"I want perfume for my birthday." That's what the mama said to me yesterday in the middle of the drugstore. It was the first time she ever requested something special for her birthday. Usually, when asked, she'll say, "Nothing. Don't get me anything." The moment after she said she wanted perfume, I got scared. Did she want to buy perfume right then, right there? Thankfully, not! The only perfumes you can get in a drugstore stink as bad (or worse) as the odor you smile while driving by a compost factory, or a field freshly laid with manure, or plain old skunk spray. Yuck.  I'm not even talking about the minutes after the eau has dissipated and you're now sniffing the burn of alcohol and who-knows-what chemicals. Sigh. Most perfumes give me a headache. Some make my nose get stuffy. Worse yet, others make my face start itching. Still. The mama doesn't ask for much. So, this afternoon I jumped through the hoop, and spent hours on the Internet res

I do feel sspassazzy about wearing something red now that I'm a young "old" fogey. Nope, not a red hat. Though I did learn I could've joined the Red Hat Society several years ago. Yesterday, I bought myself a red lacy brassiere. Ooh la-la, indeed. First time, I've ever owned a red one. Wonder why I never got one before. I liked the way I felt free, invincible, and joyful when I tried it on, similar to how I feel after having cut my hair very short. Do I feel this same way when I wear a red frock, red shoes, or red earrings? Not that I can recall, but then I rarely wear red because it is such a visible color. Hello, stop sign. When I was in eighth grade, the mama made me a lovely red dress. She was disappointed that I didn't like to wear it. Ah, kids. I would definitely wear it today. How about you? How does wearing red make you feel? 

Really? It's been almost a month since I posted a post. Wish I could say I was traveling or wandering in wonder lust. Nope. Just getting on with life. Dusting and vacuuming a bit more often to keep my facial eczema from flaring so awfully awful that my eyes become swollen. How swollen? The recessive epicanthic folds of my eyelids show themselves. An advantage for me. Nobody thinks anything is wrong with my eyes. Celebrating the husband's 60th anniversary of being born. Every 60-year-old child should have a birthday party complete with bubble wands, darts, and other games. And lots of his favorite food. Finishing a deadline and starting another one. Sigh. I'm boxed in until 12/12/12. So, by golly, the world better not end on 12/21/12! Working on my 40th high school class reunion. The husband doesn't believe me when I say this is the last time I work on a reunion. "Absolutely," I say. "Uh-huh," he says. So, that what has kept me me away from writing

I don't remember the last time I was outside. Just sitting. Just doing nothing. Well, okay, except for doodling words with a pen on a piece of paper. About, of course, nothing. I'm sitting on a beach chair on the front stoop. The mama is sitting in the back yard deadheading her pink daisies. The husband is standing in the front yard hand-watering the lawn. Uhmmm, that spray feels good. Me. I should be making dinner. And, I shall in a while. For now, I just want to enjoy a pause. I've been cooped inside spinning words and sentences into short, but clear and comprehensible paragraphs about stuff I have already forgotten. It's best to do that when you work on reference books. If I had retained everything I've written about in the last 13 years, my gosh... Ka-poosh! The sound of my brains exploding. Splattt. Splutt. Spposh. The sounds of my brains splashing on the walls and ceiling. Ah, yes. Imagination is good to have at any age. Now, I must go make dinner for the cre

Uh-hmm. Is that how you spell the sound of clearing one's voice?  Ah-hemmmm. This morning I was making the husband's side of the bed. Nah, I'm not the bedmaker. The husband was making up my side of the bed. That's how it was today. Tomorrow may be different. Anyway, I didn't see it right away. The white strand of something that was floating above the husband's side of the bed. When I did finally saw it, I climbed up on the bed and laid down beneath it. "Look, look," I said, then pretended to snore the husband's snore so the white strand floated upwardly. I did it a few times before he caught on. So, what did we do? We laughed for a long time. Wouldn't you? We decided that white strand wasn't there when he got up. He would've sheared it right off, as it was hanging quite, quite low over his side of the bed. Whatever made it had at least an hour to spin that thick strand of cobweb from the lamp to the top of the 2009 calendar that hangs