It's a misty, moisty morning, and a ditto afternoon. Refreshing, after our blazing days ... the lawn and trees are smiling.
Our next-door neighbor to the south has nourished some grudge against a fairly inoffensive pine tree in our backyard. He claims the needles are damaging his vehicles' paint jobs. To which I say, Don't park in your back yard, okie!
He has conceived a plan (after a few false starts) to have a friend of his come over and together they will remove the tree.
As Indiana Jones remarked, "I have a bad feeling about this ..."
How bad a waiver can I get him to sign? "I agree to idemnify and hold blameless ... every bad thing that ever happens anywhere near anybody except me." Hee hee hee ...
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Doggerel
This is my blog, my very own blog
This is my post; I blogged it.
I feared that my brain was clogged,
But writing unclogged it.
… with profound apologies to the spirit of Ogden Nash (http://www.westegg.com/nash/dream.html)
I process things in two ways: by talking about them and by writing about them.
He says I never stop talking,
Says I'll make him lose his mind.
He says I never stop my talking, now,
Says I'll make him lose his mind,
I don't see why all my talking
Won't make him see when he's so blind.
Talking: After 35 years of marriage my husband has finally figured out that when I talk about something I don't necessarily need to have something done about it. When I begin talking about new living room furniture, for example, that does not mean I'm going to go and buy new furniture. When I talk about trouble at work, I don't need for him to offer solutions. And so forth. To be fair, it has taken me the same amount of time to figure out that just because he's NOT talking, that doesn't mean he's not worried about something. When we were both deeply unhappy - with our marriage, our lives, our jobs, everything - I would try to open conversations about it. His response was a grunt, a growl and a gin tonic. I thought that meant it was just me who was unhappy. Nope; it was just me yammering about it. He was just trying to live through it.
I wrote our story down, wrote it out for all to see
Put it on the internet, and set out, I set it free
I told the story honest, just as truthful
As a loving woman can be.
Writing: I write. I have always written. I can't remember not writing: essays, poems, short stories, rants, notes, letters to editors, letters to my mother, you name it. But the thing I write best, the thing I'm absolutely the bomb at, is doggerel. That, and blues lyrics.
Love is hard, love is work
Love is seldom easy,
But love is worth a deal of work,
And poetry that's cheesy.
It's a knack. I wouldn't call it a gift. It can be irritating as all get-out. Even to me.
My mother dubbed my husband, "The Knight of the Woeful Countenance"; a reference to Don Quixote/Miguel Cervantes from "The Impossible Dream," which was popular that year. So he can be KWC in this blog.
Hey, hey KWC
You rock my world and you rock me!
This is my post; I blogged it.
I feared that my brain was clogged,
But writing unclogged it.
… with profound apologies to the spirit of Ogden Nash (http://www.westegg.com/nash/dream.html)
I process things in two ways: by talking about them and by writing about them.
He says I never stop talking,
Says I'll make him lose his mind.
He says I never stop my talking, now,
Says I'll make him lose his mind,
I don't see why all my talking
Won't make him see when he's so blind.
Talking: After 35 years of marriage my husband has finally figured out that when I talk about something I don't necessarily need to have something done about it. When I begin talking about new living room furniture, for example, that does not mean I'm going to go and buy new furniture. When I talk about trouble at work, I don't need for him to offer solutions. And so forth. To be fair, it has taken me the same amount of time to figure out that just because he's NOT talking, that doesn't mean he's not worried about something. When we were both deeply unhappy - with our marriage, our lives, our jobs, everything - I would try to open conversations about it. His response was a grunt, a growl and a gin tonic. I thought that meant it was just me who was unhappy. Nope; it was just me yammering about it. He was just trying to live through it.
I wrote our story down, wrote it out for all to see
Put it on the internet, and set out, I set it free
I told the story honest, just as truthful
As a loving woman can be.
Writing: I write. I have always written. I can't remember not writing: essays, poems, short stories, rants, notes, letters to editors, letters to my mother, you name it. But the thing I write best, the thing I'm absolutely the bomb at, is doggerel. That, and blues lyrics.
Love is hard, love is work
Love is seldom easy,
But love is worth a deal of work,
And poetry that's cheesy.
It's a knack. I wouldn't call it a gift. It can be irritating as all get-out. Even to me.
My mother dubbed my husband, "The Knight of the Woeful Countenance"; a reference to Don Quixote/Miguel Cervantes from "The Impossible Dream," which was popular that year. So he can be KWC in this blog.
Hey, hey KWC
You rock my world and you rock me!
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