Sod's First Law...

Do you ever wonder about the peculiar way things sometimes play out?  Innocent things, small things--the slight pressure of a gas pedal, the sun breaking through clouds--little moments that can change the tempo of a simple day.

Sunday, walking the boys at the VA compound, I decided to pop into the grocery story when we were finished.  There are two entrance/exit points, the South gate and the North.  Since I had parked at the south end and the main road to the grocery was out the other gate, I leisurely drove the winding, narrow road through the grounds.  It's a beautiful place, as I've mentioned before, and I always drive less than the 15 mph speed limit; this is a hospital zone after all.  Besides, the flowers and trees are just beginning to show signs of life and I enjoy the slow drive.

I come to the stop sign at the three-way intersection.  If I carry on straight ahead, I will continue the long loop road around to the South gate again, the left turn leads to the Emergency area of the hospital, and the right turn takes me directly to the main thoroughfare and the store.  I only have to drive less than two city blocks and I'm out of the complex.

Turning right, I'm thinking about the store when suddenly red/blue lights flash behind me.  Well effing hell.  I glance down at the speedometer...unbelievably it reads a notch below 20 mph.  Crap.  I pull over, the cop gets out of his car, all serious and cranky, while I'm thinking of the dozens and dozens of times I've driven through this place at 10 mph.

He starts right in with the federal property spiel, how my ticket for speeding means Federal Court in front of a Federal Magistrate, and more threats words to that effect, until finally he winds down enough for me to tell him that for over two years I have driven under the speed limit, and I'm very sorry that within feet of the exit, I wasn't paying attention.  But he doesn't care about the many, many times I have driven slower than posted.  No, he only cares that right in that moment I was speeding.  I apologize again, and again, then with a final scowl and another warning to heed the 15 mph limit in the future or else, he waves me on.

I stewed about this most of Sunday.  Why, in the cosmic joke scheme of things, did I not get karma credit for every other time I drove slow?  Why, in one moment of forgetfulness, was there a cop in the exact time and place to nail me?  Why don't all the good deeds that have gone before outweigh the one minor transgression?

*************************************

Yesterday, it's overcast and cool.  I have a ton of work to do in the garden.  I gather up the wheelbarrow, rake and tools, put on my gloves and start to work on the front.  At first it's not too bad, though the work is grueling.  There's nothing quite like that first day of gardening, is there?  You have this dimwitted idea that you're in shape, but a few hours of digging, pruning and raking and you realize the stupidity of that notion.

When I reach the point of no return--piles of debris, twigs, leaves, branches, weeds, the flotsam and jetsam of the front garden's clean-up--the sun suddenly appears in the sky like an alien laser beam.  The temperature rises almost instantly, and I'm bathed in sweat.  But now I can't stop.  I have to haul these many piles out of the front yard, down the drive, across the road, and dump them down the embankment.

Eight loads later, I am nearing extinction.  My hoodie has long been tossed aside, my tee shirt is plastered to my back, and I know my face must be a lovely shade of tomato red based on the heat waves melting my eyeballs.

The one day I decide to garden because it's cool and overcast.

It reached 76* before I was finished.  It took a cold shower, two bottles of water, and the rest of the afternoon to cool off.  The intense workout to muscles used only when gardening, and the potential brain damage from heatstroke?  That recovery could take days.

**************************************

This morning when the alarm went off, I reached out as I always do and slapped my hand over the snooze button.  This gives me five more minutes.  Five wonderful, delicious minutes.  I roll over and snuggle down under the duvet and am instantly asleep.  Five minutes later, I fling my arm out, hit the snooze and fall back asleep.  The third time, I shut off the alarm for real, but still lay there without getting up.

The bed feels so comfortable and cozy, the pillow gently cradles my head, and I'm cocooned in heavenly warmth, serene in the quiet before the day has to officially begin.  Why does this feeling of bliss feel so compellingly wonderful, just before I have to leave it?

*************************************** 

Sod's First Law loosely translates to "mocked by Fate." 

Yeah, that pretty much says it all...

Week 11 of the 52s...Animal Attraction

Remember the reception at the Arts Center that I missed last week because of the notebook issues and brain meltdown?  Well, this morning whilst walking the boys around the VA complex, I decided to go to the exhibit.  It was a pleasant, cooler morning so the boys would be perfectly fine in the car, especially after their walk, drinks and treats.

When I drove past the front of the Arts Center, I had to laugh.  For Week 6 of the 52s I had taken a photo of the building, though wasn't really paying attention and just took a shot from the parking lot of the back entrance.  What a dope. 

Here's the very elegant and lovely building, from the front...

There are actually two exhibits going on as it turns out.  The smaller show is works created from wood, though I didn't see a particular name to identify it.  Each piece was truly a work of art, and the skill it must take to fashion such things from wood is astounding.  Here are but three...



Orchid Vessel by Paul E. Foshay

 

            Ta Ki by Richard H. Worthey

Madrone Sunrise by Donald Snethen

But I was most interested in the main exhibit, Animal Attraction...

Peter Alsen is becoming one of my favorite whimsical potters.  I've never met him, but based on his funny and colorful creatures, he must have a great sense of humor.  He had two pieces in the show...

Animal Stack

 Horse Hair Bear

This next piece was totally captivating, not only because it was life-sized, but there was such movement and grace.  Mare and colt, made from driftwood and metal.

Fire and Ice by Brenna Tyler

I'm a quilter and have been for many years, though since returning to America, I haven't done a thing.  That doesn't mean I can't recognize greatness from across a room.  This was absolutely jaw-dropping.  The expertise, the sheer volume of quilting--the piece measured about 5' wide and 7' in length--was just breathtaking.  I stood in awe for several minutes...

Bullseye by Cassandra Williams

This closeup shows a tiny portion of the incredible detail, and the depth and variety of stitching involved...

Along a different wall was another art quilt, equally stunning.  It measured somewhere around 7' across and 5' long.  (That's my eyeball measure, nothing accurate).

Welcome to Kodiak by Sheila Finzer

The large bear in the center must have had a million stitches; his fur was almost fluid.   Here's a closer view of the bear in the upper right hand corner.  Imagine the entire piece in these intricate, tiny stitches...it must have taken years to make this.  No doubt why the price tag was over $10,000.

And then, as I was walking out of the main gallery, I noticed a small sign pointing to an upstairs section of the building that I didn't realize was open to the public.  It seemed there was a permanent exhibit up there, but when I got to the landing I found something even better.

There, in all her glory, was an old-time photograph of the original Hebe.  She looks exactly like the controversial replacement statue that I posted about last month.  It's really cool to see the difference in the background between my photo and this one.  Apparently there wasn't much traffic on Main Street in 1908...

It was a very nice way to spend a Saturday morning.  I could have taken so many more photos, but instead maybe these few will inspire you, dear readers, to find your own art galleries and exhibits to see, to lose yourselves in the beauty of creative genius, or to just take a moment out of a busy world to refresh the spirit.

****************************************

N.B.  As always, click on the photos for a closer view...

Georgia...

...O'Keeffe, that is.

I've mentioned before that back in one of my Phases of the Moon, I took copious photographs of flowers, even making some money in the process.  Out of all my beauties, I only kept these two for myself.

This is a crap photo of the framed piece, but due to glass reflection I had to lean the picture against the wall on the floor.  Still.  You can see the black heart at the center, surrounded by that deep blood red.  I've always loved the scary in this flower.

My exotically evil and yet somehow manly Red Poppy...

A very old variety of Columbine that goes back to the 1800s, named after Nora Barlow, Darwin's daughter.  I had this plant for years.  Every time I moved, I dug it up and replanted it at the new place.  It was dainty, and hardy, and though again my photograph of the framed picture is crap, it's easy to see what a cool flower this is...



So, why am I blathering on about this stuff?  Well here, let me explain...

It's really warm here today--like in the 70s warm--and more like early Summer than mid-March.  I had a load of errands to run this morning and by the time I got home, I was sweaty and cranky.  Why is it so bloody hot? Doesn't bode well, is all I can say.

After lunch, I took the boys outside with me and as they wandered around, I started to catalog all the yard work that needs to be done, though I keep grousing in my head that it's too early, it's only March, I'm too frigging hot, I'm buying a cabin in Alaska....well, you get the drift.

Then I see the first blooms of Spring.  I grab my camera and have a wonderful few minutes, falling back in time, finding the stunning beauty in a flower...

Blossoms of the Oriental Cherry tree that grows at the edge of my driveway.  Could anything be more feminine?

One daffodil peeking between the rails of the fence leading to the back garden...

And another, growing all by itself, hidden under a large juniper bush at the side of the garage...

I'm totally fascinated by the inner workings of flowers; the enticement, the beckoning lure inside the heart of a blossom.  I find them intensely female...though every now and then, a manly poppy makes an appearance.

It was nice this afternoon to revive my Georgia O'Keeffe photography phase, even if just for these few blooms.  Though one truly good thing about Spring?  This is just the beginning...

***************************************************

N.B.  Here's the very reason why I called this stage of my photography the Georgia O'Keeffe Period.  Her red poppy painting--though this looks very feminine compared to my photo...

Insomnia...

 The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli, 1781

It's bad enough I'm tired from the time change, but for the past two nights I've also been waking up around 3:00am and can't get back to sleep.  The dead of night is the stuff of nightmare.  Tossing, turning, rolling and writhing, my mind conjures up things best left in the Pandora's box of my subconscious.

My evil twin likes to float up from the nether regions during these times I am most weak, always ready and willing to remind me of mistakes, wrong choices, words of regret, agonies of twisted thought, both real and imagined.  She's a critical bitch, ruthless and cold, strongest--like a vampire--in these nocturnal hours as she tortures me.

I resist as best I can.  After all, I've had many battles with her over the years.  Though she steals my sleep and burns holes like acid in my equilibrium, eventually I can banish her back to the depths.  How long it takes as she picks at my brain and I fight to throw her off, depends on how quickly I can don my mental armor.

Long ago I learned a technique to reach REM sleep with colors.  It's tricky, takes practice, and is very much like doing meditation, but it works.  Six colors: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple.  Visualize the first color--and they must be done in order--until all you see in your mind is red, then move to the next color, do it again, and on it goes.  When it's done right, you rarely reach purple because you're fast asleep! 

I always start this exercise picturing a bright red dress I used to have.  It was a beautiful, vibrant tomato red.  Last night the evil twin grabbed that red dress and dragged me kicking and screaming into the past.  Next, I tried thinking of the brightest, reddest apple ever.  She ate it.  A can of red paint.  Spilled.  Red fingernail polish.  Smudged.  Red shoes.  Scuffed.

Red fizzles in my mind.

It's hopeless.

So I got up, made a cup of hot cocoa, read my book for an hour or so, then went back to bed.  It's approaching 5:00am now and damn, I am frigging tired.  I plump the pillow, burrow under the duvet, spend some moments thinking about the coming day, then thank Morpheus, I finally fall asleep.

At 5:17am Ozzy wakes me.  He has to go outside.  When I let him out, Max wakes and wants out as well.  For some reason, they think it's time to start the day.

I give up.
 

Magpie Tales 159...Hidden Summer

Meal Beach, Burra Isles, Shetland by Robin Gosnall 

 

 

Four summers in a row of dreary, overcast skies, the gray monotony broken only by relentless rain.  That summer had been the worse yet with a meager three days of warm, beautiful sunshine between May and September.

He came home from work one Friday with an enigmatic smile and told her to pack a bag, he had taken two weeks off work and they were heading north.  He shook his head when she asked where they were going.  "I want to show you something," was all he would say.

They drove out of Edinburgh on a chilly Sunday morning in mid-September, following the eastern coastline for days.  They hiked, explored, slept wherever they could find a room, ate and drank in tiny little pubs in equally tiny villages.  And every day she asked where they were going, and every day he smiled and replied, "I want to show you something."

By the end of the week they had reached Aberdeen and boarded the ferry for the 12-hour trip to mainland Shetland.  She had stopped asking, though he hadn't stopped smiling.  At Lerwick, he drove her past the house where he'd stayed as a young man during the construction of the rigs during the boom years of North Sea oil.

Another ferry, a few short bridges to cross as they hopscotched from island to island, then he finally pulled to the side of the road and parked the car, his eyes twinkling.  Taking her hand, they walked across the little bridge and up a small slope.  Just as they topped the rise, he squeezed her hand and said, "This is what I want to show you."

With a gasp, she stared at a sight so unbelievable, she was sure it had to be a mirage.  The white sand beach was like spun sugar, dazzling in the sunlight; the color of the water shifted with each wave from turquoise to aqua, crystalline to glacial blue; the air was a warm, sensuous caress against her face.

"How?" she whispered, but she really wasn't listening as he explained about jet streams, oceanic currents and subtropical anomalies.  The endless dreary days were forgotten as she stood on the edge of paradise, the hint of other lands in the breeze.

She threw herself into his arms.  A fierce hug and several "thank you" kisses later, she charged down the rise to the beach, laughing like a kid on the first day of a summer holiday.  He smiled broadly and strolled after her.


****************************

The prompt from Magpie Tales this week brought back a most excellent memory from a wonderful adventure in my past.  Loved this photo and the reminder...
 

Oh...yawwnnnn....

 

 

How much do I loath the time change?  Let me count the ways: Immensely, totally, eternally, categorically, colossally, forevermore-until-the-end-of-time, which would be nice right now because then I could get some sleep.

The clock might say 7:00am, but we all know what time it really is, don't we?  It's only 6:00am and I need more sleep.  Even the boys can't be bothered to get up.  They both looked at me this morning like I was nuts.  Couldn't I see it was still dark outside?

Every blasted year I swear I'm going to start a revolution to stop the madness.  If I could just stay awake long enough to

....yawn....

actually muster up the energy.

Plus, how did it get to be 3:30 in the afternoon already?  Well we know how, don't we?  Because it's really only 2:30!!  Ugh.  It will take weeks before I stop looking at the clock and subtract that damn hour.

Managed to post a short bit on Scribbles today, though I fear I might be headed toward that infamous painted corner pretty soon; hopefully not, but I've had too much time away from the story.  Course, now with the computer functioning, and being--more or less--caught up with my emails and posts and learning Windows 8, I'm hoping to get back into it.

....yawn....

Well crap.  I'm just too tired.  I think it's time for a nap.

Week 10 of the 52s...Lame Perhaps, But Whatever...

This wasn't a great week to have any fun adventures, what with the laptop issues and the loss of so many of my digital photos.  I was supposed to go to a reception at the Arts Center on Friday for the opening of a new exhibit, but by the evening, I just couldn't muster the energy.  I was sorry on one hand, but on the other--after pouring a nice big glass of wine and settling in for the night--it felt fine to just stay up the mountain to relax and unwind.

So, in light of my crap week...

Week 10 of the 52s has certainly been...something.  Not only do I have a new notebook, but I've also learned a few new things--not all of them pleasant.  Though this week's post might be lacking in adventure, and truly not in keeping with how I want to experience my Weeks, I just don't have anything else to contribute.  Lame it might be, I'm still not willing to skip a week.

My new notebook.  Which someday might be fun, but at the moment is definitely not...

************************************

Yesterday the temperature was in the mid-70s with clear blue skies.  Seriously.  We are barely into March and it's unseasonably warm here in the NW--and has been for several weeks.  I was outside working in just a tee shirt when it should have been in the 40s and cold.  I'm already dreading Summer...

So, I finish my chores in the front and wander to the back to discover that somehow, seemingly overnight, the lawn looks like elephant grass and easily reaches to my ankles.  Oh no no no.  It's too soon for mowing!!  Isn't it??  Buggers.

Does it count for Week 10 that mowing in March is a first? Is a first the same as new?  Maybe not, but regardless, I had no choice but to mow or risk losing Ozzy in the jungle.

************************************

Here's something I want to share. 

This morning over breakfast, I watched this video over on Angy's site, Tied Up With String.  At first I wasn't sure what to expect, thinking perhaps it was some kind of religious thing--it is not.  Plus it's 6 minutes long, which is a fair length when most vids are much shorter, but being the curious cat that I am, I made a fresh cuppa and decided to give it a look.

I was totally amazed, not only by the boy and his skill, but at the absolute joy and wonder in perfect storytelling.

Take a minute...or six...it will be worth it.

Doppelgangers

Walking the dogs this morning at the VA complex, sunshine bright, warming the air like Winter is a long forgotten memory.  Even the boys feel it, dancing with a touch of Spring fever, exuberant in their canine delight to be alive on such a glorious day.   

There is a short stretch where the pavement ends and we either have to walk in the road, skirting a long bit of shrubbery, or we can opt to head across the loading dock area—a shortcut of sorts that connects to the next sidewalk.  We usually take the loading dock. 

As we’re crossing this morning, walking parallel to the road, a car drives past then does this bizarre, rapid U-turn straight into the loading area.  I wrench the boys back next to me as they were at the end of their leashes and directly in line with the car.  I stop, wait for the driver to park,  then make a wide berth around him until I reach the sidewalk. 

Behind me I hear someone say “Titi.”  (I don’t have a clue how you would spell that, but it sounded like tee tee).  I ignore it, keep walking, nothing to do with me.  Now, a bit stronger, “Titi!”  I vaguely register the voice, but my mind is drifting elsewhere  Then I am completely stunned when the name is said again, becoming a sort of anguished wail, so painful it's almost a physical force at my back.

Okay, something is truly wrong here.  My first thought is that a vet is in need of assistance--after all, I’m walking through the VA complex and the loading dock is attached to the main hospital.  I quickly turn, not sure what’s going on. 

An elderly man has jumped out of his car, left the driver’s door hanging open and is hurrying toward me.  Again, he says, “Titi,” but when he gets closer, he abruptly stops as if he’s run into a brick wall.  He stares at me.  I am horrified to see his eyes shimmering with tears. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, unsure what I’m apologizing for.  He swallows and I can almost feel the lump going down my own throat.  Here is pain. 

“I…I thought…” he mumbles, shakes his head then starts to turn away. 

“Can I help you?” I ask.  “Is there anything I can do?” 

He looks at me, gives me a sad, weary, old man smile.  “I’m sorry, it’s just you look so much like my wife.” 

I wait a beat, but he just stands there, lost in his loneliness.  “Titi was your wife?” 

He nods.  “Of course you couldn’t be her, she’s been gone a long time now, but you look so…it just surprised me, that’s all.”

I walked toward him until we were about a foot apart.  He looked at me, I looked back, then I said, “I thought I saw my dead husband the other day holding hands with another woman in the grocery store and I almost flew into a jealous rage.” 

He barked out a laugh as I grinned at him, then I put a hand on his arm.  “It’s bad enough to lose someone, but to suddenly think you see them makes it worse, doesn’t it?”  The old man didn’t say anything.  “I’m sorry our paths crossed today,” I said softly. 

“No,” he murmured, “it was good to see her again, even for just a minute.”  He patted my shoulder, smiling as he said, “You’re a good girl.  Thank you.” 

I watched him walk back to his car, stood quietly with the dogs as he gave me a small wave before driving away. 

I waited until he was out of sight before I let the tears fall.  I think being a doppelganger might be worse than seeing one...
 

I'm Baaccckkkk...

First Sunset Photo, March 2013**

Finally got the call yesterday morning that the new notebook was ready to be picked up.  Then, after that great news, there was an awful pregnant pause, followed by a deep sigh, before David the tech guy said, "You don't have all your photos."

"What does that mean?" I ask as my stomach does the elevator drop thing.

"I could only retrieve halfway through the Rs.  I worked until the drive completely died.  I'm sorry."

I don't hear much of what he said after that because my mind has begun racing through my photo program.  It's sectioned by years, then within each year, it's alphabetized.  I start frantically cataloging the years and what comes after R.  Oh gods.  Italy (filed under Southern Italy); a multitude of photo files that begin with Scotland; an entire file called Sunsets, filled with all the sunsets I've photographed around the globe; the entire journey Alan and I made from NYC to the Pacific Ocean filed under Road Trip; Snow, Spring, Summer files...my mind is reeling.  Then I have a moment where I think I actually whimpered at the realization that my most favorite photo of Alan was in the file called The Legend.  8 little letters of the alphabet.  7 years of my life.  Gone.

Boggled, I mumble to David that I'll be in after walking the dogs.  During the walk, a barrage of pictures roll through my head.  How I wish I could download them into my new notebook.  I cried a bit.  Loss is so damn painful.

So, I get the new notebook, bring it home and spend several hours getting things set up, configured, managed.  Windows 8 isn't terrible, but it's totally different.  I had to load Microsoft Office 2013, which is terrible, and after the download, my entire desktop blanked out and I lost everything.  WTF?  I dinked and delved and cursed, but I couldn't find bugger-all.  Called the store, David says bring it back.  Crapcrapcrap.

An hour of his expertise and finagling, and he discovers that the new and improved (oh don't get me started) Office has mysteriously moved all my files and programs to this temp file on the SkyDrive--Microsoft's version of the Cloud.  Flipping hell.  Course, David says this is the first time he's seen this happen, but it's not entirely unexpected as everything about Windows 8 and Microsoft Office are "revolutionary" and we're all learning as we go.  (I'll bloody give you revolutionary Mr Gates...and no, you won't get cake!)

Back home, sick and tired of the whole thing, I shut off the computer, pour myself a large glass of wine and throw myself into my cozy chair to decompress.

Then. 

A vague memory begins to niggle.  I can't quite...bring it forward--OMG!!  When Alan and I returned to Edinburgh after our holiday in Italy, he asked me to put all the photos on a CD so he could add them to his desktop slide show.  I leap up and start digging through a stack of CDs that he had in his file cabinet.  I don't know what half these CDs are, but for some reason I haven't tossed them out.  My heart is pounding when I actually find the very CD I made for him.

I turn the notebook back on, cross my fingers, and upload the photos to my photo program.  And it worked.  I have saved Italy.  It's just a small save, but it's something, and I'm grateful for every wonderful picture.

There are still many things on the new computer to change, get used to.  It's been a long ten days, with some tears and loss, aggro and alarm, but if nothing else comes of this experience, I've learned a valuable lesson.

So, learn from my mistakes, people.  Change your passwords regularly.  And for god's sake, back up your stuff, especially your photographs.  Some things are just too important to lose...take it from me.


******************

**Since I no longer have any sunset photos, I couldn't resist this beauty.  It was like a little ray of hope when I glanced out the window last night.  All my other pictures might be lost, but I can start again.  Because no matter what happens in our lives, the sun rises, and the sun sets.

Wait and Worry...

This morning, after walking the boys in a torrential downpour, I stopped into the computer store to see what progress is being made on the laptop(s).  I haven't heard word one since last Thursday night and I'm getting a tad cranky.

According to the manager, my new replacement laptop is due in this afternoon.  Uh huh.  I could have driven north, bought a new one at their other store, and been back in town in under three hours.  I've been waiting five days.  Customer service is dead, people. 

I'm wondering if there are now, in fact, Four Great Lies of all time.  I know the three: The check's in the mail; of course I'll respect you in the morning; no your butt doesn't look big.  Today I'm adding:  We expect the UPS guy this afternoon.

Worryingly, the tech guy who's actually trying to retrieve my stuff told me he'd managed to recover my documents and writing programs, but he was having a really hard time salvaging my digital photos.  My heart just dropped at that news.  He said he won't give up until it's absolutely clear the photos are gone, so on one hand I'm glad to hear that he will persevere, but on the other I'm seriously upset his efforts could be futile.  Seven years, a million miles, three continents, and irreplaceable memories.  My stomach roils.

At the rate things are going, I probably won't get the new machine until later in the week, and since we all know blogging on a tablet is ridiculous, I won't be back for another few days. 

Ah well.  This brief hiatus has given me time to read, watch a few movies, and get some work done around the homestead.  I guess that will just have to do for now...

Week 9 of the 52s...Dismay and Delight

This was supposed to be a happy post for Week 9, but instead it's part crap, part cool.

Dismay:  I got a call from the computer folks last night to say that my new laptop, fresh out of the box, had a huge dent in the lid and a new one had to be ordered.  Buggers.  It looks like Monday, though probably will actually be Tuesday, before a) I find out if my stuff can be saved, and b) I get my frigging damnblast new laptop.

 

Ah well.  Pick your battles, I guess, especially since I can't do a thing about it.

So, coming back from the dogs' walk this morning, I stopped to chat with a woman who lives down the road from me.  I was telling her about the laptop debacle; also mentioned my ongoing adventures with the 52s that would have to be postponed for this week--no way could I do it with the tablet.  One thing led to another, and now here I find myself, madly typing away on her laptop, with a tall glass of wine sitting next to me.  And how very nice--both her laptop gesture, and the wine!

However, once I post this, I'm taking the weekend off.  It's too stupid to try blogging without a proper keyboard and I think I need a break from it all anyway.  Starting with that effing hacker last week, it's been a long ten days or so of aggro...time to enhance the calm.

***************************

Delight:  The most excellent part of Week 9 was that I did go back to the Arts Center and buy the watercolor that called my name.  Yesterday, when the exhibit ended, I got to bring it home. And it still just makes me grin like crazy every single time I look at it.

Hanging on the wall by the dining room table--where I would be writing on my bloody laptop if I had one.  All I have to do is turn my head, and there it is, bright, cheerful...and mine. (I know the photo is a bit dark, but it was late last night when I took the shot, plus I don't have my photo program so this is straight out of my camera...)

Closer view, taken this morning.  I love this piece, and oh how it speaks to me...

So, there you go.  Not a great adventurous week in the scheme of the 52s, but I do have a new piece of art that makes me smile.  And eventually I'll have my new laptop.  

Eventually.

I hope.

One More Day...

I have a couple things for Week 9 of the 52s, though am going to wait until the weekend to post about them.  I feel like Gulliver trying to write on a Lilliputian keyboard with my tablet--just can't do it.  

Tomorrow I will get my laptop, with (fingers crossed) all my retrieved stuff, though at the moment I'm not even thinking about that as I grin like a canary-eatin' cat over something that just totally made my day this morning.  And no, I'm not telling. 

Stay tuned.  Week 9 coming up...

Tiny Keyboards

Here's a novelty:  I'm typing this post on my tablet.

Why, you ask?

Because the hard drive on my laptop has imploded.  It was a grisly demise too, with lots of moans, groans and agonized frothing--and that was just on my part.  I was in the market for a new laptop, though had planned to wait another month or two, but last night the poor ol' thing just breathed its last and no matter what tricks I used, or resuscitations I employed, it was to no avail.  Course, I'm blaming the hacker from last week, though the tech folks at the computer store this morning merely shrugged and said, "it's an electronic machine, they die."  (These are the same cold-hearted people who no doubt flush goldfish down the toilet).

My main concern--and it's a BIG one--is the loss of my writing, documents and photographs.  The techs won't know until the autopsy if my stuff can even be recovered.  It makes my stomach hurt to think I've lost any of my photos, let alone my writings.

So, new machine ordered, data recovery scheduled, new Windows 8 to learn (ugh), and a long wait until Friday when I pick up the new laptop and find out if my stuff could be retrieved off the old one.

In the meantime, I'm wearing out my thumbs and getting cramps in my fingers on this tiny little keyboard.

Buggers...

Week 8 of the 52s...Limoncello

I first met Alan at an Italian restaurant on my last night in Edinburgh.  On a week-long business trip, I'd been told that Bar Roma was a great place to eat; better still, it was within walking distance of my hotel.

Truly, the food was amazing, the atmosphere lively and welcoming, the waiters so Italian they could only speak very broken English, but could flirt like Casanova.  I had a wonderful little table in a cozy corner, perfect for watching people, especially the large group of men at a long table in front of me, obviously co-workers out for some kind of office celebration.

After an amusing chat with my waiter as I ordered, one of the guys in that group turned in his chair and started a conversation with me.  My American accent, you see.  He had been to the States many times, so we compared notes about cities and landmarks.  Very charming, really funny, by the end of the evening, Alan had joined me at my table, and over a nice bottle of Lambrusco, we exchanged email addresses and agreed to keep in touch.

A year and a half later we were married. 

Because of that fateful meeting, we returned to Bar Roma on every anniversary.  We always had delicious food, laughed and joked with the manager, Alan put up with the flirtatious waiters, and we finished the evening with a small glass of Limoncello, fresh from Italy, served in beautiful little pottery cups.

Time goes by. 

Alan and I are in southern Italy.  I am on a quest for those little cups, handmade on the Isle of Capri, where the best Limoncello is also made.

A small Italian market stall, and see those huge lemons in the middle there?  Those are the lemons used for Limoncello.  The ones to the left are the average-sized lemon...

And, at long last, I found the very glasses I was looking for.  We had wandered down a narrow little back alley whilst meandering on Capri and by accident and sheer luck, we found this tiny shop run by a local family of potters who made the perfect Limoncello cups.  Each one is just a bit different, hand painted and so, so cool.

They're equal to a shot glass.  Limoncello is very potent, so this is just the right size...

I had a recipe from Capri for making Limoncello, though I've never attempted it.  Stashed in a box where I keep my treasured recipes, I was looking for something whilst idly wondering what I was going to do for Week 8 of the 52s, when I happened upon the forgotten concoction.  I knew this was to be my new adventure.

So.  First, the ten lemons required.  Because I wanted this to taste as close to real as possible, I bought organic, beautiful lemons, though sadly, not the gigantors of Capri...

Only the outer rind is used, so after carefully peeling each one to avoid any pith, they went in a pitcher with a bottle of vodka--a good brand since again, I'm trying to make the best batch I can.

Covered with plastic wrap and stashed for four days in a corner of the kitchen...

Yesterday, I removed the wrap and nearly got a contact high just off the fumes!  And--happy dance--it smelled just like it was supposed to!

Next I made the elixir that gets poured over the four-day fermentation.  Thankfully, the pitcher was just big enough to hold the whole solution, right to the brim.  More plastic wrap, tucked in a corner of the kitchen to meld flavors overnight...

Earlier today, the peels were strained out, the liqueur was decanted into two very beautiful bottles and sealed for the next month in the back of my fridge.

My very first bottle of Limoncello...

And naturally, I can't just bottle it all up without a taste, can I?  I filled a little glass--about three sips' worth, or one quick down the hatch...

 

Holy Thunder Road, Batman!!!!!!!!

 

I took a wee sip, just to make sure it was palatable, then knocked it back.  And whoa.  Potent is too tame a word.  Seriously strong, it's also lemony to the nth degree, and absolutely, astoundingly delicious. 

 

I think I got a buzz before it even hit my stomach because, eyes closed as I savored the heat, all I could think about was sitting with Alan on the terrace of a quiet little ristorante on the Amalfi Coast, sipping Limoncello on a lazy afternoon...

Nope, potent doesn't even come close...
 

Mishmash...

What a week.  Loads of angst, lots of extra work--both computer and regular life stuff--and a nuclear brain bomb. Goes without saying, I'm very glad it's Friday.

Still had some hacker issues to sort yesterday, so that's two days buggered by the sleazeball, though hopefully it's over.  Unfortunately I now have so many new passwords, I'll probably end up having to hack my own system just to get online!

********************************************

At one point in the late afternoon yesterday, I was walking through the living area and noticed Max all sprawled and cozy in the Reading Chair--and yes, deliberate caps; it's the best chair in the world for reading and deserves the recognition.  I grabbed the camera, though with his unrelenting fears, I expected him to fly off the chair and run into the bedroom before I'd even snapped the photo.

But no.

I was stunned.  Two years, and at last we've finally made some real progress.  Look at my wee boy.  Not a sign of his usual terror.  Maybe because his ever-faithful bunny is close at hand...er...paw...?

It's huge that he didn't move when I took these photos.  It often takes a long time for rescue dogs to find their way in a new home, and also to realize they don't need to cower or run away in fear.  It made me very happy to get these pictures.

*********************************************

When was the last time--if ever--you went to your town's Visitor's Center?  These are very cool and interesting places to find out more about where you live, have new adventures exploring, or wander about gathering brochures and magazines, postcards and tourist souvenirs.

This morning, after walking the boys, I went to the Visitor's Center to find a brochure about the Big Blast that Alan's/my nephew in Scotland had emailed me about a week or so ago.  The very kind woman who was working there today found me the exact thing I was looking for, then took me around the room, adding more and more to my pile.  With each brochure, she gave me a little history, a local anecdote or story; it was so entertaining, and enlightening.  By the time I left, I had an armful of itineraries, mags and future adventures to plan for in the coming Weeks of the 52s.

*********************************************

And speaking of the 52s.  I got a bit sidetracked by the turkey hacker, but still managed to carry on with my project for this week.  If all goes well, I will post about it on Sunday.  It's been a fun endeavor, and no doubt the end result will be a necessary additive to either fuel my fire, or dampen it.

We'll just have to see on Sunday...

*********************************************

On my way home, I stopped at my favorite coffee drive-thru place for my Friday treat.  In the change I received another Where's George dollar bill.  I couldn't wait to get online and see how long it had been traveling, and from what distance.

Ah well.  Every journey begins with a single step.  The bill has only gone 52 miles, in 175 days.  Just 52 crummy little miles south of where I am right this minute. 

So now the next step is up to me.  I'm planning a trip up north to visit my sister in a month or two.  I think I'll take the dollar with me and find a busy place to send it on its way.  At least that would be better than taking months to go 52 miles...


**********************************************

N.B.  Oops.  I had the wrong link for the Big Blast.  If anyone's interested, I have fixed it so the real story can be read, with some photos, too.