Just saying – in case, you’re unaware of this noteworthy, indubitable fact.
On September 28, 2015, NASA scientists proudly informed us that their Reconnaissance Orbiter showed dark, narrow streaks on Mars and that there may actual be WATER frozen beneath the crust of the Red Planet.
I started thinking maybe those local, elected officials, that I wrote about in May, who thought that “reclaimed sewage water fordrinking” was the answer to some of our draught problems, should be taking note of this newsworthy event.
And, according to astrophysicist, Neil deGrasse Tyson, “On Earth, any place we find liquid water, we find life.”
So, the Princess and I were thinking maybe we need to use our 30% off Kohl’s coupons this weekend and see if there are any bargains on “travel wear” for flying the friendly skies.
I’ve always preferred traveling during the autumnal season, and it would be quite delightful to “git outta Dodge” and meet some new folks.
After all, the Princess and I are rather different ourselves, so I’m thinking that maybe we’d all get along quite amiably.
I’ll pack some Italian biscotti, to share with them there Martians, along with some clean undies and Thorlo sport socks, and we’ll be good to go.
Have a great day, People, and don’t forget to make time in your day for some silliness.
I’ll catch ya next time, looking at life from my nifty, new space boots!
My friend, RozzieRoo, came over to the house a few weeks ago with her art folder from her teaching days of years ago, and gave me my first art lesson, using crayon pastels.
I had so much fun with her, that I decided to purchase my own pastels, and then, with childlike exuberance, asked if she’d be interested in meeting with me on a monthly basis to do some art projects.
Being the loving, agreeable person that she is, Rozzie enthusiastically accepted, and we set up another date to do just that, last week.
So, she comes over on Thursday, and we’re quietly sitting at my kitchen table.
We’re intently focused on doing our individual “art-projects”, with my nifty, brand new, 50-count, extra fine quality oil pastels neatly laid out on said table; and her broken, chewed-up, miniscule pastels strewn on her side of the table, when Rozzie, suddenly looks over at my art work, and nonchalantly says to me,
“Ya know, Hun, if you break your pastels and peel off their wrappings, you’ll be able to work with them better to get the effect you’re looking for with the waves in your picture.”
At this point, I’m skeptically staring at her, with an expression of total disbelief, when she encouragingly continues,
“Lucie, why don’t you just put on your big girl pants, take the plunge, and snapALL of them in half?”
“You’ll feel great after you’ve broken the first one, and you’ll NEVER look back!”
“Come on, try one – just one. Snap it for Rozzie-Roo.”
“You’ll feel much better.”
“I promise,” she sincerely continues.
I anxiously look up and see Rozzie smilin’ at me with that kind, nurturing look that is so typical of Roz.
“What?” I incredulously ask her, while breaking out in a cold, nervous sweat.
“Are you nuts? These are brand, spanking new. I just bought them.”
“Why would I want to break them, for Pete’s Sake?” I continue, while eyeballing her ancient, broken (well-used) “micro-pastels”, which she used for years teaching local youngsters.
“And besides that, Rozzie, I really don’t like to get my fingers “yucky” when I’m working. I don’t like stuff caked under my nails,” I adamantly explain, raising my left eye brow, while scrutinizing her crayon-caked finger nails on her right hand.
“Yuck! It makes my skin crawl, just thinking about it,” I emphatically continue, as Rozzie correctly interprets the judgmental affect of my raised left eye brow, and sheepishly starts to wipe-off her hands with one of our cleaning towels.
“Ok, Lucie,” she patiently says to me. “You color the way you wanna color.”
“I think you’d get the look you want on your picture, if you’d break them,” she encouragingly continues.
“But do it your way, Honey. I’ll leave you be.”
So, for the next fifteen or so minutes, the great Georgia O’Keeffe and I, quietly continue working on our individual art pieces.
I then suddenly stop working; impulsively grab ahold of one of my crayons, and snap the crayon in half.
“There,” I impishly say to her.
“Ya happy? I broke my first pastel,” I smugly inform her, as I promptly start breaking the next one.
“I hope you’re pleased that my nifty new crayons are soon to be lookin’ like yours,” I curtly continue, while decisively snapping another one.
She slowly and lovingly shakes her head back and forth and says, “Lucie, now use the crayon like I taught you to and see if you like the results.”
“Do it, Honey. Try to do what I showed you, ok?”
I could be wrong, Miss O’Keeffe, but I think there’s a method to your madness!
I’ll never be the next Grandma Moses, People, but I’m sure having fun with this new “hobby” of mine.
I still have a few “unbroken crayons” and that’s ok.
I did a fairly decent job breaking the first few and got my fingers pretty grimy, smudging some of the pastels on my piece to get that “artistic effect,” to please Ms. O’Keeffe, herself.
Maybe next time, I’ll break a few more, and maybe even get my finger nails really yucky.
I just know that the kid in me that preserved my precious, set of 64-Binneyand Smith, Crayola Christmas Crayons every year, felt a whopping sense of abandonment and childlike innocence with every snap, and highly recommend the “breaking of one’s Crayola’s” to everyone out there old enough to know better .
Have a grand week, People!
Dance in the street.
Throw your bra in the air.
And by all means, “snap a few crayons”.
I’ll catch up with you next time, living life from my shoes!
And unlike the last time, I was bound and determined not to be drooling on myself after the visit.
So I get myself settled into the dental seat and Heloise (my happy- go-lucky hygienist) informs me that Dr. Mollar wasn’t there, but assures me that Dr. Smiley (who happens to be walking into the room while she’s talking) is a “bang-up substitute for Dr. Mollar.”
After a minute or two exchanging pleasantries, Dr. Smiley begins stretching out my widdle wips like the bellows of an accordion and starts examining the deep recesses of my otherwise “tiny mouth.”
“Un hum”, I’m thinkin’ while eye-balling Doogie Howser and his toothy, fixated grin, “I hope to hell this kid has a verifiable medical degree and knows what he’s doing, ‘cuz Boo’s howling interfered with my beauty sleep last night, and my current tolerance for pain and incompetence is not too high.”
(And if he stretches out my lips any more, I’m gonna end up with pair of rubberized turkey lips and looking like a lip augmentation gone bad!)
After spending what feels like forever and a day probing the dark recesses of my mouth for various dental maladies, Dr. Smiley releases my irritated (very raw), rubberized turkey lips, leans back on the dental counter, looks at me like a 5 year old with that innocent, sweet grin on his face and says, “I’m afraid you’ve got a small cavity on your front incisor, but nothing we can’t take care of on your next visit. Not to worry.”
“I did, however, notice that you have some other dental issues,” he continues, “and wondered if you ever heard of cognitive behavioral therapy?”
“WTS?” I’m thinking while eyeballing this young man over my tri-focals with an inquisitive (more than likely disparaging) raised left eyebrow.
I know I have hearing problems and I’ve had very little sleep in the past 24 hours, but “Did Dr. Never Stops Smilin’ just tell me I have a cavity and recommend cognitive behavioral therapy to take care of it?”
“Ya gotta be kidding me!”
“I’ve got a former endocrinologist who thinks my medication problems were signs of a bi-polar disorder, an allergist who mistakenly thought I had bone cancer, and now a newbie Dentist who thinks my cavities need therapy sessions?!”
“I gotta be in the “Land of Oz” or better yet, “The Twilight Zone!”
I don’t wanna be rude to this young man, so I’m trying hard to compose my thoughts before I respond, when Dr. Smiley must have put 2 and 2 together while reading my affect and quickly says, “The reason I asked, is because I noticed that you’ve got some pretty serious teeth grinding issues going on and this type of cognitive therapy has proven to be highly beneficial for issues like this.”
“Yep,” I’m thinking to myself, “let me add cognitive therapy to my to do list for all my marvelous little maladies. I’ll just fit it in between my yoga classes, my special foot and knee exercises, my daily walking routine, and my special dietary constraints for my hearing impediment. No problem. I’m retired, don’t ‘cha know, and have all kinds of time (and money) to spend on life’s little medical necessities.
“Who the hell knows? Maybe it’ll help out with my nightly Jimmy Legs (a.k.a. Restless Leg Syndrome)! Couldn’t hurt, could it?”
I know Californians are known for going to therapy for everything under the sun, but I think this is gonna be a hard sell for even my most understanding East Coast family members and friends.
(I can just hear me trying to explain to one of them during our conversation, “I’ve gotta get going, Hun. Have a therapy session for my cavity. Yeah, my Dentist recommended that I go to it. Catch ya later!”)
Thank goodness my Mother taught me that life is a circus.
Just wish she had given me a head’s up with the fact that I’d be sharing it with a bunch of clowns.
Catch ya next week, People!
And remember, we’re all in this circus together, so be kind to one another. You never know when you’ll be asked to be the Lead Clown!
OK, I go to the Dentist this morning, so he can finish up my “dental work.”
And I tell him, “I’m in the midst of a major thyroiditis flare-up, so just be aware.”
“OK,” says he and administers enough pain medication to put down a large COW!
(How do I know this, you want to know?! Well, it’s been 4 hours and I’m still having difficulty breathing through my right nostril and have no idea where my lips are — or for that matter, where my tongue is in relationship to the roof of my mouth!)
Under normal circumstances, this “extra numbness” wouldn’t really be too bothersome because I’d rather have the “extra pain relief,” than actual “PAIN.”
But you see, I had to do a million and one errands today, because I have “Curly” of “The 3 Stooges Plumbing Co.” coming over tomorrow, and I don’t have time to do errands any other day this week!
So, I take me and my numb lips on over to our local Costco and as I’m pushin’ my cart around, I’m thinkin’ to myself:
“Ya know, God has a way of taking care of you. He probably didn’t want you to be shopping tomorrow, which is the day before a major holiday. This is good. Yes, this has total potential for being a good day. Just embrace it and get into a better frame of mind, OK?”
That’s what I’m telling myself as I circle the refrigeration section of the store for the fourth time!
By this point, I’m developing freezer burn on my thighs from passing the dairy section so many times and I’m thinkin’:
“This is ridiculous! Where in Sam Hill are the hotdogs?”
“Ah, be still my little heart. Me thinks I spot a helpful Costco employee over in the detergent aisle!”
I walk over and ask Mr. Costco himself. Surely he’ll know. He looks to be a bright young man.
“Young man, could you please tell me where I’d find the hotdogs?”, I query.
He slowly stops what he’s doing, lowers his head, eyes me from head to toe over the rims of his glasses and smugly informs me,
“Ma’am, you might wanna try the refrigeration aisle for hotdogs. This is the detergent aisle.”
All I could think of at the time is the comedienne Jeanne Robertson’s comment:
“Have you ever wanted to take a young person’s head, put it between your hands, look them square in the face and YELL: Are you in there?! Seriously, Are you in there?!!”
(For those of you that have seen her on YOU TUBE, you’ll remember the line. For those of you who haven’t heard of her, You don’t know what you’re missing! Look herup!)
To make a short story even longer, I eventually find the hotdogs (And no, People, I don’t usually eat hotdogs, but it was the 4th of July, don’t ‘cha know) and I’m driving outta the parking lot thinking to myself:
“What the shit?! Do I look like I’m learning-impaired?!”
“My God! I’m old, but not dead yet!”
I then catch a look at myself in the rear view mirror and notice what I think is a perspiration stain on the front of my shirt.
And then it slowly dawns on me:
Oh…My…God! That’s DROOL!!
DROOL! (a.k.a dental goop from the caverns of my mouth!! Yuck!)
The kid probably took one look at me and thought I was a bonafide member of our local “Over the Hill Retirement Community.”
Lord! Lord! Lord! How I miss my mind!
People, don’t be drooling on yourself! (at least not in public!)
I’ll catch ya next week for another adventure living “Life from MY Shoes”!