Soul Thumping

Released from my Vial too Soon?

When we first started dating, my (now) husband, Poseidon (he formerly prefered to go by "Zeus"), for some (or many) reasons came to the conclusion that I must be an alien.  I can't say for sure why, but his convictions remain strong, and he often makes comments about my alleged extraterrestrial heritage.  I finally feel obliged to acknowledge his pseudodoxy that I am from a distant galaxy, yet to be discovered by mere earthlings; however, he accepts me anyway (and for this I'm grateful...or should I say, "And for this I'm grateful?").

Last night while watching television, we were having some discussion, on what, I don't recall, but he looked at me and said, "You were released from your vial too soon, weren't you?"  He then asked me to tell him all about the portal to Middle Earth because he heard it was somewhere in West Virginia, and I am originally from West Virginia and an otherworldly oddball, so I must know, but I had no idea what he was talking about (has anyone else heard of this "portal" to Middle Earth in WV?).

I play along with the alien bit, because frankly, I've been programmed to do so, and I don't want to blow my cover or 'they' will beam me back up into space (or down to Middle Earth).  I simply told him that I was not released from my vial prematurely but that I had lost my instruction manual early on and had to wing it.

This seemed to satisfy his need to remind me that he knows where I really came from and I might as well be honest about it, like he's going to turn me in to the CIA, or NASA, or whatever incompetent agency handles E.T.s these days.  Turn me in?  Seriously, who would remind him to set his alarm clock every night (I have to do this every night)?  Who would buy his bagels and organic yogurt every week?  Who would do the laundry...oh, wait, he does the laundry.  So, when the mothership decides I've collected enough data and they come to take me home, Poseidon will starve, be late for work everyday, but at least he will have clean shirts.

I'll... be... right... here.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

2011 Christmas Gifts for Kooky, Fun, Intelligent Women

Happy Holidays!  Here is the link to my 2012 gift suggestions for women

2013 Christmas Gift link 

I swear, October isn't even here yet and the Christmas faeries are already stuffing thoughts and ideas into my head!  Last year I composed a brief post about Christmas gifts for intelligent women, and hopefully I helped a few people with gift buying ideas for 2010.  In anticipation of the 2011 holidays, I've already charged ahead and created my "2011 Christmas Gifts for Kooky, Fun, Intelligent Women" post to help out those early shoppers, and perhaps jump start those pesky procrastinators (I lump myself into the latter category):

Meliciously Yours tshirts make my list again.  These soft vintage tees with Victorian inspired designs make me feel empowered and feminine when I wear them (no, unfortunately, that is not me in the picture).  When I wear these tees out, I nearly always have women asking me, "Where did you get that shirt?"  That's easy!  Go to the Melicious Tees site and order one (or two, or three) for yourself or the hip, bright chick(s) in your life (or if you are in the North Carolina, South Carolina area, a few boutiques along the coast sell them).  I personally like the new 'Innovator' design.  Meliciously Yours is also a proud sponsor of Girls Rock NC, a non-profit organization that provides music and arts programming for girls ages 7 - 17!

The Emwave Pc Stress Relief Biofeedback Heartmath System is on my personal Christmas list this year.  Yeah, I know it sounds a bit like science fiction, and a few years ago I would have gone so far as to say this is a bit "flaky" but I use this device from time to time in my therapist's office and she recommends I get one for myself, so Poseidon, if you are reading this...just want you to know what you can add to my Christmas list for 2011.  This little contraption guides you to achieving more creative energy levels and reducing your anxiety and stress levels.  Hear that intelligent gals everywhere?  This little gadget helps reduce stress!  I can personally vouch for it's effectiveness (ok, its effectiveness on me...I don't want hate emails later).

What woman doesn't love shoes (there may be some out there who just don't get shoes, and I call them freaks)?  Poetic License is one of my favorite shoe brands because they come in some wacky textures and colors, yet classic enough to wear to work.  The Poetic License Jeweled Expression flat is a sensible, yet funky shoe for the intelligent belle.  Not too high, just right.  Even my batty little bunions don't scream quite as loudly as they could in Poetic License shoes.  Try Endless.com when shopping for Poetic License shoes because they seem to be cheaper than other online shoe sites.  I know in my area, Belk carries this line, but they usually have only a handful of styles.

Another item from my 2010 shopping list that is making a repeat performance is the B&N's Nook Color.  Now, I still haven't purchased one of these myself because I worship paper books and I'm not ready to part with the feel of paper on my fingers and all of that nonsense.  But, my sister does own one of these now and it is super handy and super cool.  I think I mentioned last year that my mother-in-law has the nook (not the one in color), and she still loves it.  As a matter-of-fact, a few weeks ago her power was out, she had no lights for hours, but she could still read!  For now, ladies (and gents), I'm sticking with the old-fashioned kind of book, but I recommend these, especially great for travel.  You can read, surf, or just look distinctly smart while carrying it around.

Last but not least, everyone should visit Maylee's Garden on Artfire.com.  Poseidon and I buy her handmade laundry detergent and it is fantastic!  The scents are incredible, most notably the nag champa.  My other favorite is patchouli lavender (though I think patchouli is sometimes difficult to get because the patchouli crop demand is still greater than the supply, so sometimes she may be out).  We always buy our laundry detergent from Maylee's Garden rather than local stores because the essential oils and scents make the laundry smell spectacular (I'm not just saying that).  You actually use much less of Maylee's detergent than you do store-bought suds, so the price is well worth it!  She often sends a sample pack of a new scent with our order, which is an added bonus.  Maylee's Garden also has soaps, perfume oils, and she even makes a shampoo bar specifically formulated for dreadlocks (I've never tried it because, well, I don't have dreads -- not yet).  Please do visit her site.  Her products would make great gifts for moms, mother-in-laws, sisters, cousins, aunts, daughters, friends, (ok even men), etc.

I know it is a short list, but it's been a busy year (new job, gallbladder removed, house on the market, etc.) and I personally haven't seen much in the way of anything intensely new or exciting screaming "BUY ME, DAMN IT."

Before closing, I just want to add a word or two (or a few) about gift cards.  Gift cards may seem boring and dull, and some may even say "tacky," but they are usually much appreciated, so if you have to wimp out and you just can't summon any imaginative shopping juice from the creativity gods and none of the above ideas are "just right," then gift cards are a sensible choice.  I recommend Sephora, Amazon, or a local day spa (if you are in the Raleigh, NC area or GA, TN, FL, or KS, I highly recommend Natural Body Spa).

 

--Fortuitous Observer

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Cats Are Like Wives...or Not

A few years ago I was on a project for work that required me to travel every week from my home in Nashville to Seattle for 8 months straight (in other words, Seattle was my home for 8 months).

Every Sunday night I had a car pick me up from the SEA-TAC airport to drive me to my hotel in downtown Seattle.  I got to know the driver fairly well, and we always chit-chatted about my life in Nashville or his new plans for his family.  One evening we got on the subject of my cats.  Cabbie Joe (I will call him that to protect his identity), who was from Nigeria, had a hard time understanding why people (and by "people," I believe he meant "Americans") wanted to own pets.  In his country, he explained, animals are not pets.  He started rattling off numbers on how much money "people"  could save if they didn't have pets.  He had apparently researched this topic well, unless the statistics he spewed at me were made up on the fly.

I had to agree with him (the figures were staggering when I heard them), but asked, "What about companionship?  Pets provide companionship."  He replied, "I have a wife and children for companionship."  I was tired, and didn't feel like getting into a huge philosophical debate with him.  He also believed that I, as a woman, should be married and not traveling around the country for work (this was a discussion we had had on a previous week).

Later that evening while checking emails from my hotel room, I started to give the pet conversation some thought.  Not because I necessarily agreed with him, but because he was extremely firm in his belief about not owning pets and he was very aggressive in getting his point across.  Perhaps he had a strong dislike of animals.  I don't know.

I mention this now because my poor Kwinn has been to the vet 3 times in the last week and a half.  I love this cat with every fiber of my being (I'm not exaggerating this time), but I'm beginning to detest going to the vet as much as he is.  Not just because of the cost, but because he is a rude little bastard when we arrive (understandably...I'll give him that), he pukes in my car each trip, and gives me the cold shoulder for days afterwards.

Last night, after cleaning the cat vomit from the cat carrier (after returning home from our 3rd vet  visit), for a split second I believed that perhaps Cabbie Joe was right after all.  For a nano second.  Then I went through the house looking for Kwinn to apologize for thinking such terrible thoughts.  I found him, hiding under the bed in the guest room.  I lifted the bedskirt and reached out to pet my beloved little companion.  On cue, he growled at me, turned his head the other way, thinking he should have just had a wife and some kids.

 

 

My Kwinn - check out his handsome cat posing.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

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Generation X Halloween Specials

Summer has passed (or on her last leg anyway), so this sun bunny has to switch gears and cozy up to autumn now.  It's ok, I can do it.  At 42, I don't trick-or-treat anymore (no one wants to see that), but I still love halloween in all its macabre glory, and nothing says feel-good frights like curling up with some popcorn and watching those great animated TV halloween specials!

Two or three years ago, I wrote an online article about the halloween TV specials that our generation grew up with in the 70s and 80s.  Rather than re-write the article, I will just point you to the link...here it is:  Top Halloween Specials for Nostalgic Generation Xers!  Enjoy, Gen Xers (and everyone else)!

P.S.  I think my favorite is still Witch's Night Out.

P.S.S.  I also wrote a similar article on Generation X Christmas specials.

--Fortuitous "Spooky" Observer

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I Remember When I Became a Philly Girl...My Incident with Officer O'Malley

I'm not a bad person.  I've done some incredibly mindless things in my lifetime (see my previous post on imbecilic things I've done...except for my mom, she isn't allowed to read it), and I know I will certainly be involved in many more unenlightened enterprises before I leave my current body and come back as a slug.

Some of the things I've done or the situations I've gotten myself into (or found myself in purely by accident) are regrettable, and some just make me laugh, and there are those that are regrettable and laughable at the same time.  At times, when I'm writing or sewing, and my creative juices are screaming, memories of certain, let's say, "experiences" insert themselves into my brain.  I either laugh out loud, shudder at the thought, or say to myself, simply "Oh Dear" and blank out, but then I feel the urge to confess.  Write it all down.  This is one of those times, if you haven't realized that by now, so hang on.

I moved from Raleigh to the big city of Philadelphia in 1996 at the silly age of 26 or 27.  I immediately became best friends with one of my co-workers, and I'll call him "Mitch."  Mitch taught me the city, where to go, where not to go, etc., and we were best buddies.  One Saturday night I drove us to our favorite bar for a few beers.  It was around 2am when we left the bar, and I was going to drop Mitch off at his house.  I was driving down Pine Street, which at some points is extremely narrow, and wasn't well lit then (still isn't). 

There was a car behind us, and as he was trying to pass me, Mitch yelled to me, "It's time you drove like a true Philly girl.  DO NOT let this car pass you."  Fueled at the thought of becoming a real live Philly gal, or just one too many beers, my foot pushed the gas pedal in and the chase was on.  I held my own for a few blocks, but the car took the lead on my left side then we both had to stop at a red light.  When the light turned green, I tried to regain my lead, but just as I was ready to pass him, we noticed a car parked on the street, and there was no avoiding it.

OK, I side-swiped the heck out of that car, and I'm not proud.  I would have stopped and left a note (it was 2am) with my information, but the Philly girl in me had just been established and Mitch screamed, "Keep going, keep going, a saw a police car back there."

I won't go through the rest of the tedious details, but I dropped Mitch safely off at his house, and made it back to my apartment without further incident.

The next afternoon, Mitch and I were going to an outdoor concert and this time he was picking me up.  The intercom buzzed and, thinking it was Mitch, I accepted the call and this is how the conversation went:

ME:  "Hello."

VOICE ON THE INTERCOM:  "Hello, am I speaking with Ms. S.?"

ME: (a little annoyed, because it wasn't Mitch and Mitch was already late) "Yes."

VOICE ON THE INTERCOM:  "Ms. S., this is Officer O'Malley with the Philadelphia City Police Department.  I need to speak with you about a hit and run accident that occurred early this morning."

ME:

VOICE ON THE INTERCOM:  "Hello, Ms. S.?"

ME: (feeling for the chair at my desk to steady myself because my knees were about to buckle)

VOICE ON THE INTERCOM:  "Ms. S., I'm going to need you to let me in so I can speak with you."

ME:  (knees did buckle, now laying on the floor, blood had left my head...hell, the blood had left the building!)

VOICE ON THE INTERCOM:  (laughing like a hyena) "It's me, Mitch.  Ha ha.  Let me in!"

 

...First and last time I ever side swiped a car...

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I truly have cried on occasion over road kill (even opossum), and even if actual tears don't well up, I always get a lump in my throat and my heart breaks for the poor animals.  I have so much more empathy for animals than humans.

I bring this up today because I nearly ran over a squirrel this morning on my way to work and I would have been mortified if I had (fortunately for both us, he was a fast little bugger).  I remember, rather vividly I might add, once in my early 20s when I was headed to a party, I ran over and killed a baby bunny that darted out into my path of destruction.  I saw him, but I couldn't stop in time (and it was dark).  I was so distraught that I turned around and drove home.  I could not see going to the party after that.  Had I run over a person rather than I bunny, I probably would have still gone to the party--after the police were finished with me.  I'm quite sure I would have.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

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Today, I'm Revisiting The Kingdom of Spaz - I am Clumsy

Growing up, I'd heard the word "spaz," most frequently it was because someone was calling another someone a "spaz" and I was never sure, really, what that term meant, but it didn't stop me from using it, calling my sister or a friend or my little brother a spaz when I felt like it.

I had not been called a spaz myself until my friend Betsy called me a spaz.  I was 21 I believe, and she was 25.  She was teaching English to pre-school children in Japan, and I was visiting her for a few days.  We took the train to Kyoto to visit the touristy Shogun house.  She bought her ticket, and while she waited at the side, I bought mine.  I fumbled for my Yen, and finally gave it to the cashier selling the tickets, and when she game me back my change, I was in such a hurry to get out of other people's way, that I fumbled around again to put the change away, dropped half of it on the ground, fumbled around on the ground to retrieve my coins, when Betsy said, "You are such a Spaz."  I knew what it meant then!  I WAS being a spaz.

I was not aware of this about myself until she said it, and I totally got it.  Spaziness is being so flustered, usually, at least in my case, because one is insecure about what they are doing, or trying not to look as if you don't know what your are doing, etc., that you make guffaws all over the place, dropping things, like a blundering idiot!  That was me!  I became more conscious of this, and forced myself to slow down, and that it doesn't matter if you don't always know what you are doing.  Who cares?  I was able to take that to heart and live life as a non-spaz.

Last weekend, Pat was doing something goofy, in too big of a  hurry, etc. and I told him, "You are a spaz.  I'm just telling you for your own good so that you know what you are doing, just like someone once told me."  I meant it to be helpful of course, but I suppose calling ones spouse a "spaz" to his face isn't going to be received as "helpful."  Nevertheless, I felt it was time he knew.

Today, I decided to bring my lunch outside, along with my laptop and do some writing in the fabulous late summer air.  It was a gorgeous day so I sat outside next to the man-made river that runs through my business campus.  I brought my antipasto salad and some water with me.  A gentle breeze blew, but not too much.  I spread out my salad, my fork, and my napkin.  As I was removing the lid to my salad, my napkin blew off of the table.  I put my fork down and went to chase it.  I began eating again, when I dropped an olive on my new dress.  Fortunately I was able to lift it from my dress so carefully, like I was performing surgery, that it left no spot on the dress!  Yeah.  I was busy congratulating myself, when I accidentally knocked my entire salad bowl off the table and into my lap.

Oh God, now what.  I was afraid to move, but I gently stood up and flicked the salad back into the bowl, and looking at my frock to inspect the damage, there was almost no remnants of olive, olive oil or lettuce!  It could have been so much worse.

Even though the outcome was tolerable, it doesn't change the fact that today, I reverted back to my own spaziness.  The spaz I thought I had left behind long ago still exists inside of me.  I'm unsure if I should laugh or cry, so I think I'll just say,"Hello old friend.  How have you been?"

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Creepy Cats Creeping

My title being an example of alliteration is purely by accident, but I was observing our two cats a few moments ago and it jumped squarely into my brain and would not budge, so I had to start writing.

When Poseidon and I come home from work in the evening, we split a can of wet cat food between our two cats.  Though I personally find the smell and texture of canned cat food nauseating, this is a fabulous feast for them.  They have a bowl of dry food that sits out all day, every day, which I'm sure is boring, so when that tin of wet food snaps open, those cats run at it like junkies who have just spotted a crack dealer on the corner.  Whether it's Poseidon or myself who arrives home first, as soon as the door opens, they circle like a pack of hungry wolves, wanting that sweet (I personally can't vouch for the taste, but they really like it, so I'll use "sweet" to describe the stuff) treat they know is coming any minute and they literally cry (ok, meow) until the food is placed in front of them.

On Saturday and Sunday, they are always a bit confused when chow time actually occurs, but they begin their assault around 2pm in the afternoon.  I suppose when you do nothing all day except sleep, eat, and poo, it is easy to develop a faulty sense of time, so whether its 2pm or 6pm, it doesn't really matter...to them, it is Fancy Feast o'clock.

I swear, they have a detailed map, with their battle stations plotted and well-armed.  They take turns slinking on the carpet, bellies to the rug, inching closer, and closer.  Each time I look up, they are a few inches closer to us than they were the minute before.  They stop, like statues.  I doubt they are even breathing.  They are simply waiting and watching, daring each other to get a little nearer.  If they have our attention, we will remember something very, very important.  What is it again?  Oh, yeah, FEED US!!! 

Kwinn lets Kat do the dirty work, and then he looks at her like, "See, I told you they weren't going to feed you yet."  Then minutes later he gives her the look, like, "Go try it again, go try it now."  Kat even goes so far as to jump up on the sofa next to us and start poking us with one paw (I'm not kidding) and meowing.  If we ignore her, she flits away, only to try again within minutes.

The last time this happened, I came up with a brilliant counter-attack.  When Kat jumped up on my lap and poked me, I poked her back.  She was stunned.  Completely mystified.  She looked at my finger, and her belly where I poked her, then looked at me again as if to ask, "What the hell was that?"  I stared at her, she stared at me a bit more, then she jumped down, walked over to Kwinn, rubbed up against him as if to say, "Tag, your it," then flopped down to take a nap.

For just a few blissful moments, I deluded myself into thinking Poseidon and I were actually in charge of this household, until hunger won out in the end, and Kat re-armed and hit her target:  my cheek with her sharp paw.  Resistance is futile.  Bon appétit kitties.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

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