even though there was no pain at all…just the pain of embarrassment as I stood there holding a body part in my hand, totally disheartened because, the truth of the matter is…I’m falling apart…piece by piece…toot by frickin toot.

And I can’t even tell you I did it in some kind of off the wall, wacky bachelor weekend kind of way; like I was trying to open a beer bottle with my teeth.  Or that I got into a bar fight with a 3 year old who took exception to what he perceived as my unfair characterization as to why Sponge Bob Square Pants might be suffering from gender confusion issues.

Hey, kid…if you don’t want to listen to adult conversation you have no business being at a bar at 10 AM, even if it is just a breakfast-bar.

Nope…I broke it on an almond.

A nut.

A legume.

While waiting for my soup to heat up.

Because almonds are supposed to be good for your health…but apparently not so much for your teeth.

I wasn't even sure I actually broke it at first. 

I felt something hard rattling around in there, but I just thought it was a piece of the nut.  And at first I thought it was, once I got it out and looked at it.

I mean most people can’t tell the difference between an almond and a tooth…right?

But you would have to be some sort of clueless, self-awareness misfit not to recognize your own oral appendage when you see it.

What? 

Plus the gaping crater that I felt with my tongue in the back
of my mouth was another sure giveaway that something was wrong.

So I did the first thing that came to mind, from years of watching ER…I took my little pebble of a toot bit and packed it in a cooler full of ice.

Which I thought was smart since with today’s modern medical miracles, I figured my dentist would just be able to reattach it to the rest of my molar.

Right?

Unfortunately, reattachment, as my wise guy dentist pointed out, once he stopped laughing, wasn't really the treatment of choice with severed teeth, unless a thumb is attached to the toot, as well.

But he did appreciate the six pack of beer that I also packed in the cooler.

Anyway, once he dried the tears from his eyes and finished his second beer, he told me not to worry; he could easily fix the problem, and asked for another beer.

He also asked if I wanted any Novocain, but I told him that wasn't necessary since I had brought my own and pumped it into my jaw the second I pulled into the parking lot.

Bottom line is…or should I say, toot be told…it was all a big tootdoo over nothing. 

My mouth is once again whole and the only restriction I had was not to eat on my left side for the next 7 years or something.

Which I found to be a rather odd precautionary measure, but if I have to lie on my right side while I’m eating for a while, so be it.

I wasn't going to tell Z anything about all this because I figured, why should I ruin her weekend with my silly troubles.  But then I figured, she’d find out eventually, especially since I forgot to bring back the cooler....so why not?

And I was right…she did get pretty upset, at least at first, but only because the Novocain hadn't quite worn off and she thought I was saying, “I smoked the Vermouth” instead of “I broke my tooth”.

But once I was able to communicate the message clearly she was fine and went right back to her cha-cha lesson.

So all’s well that ends well.

And now I’m gonna go look up how one goes about smoking that Vermouth…..

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Beyond the Horizon

Z and I just celebrated our 34^th wedding anniversary, last weekend.

Yeah….

Go figure…right?

Time flies.

It seems like only yesterday that the judge lifted that restraining order.

And like any couple that’s been legally entangled for more than 3 decades—illegally for nearly another before that—it’s only natural to want to stretch your legs and look for new adventures beyond the horizon, just to see whatever else is lurking out there.

At least that’s what Z told me.

And who am I to argue.

No one that’s who!

Again…at least that’s what Z told me.

She was kidding of course.

Of course….

But she did ask me to drive her to the airport yesterday.

She’s making her yearly pilgrimage to Chicago to visit relatives.

Hers, I believe.

Which, once again, leaves me on my own for a few days to ponder the big picture.

To be honest, I’m not even sure where this huge picture that suddenly appeared in the living room came from.

Z says she didn’t buy it.

I know I didn’t buy it.

But there it is…this big picture, left behind for me to ponder.

As if I didn’t have enough pondering to keep me busy.

Like what’s the best way to make sure I don’t throw the wet laundry in the oven again this year.

Or forget to close the refrigerator door.

Actually that’s an unfair characterization…I didn't really forget to close the refrigerator door.

I did it on purpose.

I just thought it would save on snack preparation time, between innings of the ball game.

And it did.

Despite the fact that everything had a funny taste to it.

And the neighbor’s dog got in through the side door—which I actually did forget to close—and ate all the cold cuts, plus, what I believe was leftover rigatoni.

But hey, live and learn…right?

And what better time to navigate the learning curve other than when you've got a few days to yourself to experiment.

Anyway, like I said, I’m fending for myself the next few days.

And when you've been living with the same person—minus the 90s—for over 30 years, there’s a bit of an adjustment.

But not all of it is bad.

For one, I don’t need to shower everyday…why would I?


Or shave...ZZ top, bottom and sideways will have nothing on me.


I don’t even need to change my clothes…who’s gonna know?

Okay, the pizza delivery guy, but is he really gonna risk losing that extra buck I throw him at Christmas.

I don’t think so….

I’m also thinking of taking my Jell-O sculpting to the next level.

I don’t want to give too much away...but think big, like in Big Top big.

And of course this gives me the opportunity to get back into my alternate treadmill redesigns.

So I have enough to keep me busy….at least through Saturday.

Sunday, I might look into lawn coloring…not sure.

And Z’s closet looks like it could use some straightening…maybe even some thinning.

That would be a nice surprise wouldn't it? 

I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees all that extra space….

Okay…gotta go.

The goldfish delivery guy is here.

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The Promise of a Spring Morning

 

I woke up early today, well before 6 AM.

Daylight, well past the horizon, slipping between the bedroom curtain crack; quite a difference from just a few months before.

At this time of day, in February, when I walk out to grab my papers off the lawn, cold stars dot the morning sky, resolute and weary from their long vigil, preparing to close up shop for another daytime of rest.

A quiet, crisp, restful February morning.

The day, slow to start in darkness…quick to end in same.

Now, an arc of gold bends around a backyard swing set and spreads across the sparkling lawn; green sprouts, fresh and newly alive, enriched by morning’s dew.

The days are eager to begin, right now, and through the coming months ahead; the hours and evenings, easily filled.

The morning air is cool; the sun rises; warmth, not far behind.

All... unwinds before us, inviting us to grab hold.

All…declared before us, in the promise of a spring morning.

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The Gracious Gardner

I spent the weekend lying in the weeds.

I mean, I was literally lying in the weeds…

It’s that time of year again when lawns and gardens and all sorts of growing things, need to be tended and in some cases removed.

So I was literally lying in the weeds…and the bushes and the dirt and the hydrangeas

Especially the hydrangeas.

It had to be done.

The old one had gotten a little too comfortable in its roots.

Was getting a little too lippy for its own good—and mine—so out it went.

Replaced by a brand new, already blooming, little hydrangea; one that I can shape and mold after my own image.

 Nahhhhhh…not really…that would be weird.

Wouldn’t it?

In fact if a hydrangea was a lot like me it would be an awful lot like the one I just got rid of.

Of course none of this is true…I mean, except for the part about switching plants.

The rest of it I made up, as I tend to do.

Have you noticed?

Plants don’t have personalities…at least not in the sane rationale world.

So it would be in-sane to think that they did.

Right?????

So in truth, as opposed to in lies, all I did was swap out my old hydrangea with a new one.  I didn't even get rid of the old one.  I just moved it across the way, next to the out of control, bushy bamboo.

You know…the one with authority issues.

Ooops…sorry.

I should probably explain, not that a discussion of hydrangeas is all that interesting, nor one that I ever thought in my wildest imagination I would ever spend any significant amount of time on.

Lilacs and Butterfly Bushes…maybe…but not hydrangeas.

But yet, here we are.

So briefly, which, I know, I’ve already exceeded, the reason I had to do all this hydrangea swapping was because the first spring, after moving into our house, some 11 and a half years ago, we received this tiny hydrangea bush as a housewarming gift.

I later planted, said bush, next to the also newly planted lilac bush, which then led to both Z and I deciding another bush was needed to balance out the other side.

Well, Z decided, and since she is the Master Gardener, I usually just go along with whatever she says.

So I, being the Gracious Gardener, to Z’s Master status, went off, on my own—always a mistake—to the big hardware store to purchase another hydrangea.

Not a big deal…I could handle that, which I did—graciously—only to discover, sometime later, after it bloomed, that this hydrangea was nothing at all like the old hydrangea.

Who knew there were different types of hydrangeas?

Probably a lot of people, but certainly not me.

Hey…I’m the Gracious Gardener, not the Smart Gardener.

I mean, without flowers, who can tell…especially if you don’t look at the little picture tag on the side.

So for 11 years we’ve lived with this “other” hydrangea and told ourselves, diversity was good…at least until I could motivate myself to go back to the big hardware store and find the correct hydrangea.

Motivate being the operative word.

But, as with so many things in life, fate intervened and this past Easter we received yet another hydrangea gift, already flowering, so there could be no mistake.

Everything in is time...right?

Surely a sign from the universe, because the universe has nothing better to do than send me signs concerning my hydrangea situation.

But that was that…in with the new and out with the old.

I even got to swing my badly underutilized pick ax and dug a big hole in the ground.

Always a plus for the Gracious Gardener.

And they tell me I’ll regain full use of both arms, in time.

Plus my back should straighten out in a few days…with or without the searing pain.

But who’s gonna do these things if not me?

I guess a professional gardener, but that would conflict with my penchant for cheapness.

And Z….

The bottom line is it worked out for everybody.

The new hydrangea—who I have not named Peaches—is happy in the first real place of her own.

The Lilac—who is not named Lilly—is happy to now have symmetrical roommates on either side.

And Lacey…I mean, the older, odd hydrangea…seems happy, despite the occasional droopy spell, in her new, sunnier spot next to Barry…I mean, the bus
hy bamboo.

All just a part of another day for the Gracious Gardner….

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Without Moms

Mother’s Day is upon us and it’s time to show our appreciation to the one person in the whole world to whom we literally owe everything.

I mean, aside from my banker.

Without Moms none of us would be here, except possibly my third cousin—twice removed, yet always returns—who we suspect is an extraterrestrial, mostly because of his odd middle toes.

But I digress.

Without Moms none of us would know the joy of a Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwich…even if it didn’t travel well in a brown paper bag that you sat on in 3^rd grade, on an 85 degree day in May.  It was still made with love and still delicious despite its odd coloring and peculiar shape.

Without Moms we would still be walking around with runny noses, even as adults, who may or may not sometimes use their sleeve to stem the tide.

Without Moms we would still be wearing mismatched socks…or wearing them a lot more frequently than we do now.

Without Moms we would never change our underwear…or learned that changing with your cousin still doesn’t count.

Without Moms we would be deaf from all the loud music that she turned down, after we turned it up, and she turned it back down, and we turned it back up, and she turned it back down….

Without Moms we would all have ruined eyes from watching too much TV, too close to the screen, in the dark.

Without Moms our faces would be frozen in hideous contorted shapes...forever…not just on holidays spent with our in-laws.

Without Moms we would never know the healing power of the miraculous mercurochrome bunny on our knee...or our elbow…or…well, you don’t need to know about that place, since it was an isolated incident…really.

Without Moms we would never have understood that we would never learn, never change, never grow up, and never know where the hamper was.

Without Moms we would always ruin our dinner.

Without Moms we wouldn’t even know how to eat our dinner; at least like a human, who knows the proper way to hold a fork, at least in public.

Without Moms we would forget out heads
if they weren't attached to our bodies…or at least we would never have thought of that concept.

Without Moms we would have never stopped fidgeting…or at least cut back.

Without Moms we would have never known who Ish Kabibble was, because, apparently, that’s who we looked like when we needed a haircut…sometimes still do.

Without Moms we would never have had the soundtrack from “The Way We Were” permanently etched into our prefrontal cortex.

And without Moms we would have had to walk a lot more, missed a lot more school, never have graduated, never have gone to college, never been fed, never had a roof over our head, never have been warm, never been nursed back to health with ginger ale and crackers, never have felt safe and never have understood unconditional love….even after discovering that mysterious dent that appeared on the fender of her brand new car, coincidentally on the first day you received your driver’s license.

Even then….

Without Moms we would never have had a lot of things and we would never be sure of a lot of things, today.

Except one….

What it means to be home….

 

 

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Gotta Love the Zen - Redux

Another from the Archive of Retort:

Original Post June 24, 2011
_____________________________________





My brains' still acting out.

It's pouting and grumbling, refusing to give me any ideas to write about today. So, I thought this would be a good time to bring up Zen.

I love Zen.

Zen is the Seinfeld of spiritual philosophies and disciplines.

Zen, in its purist form, its only form, is about nothing.

And that’s perfect for me....

I can do nothing...with my eyes closed.

This is my favorite unattributed Zen saying:

"To know that there is nothing to know,

And to grieve that it is so difficult

to communicate this “nothing to know” to others—

this is the life of Zen,

this is the deepest thing in the world...."

How cool is that!

I've been trying to tell people that exact same thing for years, except my method involves a lot shouting, disdainful looks and hair pulling...sometimes theirs.

And the beauty of Zen is that the less you know, the more you know…

You know?

And that’s alright with me. Especially since my brain is on a time out.

This is a Zen sign called the "open circle". There’s another symbol called the "closed circle", but we’re not discussing that today…because I say so.



From Energy Healing Circle.com :




“The open circle represents the imperfection found in all things, and suggests to the student to stop striving for perfection and instead to allow the universe to be as it is.”

See…just like I was trying to tell them in High School!

“The open circle is a concept that reflects closely with Japanese Zen Buddhism. The Japanese concept of wabi sabi is that all things are perfect as they are…”

So there!

An example would be, oh, I don’t know, let’s say, for no reason in particular, someone collects heart shaped stones on the beach, any beach, maybe even a Stamford beach. But instead of scouring the beach, day after day, wreaking havoc on their C2 vertebrae, they could easily go out and buy dozens of heart shaped stones in a store, someplace, and each one would be shiny, bright and perfect.

But they don't...cuz to the Zenster, these manufactured stones could never equal the perfection found in the imperfection of the real heart shaped stones hiding beneath the muddy shore. Plus, in a way, aren't the stones really finding you, instead of you finding them?

Capice?

And that’s so cool. That’s so Zen…

Buying them in a store is just so retail…unless they’re on sale.

And if that doesn’t make any sense to you, then more the better.

It’s Zen!

Anyway gotta go. My brain is starting to quibble with my body again. I’ve gotta separate them.

But I’ll leave you with this, a quote from the Buddha himself:

“People with opinions just go around bothering one another….”



Gotta love the Zen...








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