Scout Moves

Mike at the base of my chair I cannot look at another stock photo to slap on a book cover. There comes a point when you have to walk away and clear your head--stretch the right side of your brain so you can think objectively. So, I must write about my cat, Mike. I am choosing my cat Mike instead of my cat Tiger or my children or my husband or my horn or my pile of wire bracelets because Mike sits or lays beside my chair from the moment I plop down into it in the morning until I hobble out of it in the afternoon like an old woman in need of a cane. Mike is a constant part of my day. Mike spends the day at my side because he is abnormally attached. If I don't acknowledge him often enough, he stands up by my chair and taps my right arm with his paw, looking up into my face with his big green eyes. He follows me into the kitchen because something in his brain says, "when Mommy is in the kitchen, I must eat." I go into or walk through the kitchen several times a day, so Mike w...

I just read that sales of scooters in the US have gone up 18% since last year. The smaller models get up to 70 or 80 mpg. I have been eyeing a cute little one at the Honda shop next to my favorite place for joe . But I'm afraid my riding days are over for now. I wasn't much of a rider anyway, I guess. This is the segue for my second most embarrassing moment (1st being the undergarments on the lawn). My good friend SS had planned a ride for anyone even remotely connected to the high school--parents, grandparents, staff, the guy who works the lights in the auditorium--basically anyone who lives in Small Town, because in small towns, everyone can connect themselves to the high school if they try hard enough. I had been riding my Honda Silver Wing for about a year and had spent a solid week practicing leaning into the curves, and since I had two kids in the school, and since I pay property taxes, I joined up. It was a very cold October Sunday morning--40 degrees with wind gusts up ...

OK, just one more post for today. Since I reported on the delightful dinner we had the other night, it's only fair that I report on tonight's dinner. Gosh, do I ever get tired of being the food source night after frieking night--so this is what we had. I feel so ashamed. I will not picture the actual finished product because it is entirely too unappetizing. Too hideous to look at. Too inedible.

I saw something yesterday--no, I was confronted with something yesterday--that irritated me . I was going to let it go, but I can't seem to drop it. Like a dog with a bone. Driving home from an errand, I passed a young guy who was waving a big Confederate flag from the driver's side mirror of his pickup. The thing had to be 2 feet wide, and it was a little frayed as if it had been through the battle at Fort Sumter. What does this guy in central Ohio know about the Confederacy, for Pete's sake? This isn't South Carolina. This isn't Atlanta. When someone above the Mason-Dixon line flies that flag, you have to wonder what they think it stands for, especially when they wave around one the size of a beach blanket. And you have to wonder if they have any southern roots at all. Of all the noble things one could draw from the South and its history, you'd think we could find something other than a symbol of secession and division (I'm not including bigotry here bec...

The smaller borrowed quotes you can't read: "Poignant, tragic, funny, outrageous--most of us have at least one story we tell (and retell) to explan our emotional bruises"--perfect for a blog, don't you think? "There is a big difference between understanding the past and being stuck in it."

Last night, I slipped into the pit of despair. You don't jump in, like a kid leaping into the ball pit at McDonald's Playland. You don't want to be in this pit. Your feet can't always find the bottom, and the balls aren't primary colors plus green. In fact, if the pit of despair had balls at all, they would be white with scuff marks and dents and teeth marks from the angry kid who chewed them all up. So, this pit--you slide down into it. It starts with a simple irritation and then builds with a good friend walking away in the middle of a conversation and then gets layered with the ribs not being taken out of the oven on time and then the job that waits for you the next day that you know is a hopeless task that can't be accomplished. All of that makes a pretty slippery slide that is hard to stay at the top of unless you've got a good grip on the handles. I guess my grip wasn't as firm as it should have been, and I went head first into all the dirty balls....

For a quick lunch today, #1 and I went to KFC , the drive thru . Yes, I know the stuff is bad for us, and I always feel icky after visiting, but sometimes you just need a little crunchy grease. Anyway, at the speaker, I ordered a side of corn for #1, and the girl on the other end said, "do you want corn on the cob or loose corn?" What? Loose corn? Who says " loose corn?" This happened a couple of weeks ago as well,--we sat in our car and laughed, and I replied back into the speaker that I wanted "corn not on the cob." I just couldn't bring myself to say "loose corn" because it's not a real thing. But today I felt forced to give in to KFC language. I have the same reaction at Starbucks, who has chosen to rename our standard size terms. Am I alone in recognizing that there is no such thing as a venti coffee? I consistently refuse to order coffee in those terms, and the snit on the other side of the counter consistently corrects me. ...

One more thing, just as a bonus. I found it when I pulled out the marching band pic. Me in second grade--I just loved that clip on tie.

Daughter #2 plays trumpet in her high school's marching band. She likes it--the trumpet, not the marching. If only football would die from the American educational system. Not only would we have enough money to actually educate the kids and focus on the true purpose of the public school system, but then #2 wouldn't have to put on the dorky uniform and hat and stand out in the rain every Friday night. Actually, the uniform isn't all that bad. And being a part of something like a marching band teaches so many things that need to be part of our more intricate personal makeup--things like personal disci pline, group dynamics, respect for authority, generally being "in step" with our surroundings. I don't like to be the kind of parent who says, "when I was your age.......blah blah." But really, when I was 16, marching band was the only thing that got me up in the morning. The process of putting on the funky white hat, polishing up the mellophone, and cinc...

I think I might be in love.

I just discovered that Mark Haddon has written another book, A Spot of Bother, and I cannot wait to get a copy. Haddon wrote The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, which is on my mental list of favorites. One weekend a couple of summers ago, when Husband and #2 were out of town, #1 and I went out for dinner and a trip to Borders. We headed home with a copy of the dog book, and #1 started reading it aloud in the car. We were hooked. When we got home, we set up a reading station on the back porch (enclosed), with the wicker and palm tree and little stone fountain and the cats, and we read until late, each taking a turn with a chapter. We got up the next morning and skipped church, sitting in our jammies on the porch and reading until we finished the thing. By noon, we were talking like the main character, which you'll understand once you read it for yourself. It's a masterfully crafted tale, and I'm hoping that book number two will be just as perfectly molded an...

Blue-Cheese-Crusted Steaks with Red Wine Sauce This is dinner this evening. I've linked to the recipe for the world to enjoy.

I'm normally not a cryer --by that, I mean I don't weep every time I feel like it. I tend to suppress that particular outward expression unless it's really necessary. But sometimes, a person just doesn't have control over certain outward expressions--like laughing out loud when maybe you shouldn't, or like fitfully gasping at the sight of a large spider that has suddenly come dashing out at you while you're on a pontoon boat, or like crying when you're stopped at a red light. Laughing when you shouldn't and poorly placed spiders are for another day, but here's the deal with the crying. Yesterday, #2 and I were stopped at a red light in Small Town, and I was telling her a story about a friend of mine, who she knows, who often does stupid things. I never like to pass up a chance to mock a friend, which shows what kind of shallow untrustworthy person I can be. So, I was telling this story, waiting for the light to turn green, when we heard this shockin...

As promised. Creepy, isn't he? Imagine carrying him around all the time, having him crank up your heart rate and practice hand stands in your stomach at inopportune moments. He's not very good at those hand stands--falls down quite a bit and rolls around until he can get up and try again. He's not as active as he used to be, and he's not as powerful when he acts up, but it would still be better if he were to leave all together. Someday.

Intermezzo A link to listen to Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana, Intermezzo. Enjoy

Director Eric (actually from last year's park concert, but you get the idea). I neglected to invite Officer Friendly to the orchestra concert at the park. It was a beautiful evening without him though (Officer Friendly being the policeman from all the Richard Scarry books--a friend to all). It was cloudy here all day yesterday--dark, dense clouds that reflected off of the lake to give everything a steely kind of feel. By concert time, some of those clouds had opened up to give us just a little hint of sunset, but enough sunwarmth was blanketed out to give us just a little hint of fall. It couldn't have been more perfect for a Labor Day gig. Hee hee. I said "gig." It took me quite a while to be able to say the word "gig" when referring to a musical performance that involved me. It has taken me over six years to even think of myself as a musician, and well, anyone who isn't a musician but still says "gig" just sounds silly. Anyway, about this co...

Soooo....I was driving from the lake house to Small Town house this morning ( thinking about my orchestra concert tonight ), with Husband as a passenger. It's about a 25-minute drive on nicely paved country roads--curves, a canopy of trees, and a river along the way. These are great scooter roads, but since I no longer have a scooter.... Husband and I were discussing a story (although I was humming my upcoming solo in my head) he had heard on NPR and debating its validity. Was it a story worthy of telling? Well, it doesn't matter, except that I was making my point, mainly with my gas-pedal foot, evidently, because I caused an on-coming trooper to switch on his roof lights, make a u-turn, and get in behind me. I glanced down at my speed-o-meter to discover that I was going 65 or so in a what? a 55 zone. I drove on a few yards to the dam and pulled into the parking lot. The nicest gentleman approached the car, almost apologizing for pulling me over. Clearly, we were a nice, othe...

We camped out at the lake house last night, played Monopoly in which I triumphed as a heartless land baron, and then settled in to watch Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World. I have always been drawn to Albert Brooks--Defending Your Life, Lost in America, Broadcast News. He played himself in this film, as I believe he does in all films, which is his charm. Initially, I was disappointed that the film wasn't filled with Brooks jokes and quick banter, but once I realized what this was actually about, I adjusted my expectations. I read a regular-guy review on IMDB, in which the regular guy thought it was a crappy movie because it wasn't very funny. It was funny in a string-along Brooks kind of way, but mostly it was a Brooks kind of statement about how Americans don't understand the rest of the world--Fred Thompson says in the beginning, "we don't understand the Chinese, Africans, or Muslims," the three largest population groups on the planet. In my regular-guy...

A little note because I can't comment yet: I listened to Circus Maximus from Star of Indiana. Great. I was transported back to the world I used to love so much. I'll have to start nosing around and listening on other corp sites. For one little season in high school, I was a cymbal player (long story), and I could do a fan with my Zildjians like nobody else. Also, I saw this painting you pictured just last week. I found it through linking from someone's site--maybe it was yours. Interesting effects.

Well, I've switched to beta blogger, something we'll all have the option to do eventually. But now those of you who are not yet beta savvy can't leave comments, and I can't leave comments with you unless you allow anonymous commenters. Oh well. It will be fixed eventually.