The Antidote to the Technocracy: Immersing Myself in Sumptuous Ladies' Magazines

When the world is too much with me, I retreat into Victoria and Southern Lady magazines. They pile up in tucked away towers around the house for months at a time, unopened. Sometimes even six months fly by with nary a ruffling of the pages by yours truly. 

But then, suddenly, I will feel so dried up and crispy from this worrisome world that I will grab a couple from the stacks and scurry off to the patio, like I did Saturday evening. 

With birds flitting and chirping, chimes resonating, and the horn of a distant train lending a bass line, I melt into the loveliness of elegant words, elevating thoughts, and picturesque scenes. 

I startle myself from my reverie by whispering gorgeous phrases, savoring each word-picture as it rolls off my tongue. 

Oh! A feature story on demitasse spoons! Readers writing in about their lovely book clubs, peopled by ladies endowed with exquisite manners. An article on artful stationery. 

I am charmed and feel the the nectar of life filling my cells, moistening my very marrow. 

I am restored. 

At least until I open my email again.

These are the Moments

Can you see how much Emma loves her daddy?

My dear husband was finally able to make it to one of Emma's piano recitals at her community college recently.  He was in Houston at a shop supervising the work being done on some kind of huge part, was it a valve? for a unit in the refinery where he works.  So he left there, came home and picked me up, and we dashed to the school--gobbling our lunch while we drove--very uncivilized, I admit.  We managed to get to the school in the middle of the first performance, and Emma was up next.  Of course, she was texting me, "Where are you?"

We waited in the lobby until we could scoot in between performances and grab seats.  It was so exciting for me for Herb to get to come--and for Emma, too.  Afterward I got this "prison lineup" shot of them outside the recital hall.  They're so cute together and so much alike!

Bad Signs in Houston

I have to drive across Houston to get to Mass, and today I was confronted repeatedly with digital signs on the interstate with the warning, "Talk, Text, CRASH!!!"  I got so distracted thinking about these ridiculous messages, that I missed my exit and drove a couple of miles before I even realized it, just enough to make me late for Mass.  (I'm going to put up my own sign: "Read ridiculous City of Houston messages, go crazy!")  Crashing is certainly a possibility if you "talk and text" while driving, but it is by no means a given.  And probably many offenders don't even read English.  Talk about white privilege!  Next we'll have to pay some new tax to connect Google Translate to all the digital signs.  Don't ask me how they could do that.  I am not a technical person.  I still don't understand cell phones, but they work anyway.

A few months ago the signs were shrieking,  "If there's water on the road, turn around, don't drown."

It had rained all night and all day, so yeah, there was water on the road.  The road wasn't underwater; it was just wet.  Was I going to drown if I didn't turn around?  No.  Not even close.  But I could imagine some goofy person reading that sign and making an immediate u-turn into traffic.  I know that the  Houston employee who came up with that message had the best of intentions.  The city has had people drive into flooded underpasses and drown.  It is definitely a serious problem.  But why can't they just say "Use caution approaching underpasses.  Possible severe flooding."  Or something.  Good grief.  It's not that hard.

I broached this subject with my husband, venting just a little.

"Wendy, they don't write the messages for educated white women!" he proclaimed.

I burst out laughing!  He laughed too, but he insisted his explanation was correct.

"But that's not the point!" I argued.  They should communicate accurately for everybody!  I hate imprecise language!"

He looked at the skirt that I had hung up in the bathroom to dry the night before and said, "Your dress is dry."

"It's not a DRESS!  It's a SKIRT!  They're not the same thing!"

Then I ran from the room screaming with my hands over my ears.

Living on Gecko Time

I don't know if it's the Year of the Gecko or what, but for the last several months, we have been blessed with a gathering of geckos every night--on my kitchen sink window and also on my mother's bathroom window.

We have grown to love them.  Every night, while I perch on the side of the garden tub, waiting for my mom to potty after I get her dressed for bed, we count the geckos on her bathroom window and wonder what they're thinking--why they favor this window and my kitchen sink window, and what they think about.

We worry that with the cooler weather, they will soon disappear.

"Don't go, geckos!" we tell them.

"They're so cute." my mother opines.

I think it's because ours are kind of chubby.  Also, there is something about the way they curl their tails, forming lower case "j's" with legs, that I find attractive--kind of reminds me of paisleys, I suppose.  I love the way they stay in one place, then suddenly all move and pause again.  Maybe it is gecko freeze tag, but I suspect it has something to do with potential prey.

Anyway, we count them eagerly each night.

"Only four!  Is it getting too cold for them?"
"Look, six tonight!"

We savor living on Gecko time, but winter is coming.

You Can Take a Girl Out of the Country. . .

Saturday morning I donned a springtime dress of wisteria blue with splashes of delicate pink and yellow blossoms.  I draped a  strand of pearls across my neck; matching earrings completed the look.  I placed a medium blue straw hat on my head and covered my feet in some adorable little Mary Jane black flats.  Feeling fresh as a flower from my punkin head to my twinkle toes, I joyfully betook myself to do my weekly shopping at the outdoor farmer's market in Houston, about a 45-minute trip.  I planned to make several other stops, but the farmer's market demanded first place, as I was on a mission to procure pastured pork bacon, a high demand item with a tendency to sell out quickly.  I felt incredibly light-hearted and gay as I perused the vendors' booths.

The first cloud appeared on my horizon when the pastured pork people told me that the only bacon they had left was mostly fat.  Determined not to let it get me down, I opted for ground pork and bratwurst and continued on my merry way.  The bee farm lady greeted me, "Hello, friend!", and I purchased six beeswax tapers, four votives, and a gallon of raw honey from this sweet lady.  I love farmer's market folks.  They're so sociable.

With pork products in one hand, and bee products in the other, I was now comfortably balanced and securely rooted to the ground.  It felt good, similar to what my dear husband does for me, who is serious, focused, and always plans his work and works his plan.  I have a tendency to get so happy that I begin to float.  Then, if I have a plan, I forget it as I ride currents of air wherever they may carry me and sing, "This is the day that the Lord has made.  Let us rejoice and be glad in it!"

I intended to shop some more after I deposited these goods in the car.  However, on my way there, I caught a glimpse of my right foot, and my light heart crashed suddenly to the ground, for behold, from my instep protruded several inches of this woodsy arrangement of oak leaves and pollen pods.  I shuddered.   Instead of an attractively-shod, civilized foot, I had an attractively-shod, savage foot that looked like it was part of a Sasquatch costume!

Dear me!

Humiliation is good for one's soul, I reminded myself as I hurried to the car.  After depositing my purchases in the cooler, I sat down sideways in the driver's seat with my legs out the door and studied the situation on the bottom of my shoe.  It appeared to be a giant oak debris bouquet, glued in place with a massive, moist chicken poop of reddish brown hue, a gift from our home flock.  Turning, I reached for the fast food napkin stash that we have traditionally kept in the glove box.  Egad!  The cupboard was bare.  "Oh, nooooo!" I despaired.  I blamed this nasty situation on the Specific Carbohydrate Diet, which required that we completely give up fast food.  And without drive-thru food, one no longer receives a steady supply of emergency napkins.

I searched frantically in crevices, pockets, and pokes for a used napkin or tissue, all the while contorting my body awkwardly as I  dangled the offensive foot out the door.  My efforts produced one small rectangle of a TJMaxx receipt.  I examined it hopefully.  Could it do the job?  Could it separate the unsightly arrangement from my shoe and yet maintain my hygiene so that I might confidently continue my planned itinerary?

I realized I had no real choice.  Grimly, I took a deep breath and ever so gingerly attempted to purge my sole of the wages of chicken contamination.  Immediately, I felt something dampen the index finger of my right hand.  I dropped the receipt, spread my fingers and examined the offended digit.  A reddish brown blob coated half of my finger nail.  Oh, gag!  Deep disgust churned in my delicate stomach.   Retrieving the receipt, I carefully folded it and attempted to remove the poop from my finger.  I succeeded in heavily outlining my nail with manure.  I stared at it in shock, my mouth open.  Feeling queasy, I decided to drive directly home and indulge in applying massive quantities of soap and hot water with a scrub brush.  I tossed the polluted receipt onto the parking lot and closed the car door.

Now, guilt as heavy as a Japanese sumo wrestler sat upon me, squeezing the last bit of lighthearted air from my lungs.  "Don't mess with Texas!" it declared unreasonably, "especially at the farmer's market, you idiot, where all the earth day people shop!"  Totally miserable, I pondered this message.  Slowly, I opened the car door and peered down at the brown-streaked receipt.  Yuck.

Rebelling, I closed the door again.

The sumo wrestler bounced.  "Think of the little children!" he demanded.

Dutifully, I imagined an adorable two-year-old, angelically radiant in his innocense, picking up my refuse and saying with a hurt tone, "Look, Mommy."

"Uncle," I squeaked, miserably.

I grabbed a plastic grocery bag, re-opened the door, leaned out, and snatched up the abandoned slip of poo paper.  I felt no relief, though, because the second I secured it, I felt something moist on my right thumb.

"This could not be happening," I tried to convince myself.

But it was.  I now had a brown thumb in addition to the brown outline on my index finger.

"Waaaaaaaah!" I cried, giving into total frustration for my situation.  I was unclean.

Then I remembered the Whole Foods bathroom, bountifully equipped with water, liquid lavender soap, and paper towels, and less than five minutes away.  I drove there.

 I sighed contentedly as I lavished my hands with the liquid soap and worked it into a mound of sanitizing suds so thick, my hands disappeared completely.  I rinsed and repeated.  I breathed in the intoxicating loveliness of the lavender and joyfully greeted the pink purity of my right hand's thumb and index finger.  My spirits soared heavenward.  Cleanliness is indeed next to godliness.

Resuming my errands, I took a side road through a classy old residential neighborhood in River Oaks, blessed with multitudes of mature shade trees and vast walls of giant azaleas, all abundantly abloom.  I felt the familiar lift of happiness.  As my feet lost contact with the ground, I pulled over and texted Emma excitedly:  "I'm on the azalea trail!  Yippee!"

Have You Been Looking for Me?

Considerate bloggers let you know in advance when they are going to take a break from posting.  Obviously, I am not one of them!  In my defense, though, I didn't plan not to blog; other things just got in the way.  Lucky for me, a charming young reader by the name of Michelle Emerson let me know--ever so sweetly-- that she was disappointed that I had not updated my blog in so long.  It's good to be missed.  Thank you, Michelle!

Roosters and Men

I understand roosters--what makes them go; what they're thinking when they cock their head to the side and peer up at me with that cold eye.  I understand roosters, and I act accordingly.  I don't expect them to change for me and act like hens.

Roosters share some important traits with men.  Knowing roosters has helped me understand men better.  The curious thing, though, is that the traits I see roosters and men sharing do not foster bonds of friendship or respect between them.  When the rooster exhibits his rooster behavior to my husband,  my husband gets angry and declares,  "I am not going to put up with this!" and plans the rooster's demise.

Why does he not say to the rooster, "As a man, I understand that you are defending your home and your women.  I respect that, and I want you to know that I value and greatly admire your success as a breeder."

Tis a puzzlement.

An Autumn Chill, Midnight, and Moonlight

Somehow Emma and I both ended up taking naps yesterday afternoon. Naps are good. But at midnight, I found myself reading, fully alert, on the couch. Then I received a text message from Emma. I had assumed that she was in her bedroom asleep.

"Do you want me to sleep inside?" she inquired.

I guessed where she was. Instead of answering, I opened the back door and stepped out into the most deliciously cool air. Taking a few steps into the grass, I gazed through the oaks to admire the moon. I shifted my bare feet until I found the perfect frame for it in the branches. My gown blew softly in the breeze.

With my eyes full of moon, I stepped lightly across the cold grass and entered Emma's bower. "What are you doing?" I asked softly as I climbed the ladder to her loft. I could not see her when I reached the top.

"I'm going to sleep out here," she whispered. We chatted for a few minutes as she lay stretched upon a flattened air mattress, and I clung to the top of the ladder. She explained that the wind had called her from her bedroom, and she had wandered to the pond with Cotton, her cat. After that kind of an outing, I would not expect her to return to her bedroom. It would ruin the spell.

"I think I want to go inside and get some milk and crackers," Emma said.

"That sounds good to me too," I said, stepping down the ladder.

So we left the bower. Again, we were greeted by the chilly breeze, so bewitchingly playful, rippling our gowns and ruffling our hair. We decided that we would get our refreshments and enjoy them outside in the grass. In the kitchen, Emma shook the milk jar to re-distribute the cream and poured us each a foaming glassful. She filled a plate with peanut butter crackers and banana. We half-heartedly hoped that this fare would make us sleepy, though neither one of us was truly interested in sleeping. We yearned for excitement. Yes.

We exited the front door, crept between the giant split-leaf philodendron and the boxwood hedge to the darkened landscape under the canopy of pecan and oaks, where we took refuge on the grass at the corner of the house, facing the hayfield. We could hear the chickens muttering and jostling for position, a distant train, and dogs barking.

We nibbled our simple repast and sipped the creamy milk, admiring Lady Moon. China May discovered us and climbed all over us, purring. Then her cohort, Sunshine-Moonshine Thibodeaux, appeared, curling his fluffy yellow-striped tail into a question mark: "Would we share our milk?"

Emma and I talked about men and whether we should go and swim in the pond, and of my own moonlight wanderings when I was about her age. She sang lullabies. I told her that I liked the feel of the wind sneaking between my toes, and she laughed.

Then we wanted more food. We took up our glasses and our shared plate and returned to the kitchen. While she got the wine glasses I opened a bottle of Merlot. I grabbed a grilled sirloin steak from the refrigerator, a tasty remnant from supper the night before. We stood at the kitchen counter, sipped the wine, and greedily tore off bits of the juicy meat with our fingers, devouring it. It was so incredibly satisfying. When we had eaten our fill, we took our wine glasses and ventured to the edge of the hayfield, stretched out our bare legs to get moontans and leaned against each other for warmth as the cold wine worked with the cold wind to chill us most delightfully, raising rows of goosebumps like lights coming on in a city after a power outage.

At 1:30 a.m., we went gladly to our beds, eager for sleep and whatever adventure the dawn might bring.

Peace Rained

Yesterday morning I hand milked Fiona in a steady but gentle rain. My raincoat hood fell far forward on my head, limiting my vision to a small patch of glistening green grass, two hooves, and an udder. Fiona did not move the whole time, and the soft sound of the rain lulled me into such a deep reverie that I felt removed from time. The visual effect of my hood turned my thoughts to imagining I was a medieval monk.

When I finished, I felt filled with peace. I slowly led Fiona back to her pasture, the bottom of my dress wet and heavy against my legs, remembering a Louisa May Alcott quote, "I had a pleasant time with my mind, for it was happy."

The Chevron Pledge

Have you seen the Chevron billboard with a picture of a lovely young lady and the message, "I will unplug stuff more".

Ugh.

The worst part is that the sponsor seems to expect us to take it seriously, like a pledge. Every time I read it, I get the urge to raise my hand and say, "On my honor, I will try to unplug stuff more, so help me Gaia."

That's when my Guardian Angel boxes my ears and reminds me that I'm a Catholic. Deo Gratias!