Off to a good start. . . kinda sorta

I reckoned that if I did indeed have to go to work today, that I might as well try to make the best of it. As part of my whole get-back-into-the-groove-of-things push, I decided to get up early, slap on my new Crest White Strips, hit the treadmill and have some time to relax, knit or read before I headed out in the cold to bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan.

It didn't all go exactly according to plan, however. I did get up early. I did manage to slap on those nasty, nasty tooth-whitening slivers of Saran Wrap and then gag the entire time over the taste. (I am not sure what I expected, but would some orange flavoring break the bank over there at Crest? I'd kick in another dollar or two just not to have the taste of a chemical spill in my mouth. Why not grape, grape is good.)

I didn't hit the treadmill. I didn't take time to knit or relax. I just left early for work in hopes of having a little bit of a jump on the day.

And as we near lunch, I realize that I have nothing with any nutritional value within reach, which means I will have to venture out and try to make a healthy choice at places that thrive on the exact opposite. So much for New Year's resolutions.

Update: I pondered and pondered and that took an extra day, so I am just now announcing the winner(s) of the "Name that Sock Monkey and Win Great Prizes" contest.

And the winner is. . . Hope. Who could resist naming their monkey "Walter". Hope, all you gotta do is e-mail me (raggedaroundtheedges (at) hotmail (dot) com) your particulars so I can send your handsome reward your way.

And because she's so great to go to all of that trouble to do the research on the history of sock monkeys. . . Farmwife, you're a winner too. Give me some time and you too will find something in your mailbox.

Yee haw or not

Wore the new jeans today.

No one asked me to ride a bull.

No one asked me to two-step.

No one asked me the words to any song by Dolly Parton, Porter Waggoner or Marty Robbins.

Proof enough that they aren't proper country/western apparel.

No two-steppin' here

A few weeks ago I won a Kohl's gift card through work. Given my run of bad luck when it comes to clothes shopping, I wasn't jumping up and down for joy. I suspect a Home Depot card would have gotten a stronger response, afterall I could have gotten ant spray, caulk, a 2 by 4, or something as exciting.

However, today Cynical and I decided to venture to Kohl's and put the card to good use. I half-heartedly sauntered over to the women's section and thumbed through a few racks. I had decided I needed some jeans and wasn't relishing in the fact that I was going to have to try them on until my legs were raw and I sat on the floor of the dressing room cursing my heritage of big hips and ample thighs. However, I snagged a few pair and went into the dressing room, hoping for the best, the best being that the lady in the next room wouldn't hear me sobbing.

The stars must have been aligned or perhaps the lighting was poor enough to trick me, but I found a pair on the second try. They weren't boot cut, they weren't straight leg, they weren't too low waisted and they didn't cover my belly button. What had I done to deserve this? Was this some cosmic payback for not using those free return address stickers sent to me by St. Jude's Hospital?

I grabbed my jeans and went to the front of the store to rejoice, do a dance and raise them to the clothing gods. Along the way I found a sweater and a funky necklace, further adding to my glee. (It's good clean living, I decided, it's a reward for good clean living.)

Cynical and I met up each loaded down with our finds. I presented my new jeans, expecting him to bask in the glory that is a good fit. Instead, he frowned slightly and said, "I don't think I'd get those. They look country-western."

I stood there glaring at the man who had just shot down my hopes of having a good pair of jeans. When I inquired as to why he thought these belonged on Dolly Parton rather than me, he explained that the stitching was his cue.

"The stitching. . . it's not country/western, it's the new thing. It's an 80s throwback," I explained trying to translate the language that is fashion to a novice.

"They are country/western," he stood his ground.

I immediately decided that a second opinion was in order, whipping out my cell phone for an expert analysis.

"Fashionista, this is Ragged, and there is a bit of a crisis here," I explained when she answered. "I know you are on vacation, spending quality time with your family, but I am sure, once I explain, you will understand the urgency of my call."

I detailed the situation, while Cynical hid from me, realizing the error of his assumption and comments.

After she quit laughing hysterically and a few gulps of Diet Coke later, she explained, "All the cool kids are wearing them. I have a pair. Trust me, would I be caught dead in something that could be considered country/western."

Enough said, I made my way to the cash register.

As we checked out, I heard him humming "Boot Scootin' Boogie." I am not sure if I should be more upset that he challenged my fashion choices or that he knows the entire song.

He also mumbled something about the necklace being too orange, but I disregarded this comment, as I am not certain his clothes always match.

May I help you?

Several months ago, I visited a small quaint town just across the river with my mother and soon-to-be-sister-in-law. We stopped in a few of the stores downtown, one of which was a combination scrapbooking/home decorating shop. The owner's cat greeted us and followed us around. He was so friendly and I caught myself abandoning the others and talking to my newfound friend. I shot this photo of him that day.

The glory of random

-This week has been so crazy that I have forgotten to brag that we are expecting special guests this weekend. Needlefingers and Pilot will be driving south to spend some time with us. Big plans for cooking, eating out and maybe spending some time outside. Wish them safe travels.

-What is it about putting earphones on that makes you want to sing out loud? I recently discovered the joys of Pandora. It's a site that lets you choose favorite tunes or artists and then streams songs that fit within your musical parameters. It's your own little radio station. Kinda cool, (cool for me that is, bad for poor Cynical as I belt out "Adia".)

-We still haven't successfully seen the kittens, but I did sneak into the neighbor's yard and I could hear their little voices beneath a car there. Sally was very proud running in and out as if she wanted me to follow. The tall grass and impending darkness limited my access. Tomorrow, however, will find me braver and with a flashlight.

-I got the most wonderful package today. Our night has been filled with preparation for our guests, so I haven't had time to photograph the goodies properly, but in due time I promise to share all of the happiness with you and write a thank you to its sender.

-I finally finished my baby greens socks. Alas darkness fell before I could snap a shot of them. I am so in love with the yarn that I think they are my favorite thus far. I promise a photograph that will do them justice.

Get your movie phone here

I have a movie pal and we have a mutually beneficial, unwritten agreement: If one of us is interested in a flick, we go see it. Don't you love the beautiful simplicity of the contract?

It's a pretty good arrangement most of the time, except when I wasted literally two hours of my life watching people float around in the ocean only to be eaten by sharks in the last five minutes in "Open Water". Not that I harbor any ill will or anything, but I did ask for a refund.

We have recently hit a bit of a dryspell, but redeemed ourselves by seeing three movies in as many weeks. It all started with "Scoop", followed by "Little Miss Sunshine" and tonight it was "The Illusionist". (I so want to play magician with Edward Norton.)

Each one had something different to offer, but I would most recommend that you scrape together enough change to see "Little Miss Sunshine". Enough said. Go now, don't stop at the snack counter, find a good seat and watch this movie, watch it twice. Then tell me what you thought about it.

September 11, 2006

We remember.

Nerds and other types

My dear friend, Scribe M, and I have developed some useful theories about several types of men. These theories have been researched, tested and approved by the FDA, so you it's reliable.

The first hypothesis is that you really shouldn't be afraid of stalkers, at least they are committed and have long-term goals, which is more than you can say for most men.

Another theory, proven through extensive research, is that women shouldn't pass up nerds as potential mates, as they are good providers.

As I stood in Target yesterday, I pondered that last theorem extensively as I considered the purchase of the second season of "Lost" on DVD and my daydreams of knitting on Clapotis while watching said show this weekend. I suspect that the nerd philosophy must also apply to womenkind. I'll have to study more on that.

Enough with the gum

This morning as I was watching television and the local newscaster was interviewing a guy who operates an crushed, bagged ice business. The angle was beating the heat and it was a good take on this recent wave of oppressive temperatures.

However, I could have easily missed the ingenuity of the piece, not only because the guy was wearing a hair net (I don't want hairy ice, so that's a good thing), but he chomped gum throughout the entire interview.

Now, I am a gum chomper, as is Cynical. However, I wouldn't dream of being on television (whether local or national) not only chewing it, but chomping it.

So, let me get this straight, you have to wear a hair net around the ice, but you can maneuver gum around your mouth with it wide open.

I shot the photograph above at the botanical garden. Sprinkled around the grounds were a number of artists, some using paint, some using pastels. I asked this artisan if I could snap a few of her as she painted the lillies surrounding her.

Do you kiss your mother with a mouth like that?

In between mayhem and chaos today, I slipped away to grab some lunch. As I rounded the corner leaving the drive through, a large truck with a very large trailer hitch backed into my path.

I was pinned in by another car, so there was no place for me to go. I laid on the horn. The truck kept backing, so with no other alternative, I laid on the horn again in an attempt to get the very large truck to stop and avoid hitting my tiny little car.

Finally the truck stopped and I let out a sigh of relief. . . apparently much too soon. The driver jumped out of his car, charged toward mine, pointing and ranting, screaming some less than creative explicatives. (he was not a master of the English language, that was clear.) After barbarically calling me everything from a female dog involved in sexual relations to a part of the female anatomy, he finally got back into his truck. I suspect the fact that I essentially sat unresponsive in my car, neither yelling or gesturing back, took the steam out of his anger engine.

I managed to weave around him and went on my merry way. It wasn't until after I was a few blocks away that I realized that the situation was actually dangerous. I guess I just assumed if I stayed in my car, calm, cool and collected, that eventually this attitude would diffuse the situation. That worked, and it's a good thing as I didn't have a Plan B. I suspect that Plan B would be more laying on of the horn and I think that may have only sent Mr. Road Rage into a more frightful testosterone frenzy. It's a fight I wouldn't have won, so it's a good thing that brains outlasted braun. . . this time.

I went to Napville and I didn't think I'd ever come back

I don't like to nap. I know there are a lot of you that love a good, drooling sleep-away-the-afternoon nap, but they have never really suited me.

My mother said once that I didn't nap, not even once as a kid. She'd try and try to get me to slumber every afternoon, but it was all for naught. She'd cuddle up with me on the couch and soon she'd be long gone and I'd slip away to play until she awoke again. I never made it to Sleepytown no matter how nice she made the ride.

My problem with napping is that generally when I wake up I feel worse than when I first lay my head on the pillow. I either get too much sleep or far too little to feel rested. It's not worth being grumpy and stiff and groggy. So, I tend to avoid them at all costs.

My beloved Cynical, however, loves to nap and he's quite a pro. If there was a napping Olympics, he'd win gold every time. If napping was a professional sport, he'd be the first draft pick.

He's tried to convert me to the Cult of Nap. I always manage to escape without drinking the Kool-Aid or succumbing to the brainwashing. Cynical has pulled all of the tricks out of his bag of nap mastery, and none have really worked.

Today, however, I gave up the ghost. A long work week, lots of stress, the oppressive heat and getting up much too early were the recipe for my downfall. I curled up on the couch, announced that I only wanted to sleep an hour and drifted off. Nearly three hours later, I woke up to realize that I was alone in the living room and that a trip to Napville had literally sucked away my afternoon.

I sat up and was instantly regretful. I had crammed my body into a contorted position to fit onto the couch along with a cat and multiple pillows. I had somehow twisted my hand in such a way that it now ached from supporting the weight of my head and my bladder was about to burst. What had I done? I was stiff, sore, grumpy and I'd lost the better part of my day. I knew that napping was no good. Nancy Reagan had told me to "just say no", but I had given into all the hype. And I was not the only one.

I peeked upstairs to see my dear Cynical had taken advantage of the situation and was snoozing away in the bedroom. I think I saw a grin on his face. I swear he slipped something into my Diet Coke. My momma warned me about boys like him.

Yet another lilly from the daylilly festival a few weeks ago.

Hairy situation

And I am not talking about my legs. Heee. Heee.

Upon inspection by my trusted friends, it has been determined that my hair situation is "not that bad". Meaning, "We expected you to look much worse", which isn't much consolation.

I have an appointment (after pressing for a time earlier than Saturday afternoon) for Mrs. Hair Lady to "fix it". What that entails, I don't know, but I know I want it "fixed".

Hair today. . . gone tomorrow

Yesterday I wasn't happy with my appearance and my saving grace was that I had long-ago scheduled an appointment to color my hair.

It's a lengthy process and an expensive prospect, but it's gotten to be a bit of a regimen for me, one that is welcomed about every six weeks.

As I sat in the pedicure chair with my dye setting in, I noticed it looked a bit dark, but it never really looks like the end result, so I continued knitting while the pedicurist worked on my toes. (Yes, they convinced me to get a long overdue foot treatment while I was waiting.)

Soon the pedicure was complete, the timer had gone off for my hair and I was ready for rinsing. Post rinsing she began to dry my hair and much to my dismay I noticed that she had not colored my roots, but actually given me roots. . . dark roots. At one point I gasped, "It looks really dark Hair Lady." To which she replied, "Oh, it does, but it looks so good." Liar!

I sat in the swivel chair like a deer in headlights unsure what to say as she, who had colored my hair for the past five years, tossed my hair from side to side, pretending it was all ok.

It wasn't ok and I think she saw it in my face. "Oh, wash it a few times and if it doesn't lighten come see me and we'll fix it."

Fix it? Fix it now. Don't make me walk out of here looking like someone long overdue for a color job. I came in here looking better than this.

I paid her and left. I sat in the car and frantically dialed any friend I knew would understand and as one consoled me I ventured home, glancing in my rearview mirror in horror.

I rushed in the door of the house hoping that the light in the car was deceiving, but I only learned that it was true: I had hooker hair. Paint some bright red lipstick on me, strap on some fishnet stockings, a little teasing and chipped nail polish and I had a new profession.

Cynical walked in and that was my trigger. I cried. I cried and cried. I was mortified. Now did I not only have hooker hair, but I had mascara running down my face and my nose was running. I was at my most attractive. No wonder that man loves me.

I washed my hair twice last night and twice this morning, but alas, there's no improvement, so now I wait until 9 a.m. when Hair Lady arrives at the shop. I am not sure what to say to her except, "Fix me. Fix this mess. Fix it today."

And now there is the dilemma of will she only make it worse. Coloring twice can't be good for your hair. Is this only going to end in me having no hair or becoming a brunette?

Shoot me now or get me a mini-skirt and high heels. I can't take this.

Pondering possible powers

I am still considering what special power I would like to possess should I be a member of The 4400. I do know, however, that I would like to be able to distinguish the truth in all things. I'd like to have the ability to convince people to speak the truth in everything they do; require them to be honest about their motives, their feelings and their actions.

With a simple glare, the truth would be told by all around me. I'd be able to decifer fact from fiction.

I personally think the world would be a much more peaceful place if we all were completely honest and we knew that this candor would be greeted with genuineness from others. This would break down all of the protective barriers we all use, it would remove pride, ego and insecurities from the equation. We'd admit our faults and mistakes. We'd break down facades and throw away masks.

Another shot from the farmer's market last weekend.

Powerful ideas

Fat free, tasty chocolate, the ability to help us see each other's point of view, aiding others in seeing their inner beauty, helping people make "connections", the gift of healing.

Your answers are very thought-provoking and well-considered. I am still pondering how to phrase what power I would choose. In the meantime, the contest of sorts is still open, I wanted to give some of those we haven't heard from yet an opportunity to answer.

A photograph of a Zinia taken at the farmer's market over the weekend. (I have lots of these folks, so I hope you aren't bored to tears with my flora and fauna shots.)

The buzzz: what would your power bee?

At Chez Ragged, we don't typically share the same tastes in television viewing. However, there are a few shows that we have in common including The 4400. For those of you unfamiliar with the drama, the premise is that 4400 people who have disappeared over several decades are mysteriously returned to one location simultaneously.

There is a lot more to it, but you have to visit the site to get the whole story. What is important here is that each is returned with a unique power which will enable them, according to recent episodes, to save the world. These talents range from predicting the future, to controlling electricity to healing to manipulating the actions and minds of others. . .

It made me wonder: what would I want my power to be? Then I thought further: what would you want your power to be?

The best answer just may win a prize. That's for me to know and you to use your power to figure out. I'll reveal my answer as well as soon as I come up with one.

Another shot from the botanical garden.

Dear Little Fig Tree,

Welcome to our home. It was so nice of you to agree to be gifted to us by my brother. It's such a generous gesture by you both.

You look so proud, all 18-inches of you. You show such promise and hope. You seem brave and stout.

I feel guilty keeping you here at Chez Ragged. I feel badly know that you don't have a clue as to what your true fate is. You have visions of fruitful branches and growing to great heights. You probably think you will treat us with delicious figs and cool summertime shade.

I fear, however, that in truth my brother has sentenced you to an unfair future, one that will mean a slow, painful death. You will go the way of the wave petunia, the pair of hostas, and numerous geraniums and soon our fern will join the ranks of sentenced plant life.

I have high hopes for you as well, that maybe we can break the chain and see you through to a ripe adulthood. I do, realize, however, that I may be fooling myself as well and I hate to provide you with a false hope.

For now, we will transplant you, making our best effort to provide good drainage and a rich soil. I will try to follow your planting and watering directions. We will try to get you off to a good start. I will try not to neglect you as the weeks get hectic.

I wish you luck, little fig tree. Welcome to our family. Say your prayers each night and I will add you to my list of things to do each week and maybe between the two we can free you from the fate of all of those that came before you.

Ragged
Plant Killer

No tomatoes for you. No tomatoes for you.

I didn't plant any tomatoes this year and sadly, I miss them. I just couldn't bear to grow them as food for those pesky squirrels. I will never be a true Southern lady now. Darned those squirrels.

Can't talk now

too busy still crying over last night's episode of "Grey's Anatomy".

Sit a spell

It's beginning to look a lot like my birthday around here. Each year in preparation and as sort of a commemoration of the year, I like to assemble a mixed CD. I use songs old and new that I either listened to a lot over the past year or somehow remind me of the 365 days prior. Whenever I peruse the ones from years gone by, it's a bit interesting.

I haven't even started putting together the 2006 version, so I need a little help from you. What songs would you include on your birthday CD? What should I include on mine?

The photo above was taken at Old Settlers Days a few weekends ago. It's the top of two old chairs abandoned at one of the stations.