Total Zen in 2010

Unrepeatable

/ wvfurandroot / 9 Comments

What do Eric Clapton, Dexter and dog biscuits have in common? They, and a multitude of other surprises, were my Valentine’s gift from HMOKeefe.

The man has a knack for giving the exact perfect things at the exact perfect times.

It’s a marvel.

He sent me not one, but two, boxes. They arrived Friday and I opened the packing boxes just enough to make sure the contents were intact. And then I closed the boxes back up to wait for Valentine’s Day. [I drive people crazy with that. For me, the anticipation of opening is almost as exciting as the gift. I’ve been known to wait until after the New Year to open Christmas gifts.]

I noticed when checking the packaging that there were dog biscuits. I had to smile. If not for HMOKeefe my dogs would never have treats other than the occasional marshmallow. [All three of the dogs would produce cold fusion in their water bowl if they thought it would get them a marshmallow.]

The two boxes have been setting on my kitchen table for two days. After a couple cups of coffee and the fixing of my DSL jack (long story), I opened the boxes.

Woo Hoo! Too much fun. Besides dog biscuits, inside I found books including how to go about writing your first novel in six months, a kaleidoscope, green M&Ms, an Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood CD, hand and foot warmers (presumably for my trek up and down the hill in the snow), a refrigerator magnet, candy, and panties.

The magnet reads You are unrepeatable. There is a magic about you that is all your own… I think that applies more to him than me. I’ve never met a man like HMOKeefe. He is the perfect man.

Now is that a plethora of treasures or what?  There was also a season’s worth of Dextor episodes nestled in there.  Woo Hoo!  Blood spatter and a serial killer for Valentine’s Day. Damn, I love that man. 

Much of it, including Dexter, was packed into a heart-shaped, red box which reminded me of an earlier Valentine’s Day. One year, along with a lot of other things, HMOKeefe sent me nesting boxes vividly emblazoned with roses. As a child, I loved playing with the Barrel of Monkeys that featured nesting barrels and a tiny monkey in the smallest one. I love Russian nesting dolls. I love containers. I’ve had those boxes, nested, sitting here and there pending completion of the painting and decorating projects for a long time.

After seeing the heart box of this year’s gift, I stacked the boxes and put them in the corner of my dressing room – for months now, that corner has cried for some decoration or furniture. They’ll be perfect there.  [The stack is as tall as I am.]

I know just what to put inside each of those boxes.

Friday night I began the onerous task of cleaning out, organizing, and painting my study. Like the family room project, I’ve only been threatening to do this for years. [And the family room project has turned out fabulous. I’m three for three on drama-free painting jobs – I have high hopes for the study.]

HMOKeefe frequently sends me letters and cards. I save them. I have stacks and stacks of them. Periodically, I like to go through them and re-read them, but they’ve gotten unwieldly and some of them have been packed away and buried in one of the three Closets I Am Afraid Of. [No kidding, you can’t believe how many there are and you can’t believe what a mess those three closets are – you’d be afraid too.]

Those boxes will perfectly house his words of affection. [And, Dman? You best get writing – I’m going to need more or the boxes will topple over.]

And speaking of love letters, my Valentine’s Box also included a love letter scrawled on a legal pad and tucked into a beautiful card. He once made fun of me for sending him a letter written on Mead 3-hole punched, college ruled notebook paper. Again, I had to smile.

One of HMOKeefe’s great charms is that he makes me smile with his thoughtfulness and caring. I do love this man. In answer to his question in the letter and on this morning’s voice mail, yes, I will be his Valentine again this year.

He mentioned the other day that we should start looking at engagement rings. I was rather nonplussed since we have yet to live in the same zip code. [For those of you who don’t know, he lives near Boston.]

I reminded him that I used to think I didn’t like diamonds until I discovered that actually what I didn’t like was small diamonds. I haven’t heard another word about engagement rings since. It was with some relief that there was not a ring in one of those two packages.

The relief centered on the fact that I would like the experience of shopping together with him to find the perfect ring. HMOKeefe likes to shop – one of the many things I like about him. I think it would be fiercely romantic and a lifetime memory to choose it together. Besides which, I desperately need a manicure.

This blog posting is my Valentine to him. I think he’ll enjoy it – a love letter of sorts – not the norm, but that’s what I love about his gifts to me – wonderful little oddities packaged with love.

And, yes, I will marry him. [Probably not today, DMan, but, yes, I will marry you.]

Love, Connie (jamming to Clapton and Winwood)

[The puppies don’t know it yet, but they’re about to get a Valentine.]

Woman who runs with the dogs.

/ wvfurandroot / 12 Comments

Run, Dee, Run!

Dee over at Tangled Up in Sticks and String mentioned she’s entered a 5K race.

I’m not sure if I’m jealous, awed, or guilt-ridden.

The idea of “racing” appalls me, but I like the idea of running IN THEORY. It’s the actual running part that stops me (in my tracks or on the track?).

In the early 70s when the running/jogging craze was sweeping the country, I went out for track. I was a fairly normal, hormonally volatile, meaner ‘n snake 13-year-old. [Most of the previous sentence is redundant. All 13-year-old girls are hormonally volatile and mean.]

I was never much of one for group activities, but something about running appealed to me even at that age. Pity the track coach ruined it. My life might have been completely different had she believed in water.

In the southern-most part of North Carolina, late August/early September was brutally hot and so humid a body needed gills to process oxygen. This was girls track season.

My best friend and I showed up for try-outs not knowing that just showing up guaranteed a spot. That first day we were given a 10 minute pep talk and sent out to run laps under a sun beaming 98 degrees to ante up with the  98% humidity level. This was before decent athletic shoes were a norm and during the unfortunate time period when expert wisdom decreed that drinking water before or during running would provoke Big Problems.

About the fifth time around the quarter-mile track, I was dying. This was before cigarettes, sloth, hedonism and general laziness had taken its toll. I was healthy, bright-eyed, very active, and had a fair amount of muscle for my long and lanky frame. 98 F at 98% can annihilate even the most dedicated of athletes which I surely was not. I gave it another week. Each day was the same: pep talk followed by laps. I wanted to die.

I dropped out of track – one of the first (of many) failures in my life. It never really ate at me much. For years, I’d roll my eyes and decree “Running is not for me” any time the subject came up.

Ten or so years later, the Ex and I started dating. He liked to run. He wanted company. I agreed to give it another shot. I’d been doing high impact aerobics for a year and figured I could handle a jog. I went. I ran. I sat down. Hedonism, sloth, and cigarettes trumped the Jane Fonda Workout and running was simply torturous – and if all that wasn’t bad enough, I was still trying to do this in K-Mart Blue Light Special tennis shoes.

Along came Chef Boy ‘R Mine and by the time he entered high school, he’d taken up running. The kid was a running fool. He was on the track team and the cross country team. He ran in the fall. He ran in the spring. He ran at school and at home. When he was running on his own time, he used to take our dachshund with him. She ran every mile with him – usually two to every one of his (investigating smells and whatnot).

His cross country days appealed to me. I could see the attraction in that – track and field events like sprints and relays just bored my innards into paralysis. Ah, but cross country. . .I can feel the wind in my hair, my legs pumping like a well-oiled machine, blood coursing, and water – lots of water. I envision the dogs and I running through the Appalachian hills singing songs from the Sound of Music, our hearts beating as one, our lungs breathing in and out to the hum of the Universal Om, yada yada. In short, the four of us working in tandem to provide a goofy scene of health, vitality, and eccentricity. [Really, who runs with a dachshund, a shih tzu and an Italian greyhound?]

Running BY water could be the motivation I need.

The water thing has provoked me into thinking maybe I should give it another go. It seems the Running Experts are now unanimous in thinking that water before, during, and after running Might Not Be a Bad Idea. Hell, they even make a thing, I think it’s called a Camel Back, to strap on your back and suck water out of while running. (That seems way too Navy Seal for me, but it proves my point.)

Of course, I’m putting a lot of faith in water to keep the whole experience from being another failure, but collapsed on the ground somewhere will have to go better if I’m at least hydrated. Right?

I probably won’t take up running, but I still like the idea of it. I could get some cute shorts and one of those spiffy combo bra/tank top thingies and some wicked cool running shoes. I can stand around and stretch, sipping water, and talk to the dogs while checking my resting heart rate (I don’t know why they do that, but presumably it’s important.) Until summer, I’ll need an even spiffier warm up suit – one without a hood (I hate hoods). Maybe red laces for my shoes. And a bumper sticker – Woman who runs with the dogs. Something like that.

Y’all know I’m not going to do this. But I like the idea of running. IN THEORY.

Second Annual Amaryllis Watch

/ wvfurandroot / 5 Comments

And we're off!

Last year’s Amaryllis Watch was so exciting that this year I vowed to record its growth daily. 

Well.  That was unrealistic.  But I have managed to take a photo every other day (or so). 

The photo above was taken today when the Little Darlin’ was about 5 days old (measuring age from the very first hint of green).  If last year is any indication, it will be 18-24 inches tall by this time next week.  Or maybe not.  The bulb was sorely mistreated this year.  Someone should call Plant Protective Services (PPS) on me.  Or maybe not.  The flower stalk growth is beginning a full two months earlier than last year. 

[I believe the first sign of growth occurred on Candlemas which seems appropriate.]