Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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Joy Pockets #2

The past seven days have been emotional and busy on every front,
and midweek I thought I would just skip Joy Pockets
altogether because it would just feel phony.
Thankfully, mercifully, legitimate joy
burned through that fog pretty quickly.

1.  Drive In:  Going to the old-fashioned triple-feature drive in movies with Handsome and seeing a comet at dusk.  The flicks showing that night were all really good, too, and I stayed awake through to the end.  First time ever in my life.

2.  Naptime:  Falling asleep outside in the sunshine and waking up to our biggest horse nuzzling my bare feet with his whiskery, velvety face.  He sniffed my calves and looked at me super cute, probably wondering if I was dead.  That happened twice this week, and it was downright magical.  It gave me the feeling of cuddling with a baby.  A 1200-pound baby, but still.
3.  Lake Fun:  Playing at the lake with two cool and awesome friends last Saturday afternoon.  Eating too big of a hamburger at the dockside restaurant but then burning it off just by laughing like a crazy person.  Riding the wave runner until we were out of gas on the water.  Literally.  And then the girl half of those friends taking multiple photos of together, sensing my apprehension, and her having mercy by N-O-T putting them on Facebook, because she is very pretty and I take very weird posed face pictures for some reason.

4.  Affection:  Hearing a beloved young nephew call us by name using also our titles, “Aunt” and “Uncle.”  For some reason, this gesture in his sweet little boy voice melted my heart.
5.  Victory Over Myself:  Returning a very tall stack of borrowed books to the library E-X-A-C-T-L-Y on time and retrieving a reserved book there, which is now in danger of premature completion.  This never happens, folks, not the timely return thing.  I felt like a total celebrity walking in and out of the library with nary a dime of a fine.  Why wasn’t there confetti?  Handsome is worried my lack of fines contribution may lead to downsizing.  He asked if the main librarian is having to send her car back to the dealership.

6.  Surprise:  Learning that my Dad reads my silly blog.
 
7.  Avoidance:  Delaying a dreaded dentist appointment.  Again.  I am joyful over this.
8.  Birthday Week:  Firming up R-E-A-L-L-Y  F-U-N plans for Handsome’s birthday which is in exactly two days.  We do full birthday weeks around here, so we have much celebration pending.  He is a great guy who deserves great things, more than I can provide.  He is my dream come true, and I wish him the happiest, funnest, most relaxing and exciting birthday week ever!
   Big *Thank You* to Bohemian Twilight for having this in place.
Knowing the Friday link-up was fast approaching had to have helped with the fog.
XOXOXOXO
Happy Weekend Everyone!
joy pockets

Stieg Larsson (book review)

   The posthumous if scandalous fame of this recently deceased author certainly contributes to his books’ appeal, but even without that added glamour, his two breakout novels (I have yet to read the third of this trilogy but fully intend to) are impressive.  They are not for children, though; nor are they for the easily offended; and they are not even for the squeamish.
   But at this stage of life I am grateful to no longer fall into any of those categories and so thoroughly enjoyed every single page.
    


   Except for the difficult to pronounce Swedish names and general vocab, difficult even in silent, inward monologue, these two thick volumes provided me lots of gratifying hours of voracious, adrenaline-pumping diversion.  And in contrast to our book club’s spiritual foray this summer, it was a guilty pleasure.  Not complaining, ladies, I just need a balanced diet.  We all do, eh?
   Lots of people, me included, have commented on how the first novel suffers the reader with a bit of a cold, slow start, but rest assured that Larsson more than makes up for it later and in book two.

 

   I fell head over heels for the off-putting and strangely upstanding heroine, Lisbeth Salander.   Part of me is determined to believe she is a real live person, lurking the world with her mad math skills, deficient social skills, and dark attitude.  Righting wrongs and amassing riches.  I am collaborating with a girlfriend to be Salander for Halloween this year.  Like Batman, only a girl.  And scary, but completely defensible.  Beware.

   Slanader’s male counterpart Mikael Blomkvist was also a gripping character, and N-O-T just because I happen to know that Daniel Craig is playing him in the American production.  Well, that didn’t hurt exactly.  Y-E-S- I mentally pictured Craig delivering some of the best lines and besting the bad guys, etc, etc, and Y-E-S there are love scenes written that can only be made better with a decent visual…
  These books are pure entertainment, trashy and heavy and politically seasoned just enough to make you feel like you’ve thought hard and smart for that day.  Oh, and if you have ever been accused of drinking too much coffee, just check out the Swedes.  They will relieve you of that guilt rapidly.

Potatoes A La Pinterest

   I was admittedly in a baked potato rut.  Since disovering the microwave method, seriously, there is nothing easier.  It’s nutritious, delicious, and easy.  And fast.
   But like I said, rut.  Then I was browsing my fave new eye candy site and discovered a brand new possibility.

   The visual got me first, becuase all things neatly fanned and buttered are on my culinary bucket list.  What about you?  Then the method convinced me to try it, and I am soooooo doing it again.  Here’s a proper online recipe, because I don’t groove writing such things.
   Personal advice:  In lieu of using the called-for butter pats and garlic cloves, I melted a whole stick of butter and seasoned that with some stuff I like (garlic salt, black pepper, and crushed red pepper).  I poured the melted, seasoned butter over the prepped potatoes and had PLENTY left over to use on some yellow squash that needed some yummy lovin and was destined for the grill.
   Almost Failed:  Accustomed to quicker (lazier) techniques, I did not budget quite enough time to achieve the advertised crispy outside-tender inside just using the oven.  So I had to zap the still too firm spuds in the microwave just as our steaks were finishing on the grill.
   Handsome’s Verdict:  He liked it.  I don’t think he loved it, but he liked it, and he is no longer in the business of bluffing me out on recipes to keep from hurting my feelings.  This means we’ll have it again, but not necessarily on extremely special days.
When my Grandpa Dunaway was alive,
he used to talk about growing potatoes.
He said the harvest it was so exciting. 
Sometimes they would be quarter-sized,
sometimes nickle-sized spuds. 
The rest were just small potatoes.
Now my Dad repeats this family legend,
and I crack up every time I think of it.
Love you Dad. 
xoxoxo

Autumn Changes Things Again

  

   The water was boiling. 

   She had been standing there in a daze, halfway waiting like a timid little girl for the universe to intervene on her behalf, halfway simmering in anger as hot as the water now steaming and hissing in the tea kettle.  None of this should be happening, she thought bitterly and helplessly.  Tears welled up in her throat but choked her, refusing to bloom in her eyes.
   Still mostly numb, she poured the steaming water into a pitcher with dry tea bags waiting at the bottom.  She turned the burner off, returned the empty kettle to a cool corner of the glass cook top, and wiped her hands dry on the red towel with yellow and gold owls on it.  These few motions seemed to cost her all the energy remaining in her limbs, so without a choice she leaned backward against the counter top and slowly crumpled to the floor.
   She sat on the shiny tiles reviewing the words in her mind, letting every syllable repeat again and again, hoping to gain some understanding that had so far escaped her.  Nothing would take hold.  The facts were cold and stubborn and two-dimensional, unyielding to pain and deaf to reason. 
   They are not coming home, and according to the phone call it was their free and final choice.
  She spent the next few hours just going through the motions of her routine, mechanically and with a hollowness that made her mind way too vulnerable to dark thinking.  Every task had happy memories attached to it; every square foot of the property was still vibrating with the colors and fragrances of family life.

   While in the barn raking hay, she heard a few tentative drops of rain ping against the tin roof, startling the cats and causing her to gasp and shake her vision loose for a moment.  Maybe this is temporary.  Maybe if I handle this wisely and with enough love they will feel the solidarity they need, the peace they deserve, and everything will right itself soon.

   She finished making the rounds outside, taking note of the quietness and mournfulness of the early autumn weather.  How was it possible that every animal seemed to know what was happening?  They all looked at her cautiously, as though a breeze might shatter everything.  

  
   By the time she reached the edge of the pond, the rain had advanced from a gentle sprinkle to a heavy, slanted downpour.  The midday sky was dark now and the air had turned cold.  Thunder boomed and echoed in the valley.  The horses had retreated to their loafing shed, perhaps to escape the rain, perhaps to grieve.  The rain slashed into the surface of the pond with increasing ferocity, finally drawing out of her the wild, primal tears she needed to cry.  She screamed and sobbed and the surface of the pond jumped and kicked against the news.

   The water was boiling.
Mama’s Losin’ It
This post inspired suddenly and unflinchingly by Mama Kat’s prompt:
“Write a story that begins and ends with the same sentence.”

   I haven’t written much this week because I cut my ankle shaving.  I cut it deep.  Blood was gushing out, thin and hot, mixing into the sudsy shower water and draining in a downward spiral like I was Janet Leigh in Psycho or something.  It was the kind of cut you don’t even feel for another five minutes, or until a minuscule drop of soap falls onto the open wound.  I may or may not have been using a hunting knife instead of a disposable razor, and I may or may not have had the lights out to conserve electricity because I showered during peak time. 
   Long story short, I developed a ferocious staph infection and had to be hospitalized three states away from here, where they have excellent doctors.  More excellent than ours, they say.  But they don’t have Internet there, or coffee, so I could do no writing.  None whatsoever.
   Instead, I sat there and pondered the universe while my slashed-open ankle healed.  You know how at hospitals they never leave you alone?  Every few hours, here comes another nurse to change my band-aid and refill my little plastic yellow mug with diluted sweet iced tea.  And every time, I was reminded of all the incredible, insightful, significant things other people were reading and writing, all the ideas and truths that were being passed around without me.  Sigh.
   So in the middle of the night I crept out of the blue and white hospital room, wrapped in a papery gown and shod in those rubber-flecked booties.  So comfy.  I stole exactly two extra band-aids for my journey home (just in case) and guzzled one last throat full of weak, diluted sweet tea that was sitting at the empty nurse’s station. 
   I walked home without delay.  It was no biggie since I was all tanked up on great writing ideas, all motivated to rejoin the conversations.  My staph infection had burned out purely from literary frustration, and my ankle was almost fully healed too.  The only real obstacle that night was not getting skunked on the dark roads after exiting the Interstate.
   So here I am, brimming with incomplete sentences and anxious to read what has been written during my historic grooming incident-slash- recovery.
   What didn’t kill me has made me, well, sillier. 

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