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No, not a sexual exploit to detail, far more mundane. It’s mid May, time to fold up and put away the sweaters and pull out the summer duds.

As I’ve acknowledged on more than one occasion, I’m a fan of anthropomorphism. No need to reach for your Merriam-Webster if you’re not familiar; its the attribution of human characteristics or behavior to a god, animal, or object. In my case it occurs primarily with animals (though its almost an insult to animals) and objects. Gods and me wave to one another periodically but that’s about it. So mostly objects.

During the bi-annual pull out and put away, there’s a lot of “anthropomorphing” going on. I bid adieu to the cold weather clothes, maybe say a small prayer (okay okay summon them there Gods) that we are both around in October to greet one another. There is a thank you for their service, apologies to any of them who did not get a good rotation, a promise for a re-look next season. And with that a crisp tight fold and into the put away bin they go.

Full disclosure, some do not make the journey. To those loyal friends there is a remembrance of the wear times, or possibly a recollection of opportunities missed, due to shape, size, or worst – bad positioning in the closet.

If we’re going Donny and Marie, the put away is the “twilight side of the hill” portion of the song.

And then there is Marie’s “morning side of the mountain”. As a summer gal, one who loves the morning, and would rather sweat than shiver, this is a happy time. 5 possibly 6 months are on the horizon – opportunities to bond with shorts and sundresses abound, but…

The conversation begins, hola cute top, is this the summer I lose the pudge and do you justice? Or maybe lose the inhibitions and just say fuck it, your style will carry us both. To relegate you to the back of the closet is just stupid.

And like the friends that don’t make the journey to the put away, some end their journey on the initial pull out. They don’t actually make it to the closet. Instead they go on to the home of slimmer, younger, sometimes braver, sometimes equally zany body via donation. And some are weary, they ask to be released of further service, no more bodies, but maybe hang around for a bit as a cotton wash cloth. As much as possible I try to accommodate

Whether a pull out or a put away, the process involves hope. Hope for what is immediately possible, hope for forward looking events. Hope can’t cure all, but it ain’t bad in your arsenal.

Lastly, this year, we had a rare occurrence, a find during the put away. Mr. Purple Smithwick had been pining for months for Mrs. Smithwick. He knew she had not left on her own accord, something nefarious had happened, but he too held out hope for her return. And there in the folds of a flannel sheet being readied for the put away, the Mrs. was discovered.

And for a moment, all was right in the land of Pull Out and Put Away.

Talk soon

Hope to see you along the way

As promised, my report on hot yoga.

Loved the heat, loved the teacher. But yoga is still a bridge too far for me. Full transparency, much of that bridge is my own drama. Blah blah, have the wrong clothes, have the wrong look, have the inability to understand the zen. And what is not bs drama, is aptitude – good god gertie I have the flexibility of wood, and zero ability to understand directions on the fly.

In the other classes I can camouflage most of my spaz; in that quiet little sweaty yoga room, not so much. Even my mat was squeechy and squeaky.

Wait wait, back up, start from the beginning. I walk into “the studio” clanking weights, music, gym sounds fade away – quieter chatter rules, and by my tally everyone is 5′ 9″, 119lbs, and lithe. Not even a little bit true, but I’ve had years of practice with this flawed system of observation. So me and my garage oil mat I mean yoga mat look to escape to the back of the class – a trick known by all wishing to escape notice. Well damn it, the front becomes the back sometimes in yoga land. Strike One.

Strike Two – I could not hear, no no not the instructor’s fault, actual ear mechanics – almost fully deaf now in one ear and not great in the other – so even if I could put one hand behind, flip into a side plank and come out a crocodile on the other side, I could not hear her direction. Holy fuck I think she was saying dragonfly not crocodile…

Strike Three – Disruptive me. We all pay the gym fees, we all have a right to the classes, but do I want to be the jackwagon spaz disrupting the class? As mentioned, very quickly there was a lot of squeaky mat happening, and everyone facing one way, and me facing the other way chasing that damn elusive crocodile pose. But how do you leave a yoga class and not be disruptive?

Lovely teacher to the rescue – whatever she sensed, she nipped it in the bud. She came over, and I whispered (or at least I hope I did), this is a train wreck I’m going to grab my map and go.

And she said, No. No, this is your time, do something, find something in the pose or the directions that you can do, and do it. And so I did. And I tip my hat to that wonderful professional. We all start somewhere and even if yoga does not become my thing, it was an hour that I appreciated and just “did something” and I would have found an out if she had not come to my rescue.

Side note funny, walked out with a lady who said, “that’s a one and done for me” – and when I asked why, said I loved it in spite of my “limitations” – she said “too hot”. I laughed, we’re all batshit crazy am I right?

To quote the old ’60’s phrase, “Keep On Keeping On” and I hope to see you along the way.

I smell like chlorine, and that’s a good thing! Have been chasing the Lake George swim challenge. X number of miles in X number of days. All very attainable unless you procrastinate. Hello, please call me Procrastinator Plus. Queen of talk, less royal on action. Down to 4 days and have 5.5 miles to go. Oooph, my muscles and maybe mostly my tendons are screaming. But I am determined, and next year hoping that at least one of my swims will be in the actual Lake George.

Talk soon

Hope to see you along the way~~~~

Picked up my mail today. Have a home address but also have a P.O. from years ago that I’ve never given up.

Peeked in this evening and saw 2 letters! Have no expectation of responses to letters I am sending but it was fun nevertheless to see mail with real stamps. Spoiler alert, one letter was a return, IA, Insufficent Address. Don’t fret, I’m chasing that address down as I liked my letter hahaha and I like the friend. The other letter has to wait, my treat for posting.

Been a little over 2 weeks, fun so far, and every day a “reason” presents itself. Birthdays, celebrations, and even a letter to an author of a book I finished and LOVED. Likelihood of that letter hitting the mark is slim, but that’s okay, fun to write it.

Okay – gotta run.

Hope to see you along the way.

Read that sign outside a bakery this morning as I ran by…thanks little bakery, needed that brilliant piece of grounding!!

Leaving today for Africa. Some stress seems logical right? Will the basement flood while my cousin is watching the house? Will he be able to jimmy jam the broken shower knob the way we jimmy jam it every day instead of getting it fixed. Will he agree to being my cousin after this week of house/dog sitting??

After packing, unpacking…3x…and then finally saying screw it…
I’m now wondering…what did I pack? Good chance there are 5 of this and 0 of that..oh well…doubt Kenyans will notice my thislessness or thatlessness..

I’m hoping for some connectivity, our itinerary is amazing and if all goes well, I’ll post pics and comments about life on another continent.

Check us out…in our backyard practicing with our hats…practicing with our hats???..that tells you all you need to know about we safari neophytes!!  Except maybe that I look ridiculous…who do I think I am Jane Goodall with a splash of Victoria Beckham??

Next stop … Kenya… Hope to see you along the way..

Rhubarb pie…who knew?  Like who knew it was so delish.

Apparently lots of people, just not this gal.

Call me officially enlightened.

The Mr’s bro-in-law is a rhubarb pie guy..and just rhubarb…with clarity and conviction he told me, no strawberry this, custard that, just rhubarb..

Every Spring I say, dude I’m going to make you a pie.  The fact that my pie acumen is less than zero and I’m not even sure what rhubarb tastes like is a very minor detail in my annual proclamation.

But this spring, damn it, I was determined.

Mr. and I were out in Morgantown getting annuals for our pots, a story unto itself but we’ll save it for a slow news day.  Anyway we eye-spied an unmanned vegetable stand that said ‘rhubarb available’…clearly a sign from the pie Gods..or at least an Amish farmer.  And even more serendipitous, the family came home as we were skulking about..

“Sure we have rhubarb” said the father, and away I went bounding back into the garden with 2 of the children.  I pulled 2 stalks and said thanks so much.  The daughter with a steady frankness that probably could avert war said, “well what kind of pie are you baking?”  “Well rhubarb”, I replied confidently, “And no strawberry” and then continued to yak on about the Mr’s brother in law, and his summers in Wisconsin, his parents, blah blah blah.  She continued to quietly pick stalks while I blathered, and thought to myself, wow I guess they want to unload some of this rhubarb.

Helllo..the damn pie takes 5.5 cups…clearly something this 16 year old stateswoman knew.  And without any judgement, comment, or correction, she just made sure I went home with more than 2 stalks.

I laughed later upon reading the recipe…(yea clearly who reads a recipe before they start assembling ingredients) her story would have been more than fair if she described me as a yahoo without a clue!!

Oh and icing on the cake or lattice on the pie as it were…her younger brother, much more direct, rolled his eyes when I asked why they were stripping off the leaves.  “They are poisonous”.  Hmmm…good to know.

No pie acumen…well that’s the understatement of the day.

People, epilogue time, the pie was the bomb…fantastico…if I do say so myself (apparently I am but in fairness so did the neighbors).  And you know who never tasted it…yup that brother in law.  The pie gods (a/k/a Amish farmers) married the path of a great recipe, amazingly fresh crop, and good fellowship, but not, alas, an intersection of time with the brother in law.

And so, we ate it ourselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guess there is always next year…and I know the farm to visit for my stalks.

Be well lovely farmers in Morgantown.

Hope to see you along the way..

Over Memorial Day weekend with weather questionable, I tried to make a dent on my honey-do list…yes that list that is continually impacted by adds and subtracts but never seems to find its way to zero.

Maybe some combination of grey weather and taking stock of lives lost in battle motivated me to sort through boxes I have carried from pillar to post, though rarely opened. Some call this behavior hoarding…why ya holding onto that stuff, its just taking up space, you never even open the boxes.  I’ve heard it.  And my response…balderdash..I am a treasure keeper thank you very much!

And this weekend, treasure was indeed unearthed. Inside a storage box, was a box, and low and behold…a school ring.  Pictured below, clearly a girl’s ring, two hearts, initials engraved H.A.M., and class of 1968.

Who is H.A.M.?  What school?  How to find you….

I asked friends from other local schools, maybe Merion Mercy, but no.  At first I thought the 2 hearts may be my own alma mater of Sacred Heart, but no, similar logo, but our ring has always been green.

 

 

 

 

 

Class of 1968…11 grades ahead of me, how did I end up with you, must have been sometime in the late 70s as I lived out of the area for years after high school graduation (and truth be told I had not opened those boxes in years and years).

Who is H.A.M.?  What has H.A.M.’s life been like for 50, yes 50, years.

Me and your ring H.A.M..well we have had some adventures…

80’s were a blur of college, move to Florida, gambling with a Rockefeller, partying with Grosse Point Fords, parking cars for Pure Platinum dancers at night, working at a law firm by day, contemplating law school, the Peace Corps, getting married, getting divorced, and ending up in the Army on my 30th birthday..you would have been 40? 41? married? kids? career? all of the above?

Early 90’s were Army, Samoan boyfriend who lived in Alaska, truck driver boyfriend turned into a best friend, sweet boyfriend with many issues..and then heading into 2000’s, finding forever love with a guy disguised as my dear friend’s punky younger brother.  Life’s craziness morphing into a variation of calm.  After the Army, work was corporate, lots of travel, saw all 50 states (with the help of that Samoan boyfriend by way of Alaska I knocked off Alaska and Hawaii in one summer).  You were edging towards 50 H.A.M…did it agree with you?

2000’s… I was flying for work on 9/11, lost a sister to hit and run accident a month later, married said punky younger brother the the following spring and away we went.  No kids, lots of nieces and nephews, and each day a little dance with adventure.

And here we are…egad…2018…

All the while your ring has been along for the ride, sitting in a box I carried with me to apartments and houses over the years, even spending some time in a storage facility (struggled to leave FL, figured if I left everything in storage down there I wasn’t really leaving…oy vey, not so smart).

My goal is to repatriate you two soon, and more so, I hope your years have been a series of adventures big and small and the loss of your ring did not cause any lasting heartache.  Truly have no recollection of how I ended up with this ring, best guess is sometime in the late 70’s, maybe at a fun house in Overbrook that could tell lots of stories.

Time to find its way home.

Be well H.A.M.

Hope to see you along the way.

So this morning I ran a Half M for which I was woefully untrained.  A 10 miler …I can mail it in…13.1..not so much. At Mile 11 I was making all manner of deals with the devil.  And as any runner knows, all the deals in the world don’t get you to the finish line. Even if you quit and walk it in, well you still have to, yup, walk it in. Miles 11 to 13.1 were a run walk affair.

But a fun brunch with a couple of girlfriends followed – race debacle in the rear view mirror – we were making plans for some other race this summer. What in the holy hell is the matter with me??

Alas this post is an ode to HDN not MCB.

Today HDN starts a 1 month yoga class with an end goal to be a guru of fitness/wellness. I think she is well on her way, she eats some weird stuff that has nothing to do with fritos or ice cream. But anyway, to honor her dedication and going after what she wants, I’m making a big solidarity commitment.  Oh no worries, its not yoga related, good god gertie, downward dog means I bend down to pet the dog. No, this is food based.

For the 30 days while she is at school, I will maintain an NWA policy.

Not No Whites Allowed like white people, they’re fine, no NWA, no white flour and white sugar.

And not crazy, not dissecting every label, but not eating a cookie or ice cream or my precious chips and pretending the demon white is not in there, lurking, waiting to sludge me into submission.

This one’s for you little girl and I’ll be cursing you daily, but I’ll also be inspired by your gumption.

Rock steady…or in the yoga parlance…namaste..

Hope to see you along the way.

Lately, and I write lately when it should be all the time for a long time, I’ve been struggling to get through Day 1.

Day 1, otherwise known as …today is the day I will eat less carbs, run more, be nice, do something outside my comfort zone.  Sometimes Day 1 actually happens…but Day 2 is cloaked in fog and hard to see.

These are not unrealistic goals mind you..be nice…is that so hard??

So today, Day 1, I’m putting it in writing.  Today I will get to, and tomorrow, Day 2, looks clear and sunny.

Hope to see you along the way.