limping along in laptop land

Sorry I haven't been around much. I haven't been visiting my own blog let alone anyone else's. My excuse is a pretty good one. I am, as they say, technologically swamped.

1. I'm finally getting rid of a dinosaur desktop that still runs Windows 2000. The task of combing through old files and forgotten photos has given me headaches and backaches.

2. I moved the kids' defunct desktop out of their playroom. Whew, the dust that accumulates under those things. Dust allergies be damned, I'm looking into recycling or donating both computers if they're not too obsolete for charity.

3. I stepped on my laptop a few months ago. I've been watching it slowly succomb to the fuzzy electronic equivalent of an evil black spider daily growing larger on my screen and blocking my view.

If you've never been privvy to the cracked screen phenomenon, it's really quite fascinating. Eye strain not withstanding.

All of this to say, a new laptop for me. I'm in the middle of transferring files from the old laptop as we speak.

But oy, an ADD nightmare. So many files, so little short term memory. Should I save or should I trash, now? This indecision's killing me.

4. For too long we've been coping with a printer that drinks more ink than a barfly slurps cheap whiskey. After fully one year of researching asking my neighbor his opinion on laser printers, I broke down and bought one of those, too.

5. My daughter's cell phone and iPad were stolen out of her backpack at school. Thankfully her dad took care of that crisis though I was subject to the groans of a text-deprived adolescent.

6. My other daughter plus friend were playing Austin's Next Supermodel in our driveway. The camera was, apparently, left on the runway and stepped on. Or it was dropped (not that anyone has fessed up). The retractable lens is now jammed and stuck in permanently erect status (unlike other household playthings). Pliers to no avail, the camera is a goner. The family camera, i.e., the family's only camera. Still trying to figure out consequences for that mishap.

7. My office phone died. Bought a new one, installed it (crawling under my desk and detangling wires between client appointments), cursed it, returned it (ridiculously-over-complicated-programming-syndrome), and now have it's replacement sitting on my desk awaiting it's trial run.

Getting used to a new programmable phone is no small task. I don't know about you but I find it impossible to figure out if a gadget will meet my needs short of trial and error.

Ok, I think that about covers it.

When the file transfers, phone upgrades and wireless network adjustments are complete, I hope to resume blogging.

Until then, may the force of functional devices be with you.

Update: Confession extracted. The friend did it. Tripped and dropped it. Can't imagine why, running in the dark, in a long sundress and cowboy boots.

spring break invasion

It's spring break week in Texas. Port Aransas is a small island off the coast of Corpus Christi. A town of less than population 4000 is expecting anywhere from 60-100,000 students. It's an invasion!

So my husband is in the lobby of our Gulf Coast condo and takes this picture of another type of invasion. Apparently the powers that be in the four corners of the universe want in on some of the college coed action:

What kind of UFOs excitement are you entertaining for your spring break?

rocking my red flats

I'm not much of a pump wearer, but I will gladly rock my red flats.

Thanks to My Piece Of Mind, I am now aware that today is National Women and Girls HIV/AIDS Awareness Day. Every 10 minutes an American is infected with HIV. The threat is still alive.

So we all need to spread the word and Rock the Red Pump. Please check out the website, sign up, promote this day of protection on your blog, Twitter and/or Facebook and encourage those you love to be safe.

my love affair with jeans

I'm pretty sure my very first pair of official blue jeans were hip huggers. The hippie version of today's low rise. I was probably eleven or so when I got them. I remember the feeling as I wore them. Hip. Cool. Seventeen.

At some point in junior high I graduated to my first true love: Levi's. I wore them until I wore them out. They came in blue denim, brown corduroy, and painter pants white. Their versatility kept the love affair alive.

But then along came their first true rival, designer jeans. When the first designer jeans ever were introduced, Jordache, I was a high schooler. The mass marketed designer clothing thing was new, let alone in something as basic as denim. But I was not tempted. I thought they looked ridiculous with their dark blue, even, un-faded look, their tight clingy-thighs and their little pockets embroidered with swirly-bobs. I couldn't take them seriously and besides, my mother couldn't take their price. So I remained faithful to Mr. Strauss.

Long about my junior year in college I succomed to the designer temptation, however, to the siren call of Calvin Klein.

And for awhile, nothing came between me and my Calvin(s). But ultimately I returned to the loose legpants of Levi. Pre-shrunk, button-fly, orange-tag, red-tag, acid wash, light wash, 501's and 504's. I loved them all.

The next greatest blue jean revolution for this woman suffering through the waist-pinching, post-childbirth phase of her life was stretch jeans. And when Levi's came out with their version? I fell in love all over again. For the first time ever I could tolerate tight fitting jeans. I'm not sure anyone observing my evolution from behind was pleased, but I sure was.

Which takes me to now. The latest blue jean phenom appears to have hit the airwaves.

I saw them the other night in one of those tacky television commercials on cable, while, as it happens, I was stuffing my face with a juicy burger and fries. It's only fitting, if you think about it.

But really? If jammie is the future of jeans? I am filing for denim divorce.

Until then, Levi's? You are safe.

Disclaimer: One night after I wrote this post, Stephen Colbert did a segment on Levi's (scroll to 1:52), another example of my common experience with synchronicity. Or maybe the staff at Colbert Nation are running out of ideas and have taken to peeking at unposted blog posts.

friday-fill-ins

1. Bring your favorite adult beverage.

2. No cover charge and drinks are included.

3. A good margarita is exactly what I need right now.

4. Well, you see, officer, it all started when she spilled her drink on me.

5. I'd better get out of here soon!

6. But what if nobody answers? Do I get to make another call?

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to kicking back and relaxing, tomorrow my plans include catching up on continuing education and Sunday, I want to take a walk in this warm almost-spring weather!

Want to join in on the Friday Fill-In Fun? Click on the margarita.

The King's Surprise

I just came from seeing The King's Speech. Really wonderful movie. I made sure my tissues were in hand when the opening credits rolled. Besides some great performances by three of my favorite actors, I enjoyed the happiest of surprises.

Warning. Spoiler alert if you are a BBC-P&P fan.

I knew I'd see Mr. Darcy but who knew Eliza Bennett would appear on the scene? Good thing I was tissue-ready but for an entirely different reason than expected.

Did anyone know about this ahead of time? I had no idea. And glad of it. Such a thrill. There was even an appearance by the awful Mr. Collins.

As for Lowell's introducing the two of them? My hair was standing on end.

Yes, I'm a sentimental sap.

telephone bust

This post by Blue Yak got me thinking about one of my most embarrassing on-the-phone moments.

I was maybe a junior in college. I was kinda seeing, kinda dating but mostly just wanting to be friends with this guy who I will call Thomas.

I really liked Thomas. He was a kind, smart, shy, poetic stoner with twinkly brown eyes and some of the most awesome, sexy hair. I think he had gone to my school but maybe dropped out, partly due to his extra curriculars but mostly due to finances.

Thinking back, and this could be a complete fabrication at this point, he was a mix between Jim Morrison and Seth Rogen.

The hair was Seth, only a lot longer. The eyes, definitely Jim.

Thomas also made one of the best omelettes I had ever eaten. To this day, I add a little bit of water to my eggs in his honor. Makes the omelette light and fluffy. He might have been wifty but he made an amazing omelette.

Back to the phone story. Thomas hung around my apartment a lot. It was one of those Saturday mornings where he was acting a little too comfortable, like he might just stay around for life the whole weekend. But I had other plans. I was trying to figure out a way to ditch him kindly get him to go home.

What I came up with was pathetic this:

I had my roommate knock and tell me that so-and-so had called while I was out and asked that I call her back.

This was in prehistoric times, by the way, before answering machines, let alone cell phones. (Really, though? How did we manage to date without answering machines and cell phones? I'll tell you how. We stupid stupid women sat at home by the phone. And it really really sucked.)

So I picked up the phone but pressed on the disconnect button and pretended to have a conversation with so-and-so. Where the gist was, "Oh hey, that's right, so-and-so. I forgot we were going to go there this afternoo----"

At this very moment the phone chose to ring. The phone I was holding in my hand and having a pretend conversation, rang.

Busted.

Thomas was lying on the floor, I remember, watching me the whole time. Because that's what he did, mostly.

I quickly released the button then hung up on the true caller. I tried to play it off. Badly. To Thomas I said,

"Huh? What just happened? That was weird. Wasn't it?!"

With an ever growing confused look on his face he tilted his head as if to say, Huh is right?

"I guess we got disconnected somehow while I was ... uh ... you know ... talking to her."

I don't remember too much after that. I do remember then, and now, being grateful, that he was a stoner. Thinking he might have just thought, "That was weird, dude." Nothing more. Feelings spared. But I doubt even he was that clueless.

Any embarrassing dating phone moments out there?

the black widow spider speaks

There is a large family gathering this weekend in a small Texas town that my husband, children and I will not be attending.

Why, you are supposed to ask?

We won't go because one individual attending is guilty of (though not to be confused with feels guilty for) years of hounding harrassing stalking me in the form of letters.

Lengthy, hand written letters, perfect in penmanship, perfectly straight lines on unlined paper. Sometimes three pages, sometimes seven, sometimes fourteen pages long.

And no, I never wrote him any letters, ever.

This letter writer would be a close member of Sam's family. Blood kin. Sam's best friend for many years.

Do any of you remember when the first stalking laws passed, maybe fifteen years ago? Well I remember like it was yesterday. So guess who was first in line at the police station pouring her heart out opening her letters up to whomever would help?

Now imagine a crusty, old, balding detective bastard, and yes, he earned the title bastard, listening to a young newbie shrink-in-town describe her husband's family member/former best friend's frightening, demonizing, clinically crazy letters.

Guess who humbly and pleadingly asked the detective bastard to sharpen his newly legislatively empowered pencil and unleash his arrest warrant powers?

And guess what the first question the detective bastard asked me?

What does your husband think of all this?

All this? What does my husband think? Is this freaking 1889 where I need his permission to press charges? I am the victim here. But rather than argue with the patronizing detective bastard, I opted to unveil a few choice samples of the letters.

And this is where you'd probably like for me to quote verbatim from my eight-inch stack of hate mail. Except I can't won't put my hands on them right now. I think, but am not sure, they are up in some remote corner my attic.

But here are a few choice phrases that are forever seared into my memory I recall:

! In one of the earliest screeds, he called me the black widow spider. And lest I miss his meaning, he provided a large illustration of a spider on a web complete with red hour glass.

! I was accused of wielding my psychological powers to manipulate his family into doing my evil bidding, in particular to control the individual who controlled his purse strings. He affectionately termed my powers, Susanna's* Secrets.

*Let's say that my given name is Susanna but I have gone by Susie my whole life and have avoided ever going by the name Susanna, because it sounded pretentious and was only used by angry mothers, grandmothers, teachers and nuns. Therefore the weight of Susanna's Secrets was all the more onerous.

! In one letter I was called an east coast yankee carpet bagging* beady-eyed bitch.

*Carpet bagging? What does that mean exactly? In my case, I mean? At the time he wrote that line I was somewhere in the last stages of getting my doctorate. Whose carpet was I bagging, exactly?

! He threatened that if I didn't put an end to Susanna's Secrets I would regret it, be sorry, and pay in terrible pain. To emphasize this point he drew of a large knife dripping in red blood.

! He accused me of murdering my best friend*. My crime was failing to discourage her from moving on with her life and pursuing a new relationship. My method of murder, of course, was her contracting HIV from the new guy. Duh.

*His former girlfriend, who, by the way, was, and is, quite alive and doing much better without his letter-writting ass.

!He threatened to take action to have my license revoked by reporting Susanna's Secrets to my oversight board. He claimed that by consoling and offering support to my friend, his former girlfriend, I was violating the board's rule of ethics. If he was to do this, I would have suffered the aggravation and likely the legal expense of defending myself. This caused me quite a bit of worry, moreso than knives dripping in blood.

!He tampered with a picture of me that was hanging on his mother's wall. A picture of my husband and me sitting close, smiling big, taken several months after our twins were born. It was one of many in a montage-type frame. He had apparently carefully dismantled the frame, removed the picture, cut the eyes out, replaced it, and re-hung the frame.

!He said that I waddled when I walked. Now, here you shall know the true evil that resides within me. The sin of vanity. This waddling business caused me just slightly less anxiety than the licensing board worries.

The short story is this: The police did not issue a warrant. Though one year or so later one was issued after he letter-stalked a friend of the family. He did get arrested. He did go to jail. He was let out on bond by the purse strings: Obviously Susanna's Secrets were not working. He failed to appear in court. Nothing further happened except the rising blood pressure and dismay of one black widow spider.

We haven't seen the author of the manuscripts, as we call them, in almost twenty years. He lives in Sam's hometown, jobless, supported by his mother my mother-in-law the purse strings. He has never met or, to my knowledge, laid eyes on my kids, other than photos.

For the record, Sam was fully supportive of my pressing charges. He sat with me through a previous report in his hometown. Made the call, even. I am grateful for his pledge to stay away from him, made without my asking.

I've gradually moved beyond fear (most of the time) to appreciating the humor of it all. I used to have a rubber spider stick-on stuck to the dash of my car. Some of the letter phrasings have become code words. When I don't give Sam his way? Damned beady-eyed bitch. When the purse strings lean in our favor? Susanna's Secrets are finally working.

And so we won't be going to the reunion this weekend. The scribbler will be there. He'll be driving his mother, my children's grandmother the purse strings.

As for those letters, I'll leave them in their attic grave, no doubt closely guarded by a black widow spider whom, I know, has got my back.

addendum I want the Texas lege to consider

In my last post I commented on this sonogram legislation proposal currently up for debate in the Texas legislature. Now that I've had time to think on it, I recommend the Texas Senate committee consider the following addendum:

Before a man can be approved for a vasectomy he first needs to watch a series of videos showing cute little baby sperms fertilizing the ovum.

Serious videos and not so serious videos such as this one or my personal favorite, Super Sperm:

And then the vasectomy wannabe-recipient will need to watch a series of cute baby videos. You know, the kind of babies that he could possibly fertilize with his sperm. Sweet, cute, cuddly, laughing babies.

In case he doesn't realize what his sperm could produce if he didn't get the procedure.

In case he needs his state legislature to inform him.

if this isn't massively big government, nothing is

Woke up to this on the front page of today's paper. A proposed law by Texas State Senator Dan Patrick (Republican-7th District) will make it mandatory for women seeking abortions to have a sonogram and listen to the fetal heartbeat.

Patrick has been proposing laws of this nature for years. His 2009 law was watered down, mandating that women be informed of their right to the procedures but allowing them to opt out.

His "current proposal allows women to avert their eyes."

It's unclear whether women can refuse the fetal monitor heartbeat.

Really? A bunch of stuff shirts in the Texas lege are gonna allow me to look away? What would they have us do? Put our heads in a vice and force us to look? Stick plugs in our ears against our will? Sounds a little clockwork orangey to me.

And what happened to the Republican rallying cry, Keep government off my back! I don't understand how my back is off limits but my uterus is fair game.

swann's way out

I recently mail off my copy of Remembrance of Things Past, Volume I: Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust.

Unfinished. About 400 pages worth of unfinished.

I'd heard about Proust from a number of sources, spoken with a reverence reserved for the likes of James Joyce and Dostoevsky.

I didn't finish Ulysses either though I loved Crime and Punishment.

So when I brought home Swann's Way it was with a token solemnity that I climbed into bed to read it, cup of tea by my side. I hunkered down hoping to love this book, with those many volumes and thousands of pages to look forward to.

Nope.

I wasn't all that certain at first. I'm still not. After many nights and many dutiful attempts to read a multitude of paragraphs, filled with endless compound and run on sentences covering a period of time that could have lasted no more than five minutes, five seconds, perhaps, devoted to a glimpse into the stream of consciousness of one man as he lie awake in bed, moments after snuffing out his candle, remembereing his youth, a childhood of inconsolable angst, a childhood of yearnings and dread combined into a dull, relentless ache of loneliness, when he would lie awake then, in just such a bed, in just such a way as this, a boy, waiting for his dear, sweet mother to climb the steps and come to his room and deliver a good night kiss, a kiss he anticipated with unbearable fervor, after which he felt an intensity of disappointment that it was over and that he would not see his mother again for many hours yet to come, knowing that his father would ridicule him for his clinging emotionality, I decided that reading pleasure was not to be had at the prolific hand of Proust.

In short, reading left me feeling really annoyed. Was it Proust's writing style? Or was it a function of the translation? Whichever, it writing bounced and skipped like a beaded bracelet that breaks open and scatters across concrete. Where is it all going? Will it ever come together again, into one coherent idea? Too much repetitive detail. Too little notice before a topic change. My mind was ringing with, "Alright, already!" Throughout the one hundred or so pages I read, I wasn't sure if, during the entire narrative, he was still in bed.

For several nights I gave it another try. I thought maybe I'd finally get into his rhythm, start to follow his train of long, obsessive thought. Determined to appreciate it.

Didn't happen.

Instead I started to wonder if the One Hundred Greatest Novels of All Time list was penned by none other than Ellsworth Toohey, playing a trick on the masses, trying to make us feel small and guilty for failing to comprehend the magnitude of Proust's style.

But in the end, I let it go. Life is too short to feel annoyed. Too many good books out there waiting.

I'm curious though. Any readers think I made a mistake, loved the book, think I should have persevered?

sensational haiku wednesday

This week's theme: Disclosure.

I spend most of my work week encouraging disclosure. Sometimes it's easy because people badly want a place to divulge. To feel listened to and validated.

Other times its really hard to let go of secrets.

tell the true story

this is the place to reveal

even if it hurts

Want to join in the Haiku fun? Visit Jenn's You know ... that Blog? Check out the guidelines here.

morning omen

You know how when you use the last of the gallon of milk for your bowl of cereal?

And then you pour your second bowl of cereal and the Fruit Loops get a little soggy from the leftover milk?

And then you reach into the fridge and realize there is not another gallon of milk in there?

That's when you know you should just get back in bed and stay there.

making all kinds of history

Isn't it exciting? So much history in the making, right before our very eyes.

First we have Barak Obama, the first African American President of the United States.

Then we have Nancy Pelosi, the first woman Speaker of the House.

And now we have John Boehner, first African American Speaker of the House.

I mean, come on. His skin is two shades darker than President Obama's.

i'm perfect

Just the way I am.

That's right. You heard me. Everything about me is perfect, at this moment, always, all ways.

Perfect.

This was the end meditation in a yoga class after we were all stretched and relaxed. In the Savasana pose, I believe it was called. When the instructor first suggested this perfect idea, I nearly jumped out of my freshly yoga-tized skin.

What the hell kinda self talk is that, perfect?

But then I figured, I'm here. Might as well give it a wing. And, surprise surprise. I actually got there. To this foreign internal world of feeling at peace with my body, believing for a few blissful moments that yes, I am perfect. Just the way I am. In this body, in this skin, with this slightly graying head on these mildly rounded shoulders. I am perfect. I, who have been striving in one way (dieting) or another (dieting), nearly all of my life to become .... well, not perfect, but rather to maybe like myself the way I am. To like the way I feel inside my head instead of fighting unflattering views of my essential me-ness.

So after it was all said and done, perfect felt pretty damned good. A magically relaxing carpet ride it was. Peace. Acceptance. Feeling at one with myself.

After class, I headed home and vowed I would sign up for that instructor's class again (I didn't) or at least visit planet perfect on my own again (I haven't). In fact, I lost the instructor's name and she is no longer teaching at the same location. But I know perfect is there, I know the way and I'll get back there.

Update: The above is a recycled post, written about three years ago. I thought of this post the other day after talking to a yoga-devotee in my neighborhood. She was inviting me to attend Sunday morning classes with her. After talking a bit, we figured out that the instructor where she attends is none other than my perfect instructor. So rather than relying on my imperfect history of finding perfect, I'm going to find her. And that perfect me.

my gymservations

So I've joined the army of resolutionists. I admit it. A regular January warrior. I didn't plan on being one but it snuck up on me unexpectedly. In the form of my husband suggesting we start back up again. In other words, it wasn't even my idea, my resolution, as pathetic as that is.

My workouts had been flagging for months when the gym decided to do a large overhaul. The renovation left we gym rats to elipticize and treadmillerize in a space about as big as the average bathroom. Where you could smell the guy sweating five machines down. My motivation dropped to negative five and my couch attendance reached an all time high.

Now, however, we've got a shiny, new beautiful facility and it's actually a pleasure to go. Row of windows facing a vista of trees. Long row of flat screens. I usually read but tonight I watched, and listened via headphones, to American Idol. Five hundred calories burned instead of consumed. Much preferred.

So here's my gymservation for the day. There needs to be a row of mirrors situated so we machine joggers can see a rear view of our tookus in motion. I came up with this idea soon after an attractive, spandex-attired woman approached the machine in front of me. She was about my size. A little on the plump side but presentable. And then the jogging began. Ooh lawdy. The swingin' and the swayin' and the gyratin' of her booster seat illuminated by the sheen of her polyurethane was... well, my nightmare in motion.

And then I thought of my booty. I had to fight off the urge to turn around and see if the guys observing my booty-nomics had an equally horrified look on their faces.

It's probably for the best, then. The no mirrors. These fitness designers know what they're doing. If we I knew what we I looked like from that angle we I might not leave the house. Ever. And this way, in my state of denial, I'm out there workin' it.

Ten points if you can guess who's hiding her booty in the picture above.

help. I suffer from AID.

Astrological Idendity Disorder.

For more years than I care to reveal I've been solid in my ability to answer the dreaded question, "What's your sign?"

Aires has been my firm answer.

Til now.

According to experts of the astrological kind, "Due to the Earth's changing alignment in the last 3000 years" the sign I was born into is now different.

I'm now, these experts say, a Pisces.

But hold on. That's my mother's sign.

I know a little something about her sign. I used to read her forecast when I was in high school: Will Mom let me borrow her car tonight or won't she?

But now, it's me who is the Pisces. Which means not only is my face developing wrinkles in the same place as hers, my personality has become her. That life long fear of turning into my mother? Yeah. It's happening. Right before my very stars.

Whereas before I was:

- Independent

- Generous

- Optimistic

- Enthusiastic

- Courageous

Now I am:

- Compassionate

- Adaptable

- Accepting

- Devoted

- Imaginative

Not so bad. And as it turns out, Pisces is more like me. Which means my worst nightmare has come true.

I am more like my mother than I am like myself.

Here are the new signs with their new date configurations.

Capricorn: Jan. 20 - Feb. 16

Aquarius: Feb. 16 - March 11

Pisces: March 11- April 18

Aries: April 18- May 13

Taurus: May 13- June 21

Gemini: June 21- July 20

Cancer: July 20- Aug. 10

Leo: Aug. 10- Sept. 16

Virgo: Sept. 16- Oct. 30

Libra: Oct. 30- Nov. 23

Scorpio: Nov. 23- Nov. 29

Ophiuchus: Nov. 29- Dec. 17

Sagittarius: Dec. 17- Jan. 20

So now my question is, how do I answer that age-old smarmy getting-to-know-you question? Never mind that I'm not in the dating game and haven't been asked this question in over twenty years.

Although, I do recall a recent conversation at a bar with an Asian woman obviously new to this country. Trying to strike up conversation and, apparently, sound American, she asked,

"What sign you are?"

Which sounded to me like, "What's eye you are?"

To which I asked, "Pardon?"

To which she replied, "What's eye is that?"

To which I asked, "Excuse me?"

This went back and forth until a few beers questions later we finally got on track.

"Oh! I'm Aires!" I practically leaped, grateful that she wasn't both unfamilliar with the language AND mentally disturbed.

You might have noticed from the list that there's a new sign on the astrological block:

Ophiuchus (OFF-ee-YOO-kuss), which, after a few beers, might sound like "Aw fee-uck you us."

And which also means, if you are born between November 29th and Dec. 17th, you get to tell that smarmy bar fly with the 70's mustache what your sign is and to f*ck off at the same time.

What about you, reader? Are you undergoing a personality change right before your very stars?

as we walk in the woods of winter

At some point on our slow weekends there's a good chance you'll find Sam and I walking in the woods adjacent to our backyard. We're really lucky to have a mini-greenbelt behind us, protected by local environmental laws.

Here's a look at some of my favorite sights along our trail.

Nandina berries give such a bright splash of red

against their dark green leaves.

Some people cut it down. A nuisance plant that sprouts up

everywhere. But I love to see it growing in my backyard.

A grand, old oak.

A dry creek bed common in our area. The limestone bedrock immediately beneath the soil means very little rainwater soaks into the ground. I'm determined, one of these rainy days, to put on a raincoat and umbrella and see this gully gushing with rain.

An abandoned deer blind.

My guess is they they saw more of the bottom of their beer bottles than deer sightings.

But that's really the point of hunting trips, isn't it?

Pretty sure their flavor of choice was Miller High Life.

Red tipped pencil cactus.

Look but don't touch.

Pencil cactus close up.

An old lantern of sorts.

Who put that there, we always wonder?

The beer drinkers deer hunters?

Behind it we've seen evidence of what might have been a house or cabin.

Chile pequin (puh-keen) all exposed and nekkid of it's leaves.

Sam's dad used to fill a small jar with chile pequins and vinegar to make a hot sauce.

Something like this.

Bluebonnet seedlings.

They won't present their deep blue and white splendor until March or April.

Once in a very blue moon they give us a red bonnet.

I'm not sure what this is. It grows in widespread clusters and looks like

a native baby's breath, only more golden in color. I love the texture this time of year.

Like a carpet of soft and inviting tumble weed.

A few prickly pear cactus bulbs left for the picking.

And eventually, the drinking.

Tall live oak trees circled by a coven of cedar trees. I'm not sure why they grow this way. Sam says it's because the birds sit in the tree and their, uh, droppings leave seeds behind. I prefer to think they are seeking shelter from the storm.

My own personal grapevine courrier.

What might he be saying to himself, do you think?:

(A) What's she taking a picture of now?

(B) She wonders why she can't lose any weight?

(C) Look at this crazy bitch.

All three?

you know... that sensational haiku wednesday?

This week's Haiku theme at Jenn's You Know... That Blog?

Resolutions.

steps on the treadmill

or elliptical for me

burning calories

I usually try to avoid new year's resolutions. The January invitation to February guilt. But this year, in the very back recess of my brain, I heard a whispering.

Get back to the gym.

So far I'm two weeks into success.

More stepping. Less couch dwelling.

Good. Good.

a new year, a new blog

I know this guy, this oldspouse. He's a friend.

He's not all that old. He's younger than me, in other words. So of course I think that makes him a young spouse. But I suppose that doesn't make for a very good blog name.

Old or young, I happen to know he makes a very good spouse to his wife, also a friend of mine.

I also happen to know this old spouse writes some funny stuff. I hope you will take the time to stop by and welcome him to bloggyville. I think you'll be glad you did.