June 22, 2019 – The broken foot – the ordeal begins. My wings have been clipped again.

         YUP – I’ve done it now.   Russ was mowing the lawn, I was cleaning out the shed and there was a 4’ by 8’ piece of 1 inch thick plywood in the way.  I’d shuffled the darn thing around for years – it was a left over piece from the construction of the big shed [circa 2007] and was in my way, again. 

         “In my way for the last time,” I said fuming about it.  I drug it over to the pickup truck where I’d tossed the last four empty wooden brick pallets on board and then unusable door screens from previous storm doors, along with assorted junk.

         I lifted it and tossed it on the truck and darn if it didn’t bounce back, and instantly slide off and Karate chop my right foot from a height of 4 feet.

         I saw stars. I cussed like a sailor.  Then I bent over in pain and I was angry. That darn piece of plywood was going to the dump.  I grabbed it again, slammed it onto the back of the truck, and then managed to hobble into the house and plunge my right foot in a bucket of cold water with ice cubes up to my ankle.  I did this cold treatment then thaw, then back to cold, alternating for the rest of the afternoon.

         By mid evening I realized this wasn’t just a bruise, this was more serious.  I couldn’t stand on it at all.  This had to be broken, I was sure of it.

         Into the Emergency Room at 11:00 p.m. and out at 4:15 a.m.  It was a long and tiresome ordeal just to have x-rays taken and get confirmation of broken bones.  I was fitted up with a temporary splint, crutches and sent home with instructions to make an appointment with an Orthopedic doctor.

         Oh my, my world is upside down.  One good thing, at least I am not hospitalized and can recuperate at home.

         But this sure puts the kibosh into my plans.  I just had the second 15 tons of Belgrade pavers delivered for my driveway.  I’d only gotten in 10 rows the first day and now . . . I couldn’t touch it for weeks.

         Doctor said it was a clean break and an air boot would be the best thing.  “Three weeks off your foot, and I mean off your foot, not waltzing around in the air boot.”

         When I asked, “You mean the air boot is for negotiating the bathroom.”

         “Yes and keep it elevated and come back in three weeks and we will see.”  The doctor left the room and his nurse assistant proceeded to “boot” me.

         Of course my nurse friend was the one to ask, “Fracture?”

         “No.”

         “Good, that means no pins or screws . . . .” and she filled me in on the consequences of that scene.

         It scared me to death listening to that possible scenario.

         What did I learn in this experience?  The E.R. is the same as usual – the worst place in the world to be.  They may have a rolling x-ray machine where they took pictures of my foot – three ways – but I still sat there for countless hours not being advised if I had a break or not.

         Anyone who has ever been to a small, rural county hospital E.R. knows what I am talking about.  Me and the fractured wrist young man who arrived only minutes before me were funneled through a slow as molasses in January.  No, I will revise that – Sloth slow is more like it.

         The upside?  So far I haven’t really found one.  The down side?  It has been only six days and I am bored beyond belief.  I have yet to figure out what I can actually do – with my booted foot elevated.  Read, sew yo-yos, write by hand, but actually type into the computer – I haven’t figured out how to do that.

         Right now, I have my foot down typing this. [Breaking the rules.] Got to go – must keep the booted foot up.

June 21, 2019 – The eyes have it.

The prompt for the June Writer’s group was:  Share a snapshot of a moment in time from your life – a moment, an object, a feeling:                     

         At a recent hair appointment, I picked up a glossy magazine.  As usual, in the Mother’s Day issue was the Mom “makeover” that captured four women of various ages with before and after photos.  It was more than just putting lipstick on a pig; they had changed hairstyles, makeup and even changed their clothing style.

         Of course, the results were dramatic.

         It reminded me of the color draping I experienced at least two decades ago with my two best friends.  It was honestly the first and only time I experienced my friends looking at me with faces screwed up with disgust and their tossing disparaging remarks at me as the colorist draped colored fabric about me.

         “Ghastly,”

         “Awful,”

         "Dreadful,”

         “Makes you look tired.”

         As the comments were made, the colorist tossed aside the rejected colors to one side and kept the colors that made my bare skin, eyes and hair look its best.

I was classified as winter, but, I could also use most of the fall colors.

         The colorist was actually selling makeup and she next proceeded to do my makeup.  It was a new experience for me as I wore little make up until then, usually just mascara, lipstick and only enough foundation to take the ruddiness out of my cheeks.

         She slathered on moisturizer, then a full foundation with dots of lighter color to contour my face.

         She let me put on the mascara as I blinked too much.  She added definition to my eyebrows – whatever for I wondered.  Then she used three colors on my eyelids for the three-tone look. 

         She started with a muted dark brown on the lower lid, then highlighted the under-brow with a creamy bone and finished it off with a diagonal swath of moss green that sweep up and out from my eyelash fringe line.  Lastly, she lined my lips with a pencil and painted my lips with a lip brush dipped in matte rose lipstick.

         “Did it make my brown eyes blue,” I asked as I took hold of the mirror to inspect how I looked and said,

         “I look like a slut – Russ won’t go for this – It’s tooooo  much makeup.”

         “You look fabulous.”

         “Like a model.”

         “You’ve just got to buy the trio compact – it is perfect for you.”

         “You look . . .  elegant, . . . worldly, . . .  intelligent . . . .”

         I will gladly take intelligent over the rest of the comments.

         Everyone rattled on as I started experiencing itchy skin from the moisturizer and foundation.

         I did buy the trio eyeshadow compact and lipstick.

         Later, when I got home I asked my husband what he thought of my new look?

         Russ assessed it for a moment, shook his head and turned back to the late night news, saying, “Just add chewing gum and you look like a whore.” 

         For years, I had that trio eyeshadow compact hidden away and only used it when he left for work ahead of me, or when I was going out shopping or to a symphony or play with my girlfriends.

         Funny, I remember how my girlfriends always noticed and complimented my Hollywood eyes.

June 16, 2019 – Inadvertence.

         I was carrying around a note pad and pen to make a list of what I need at the hardware store this morning.  I am fond of blue Pilot Precise V5 fine point pens. 

         This morning I pulled my hair back in a Scrunchie – yes – many of you may remember that Sex And The City series:

         “No self-respecting New York City woman would be caught dead running around Manhattan in a Scrunchie.”   

         Probably you, like me, think twice about going out in public in one. I break the rules often when I am in the middle of a gardening project, with my sweaty hair up in a Scrunchie, along with dirty pant knees, I trot off to my favorite Horn’s Home and Garden for needed supplies. [No one seems to care.] However, this morning was something different.

         I was about to wash my face when I grabbed a Scrunchie and pulled my chin length hair into a double knotted bun.  Then I leaned in toward the mirror.  Sure, I felt awful, dealing with the residual effects of the Spring flu and the pollen that was giving me sinus drip and sniffles – but two blue streaks on my left temple made me announce to my mirrored image,

         “Maybe I need to see a doctor – why do I have blue veins bulging over my left eye?”

         I grabbed my bar of Ivory soap, plunged it under the running water, and started to lather up – I had blue suds.  WHAT?  Then I turned my hands over and saw blue on both hands intermittently.

         I took a washcloth and scrubbed at the blue streaks on my forehead and they came off .  Thank Goodness, at least I am not having a serious health issue.

         But, where was this mysterious blue coming from? 

         It didn’t take but a moment to figure out what happened.  I had put my pen and note pad down between my double bathroom sinks, while I pulled out clothes to wear.  By inadvertence, I didn’t realize that the tip of the open pen had touched a Scrunchie I had on my sink vanity and it had sucked up enough ink to convey blue onto my hands and also my forehead as I pulled my hair back.

         I doubt anyone will notice the dark blue streak I now have in my hair which could be accepted as a new fashion trend.  Possibly people will consider me edgy now instead of being close to going over the edge.

                              

June 2, 2019 – Joie de vivre

         Occasionally, I even surprise myself.

         My Mom had a life-long passion of wanting to learn French.  WHY?  Well I know part of it is my grandmother on my Father’s side was from the outskirts of Paris.  Grandmother was brought over at the end of World War I by my Grandfather – through Ellis Island, and she didn’t speak much English.   She learned to speak English through her husband, her neighbors, and the French butcher.  It helped that my Grandfather was Canadian French – so communication wasn’t that much of a mystery.

         All her life Grandmother had that soft French accent, like her creamy skin.  As a child, I tried my best to ask her “How do you say ____ in French?”  She would have none of it.  Her pat answer was, “I am American now, I speak English now.” 

         What she didn’t understand was us grandchildren were forced to take French classes as part of the basic curriculum in grammar school and high school.  I wanted to hear how she pronounced it, maybe it would be easier to mimic.

         I always hoped she’d reach out, cup my face, and squeeze my lips a certain way to improve my pronunciation as instruction to a better sound.  Sadly, that never happened.

         It was the era that French was the international language at the time.  In high school, we had a choice of German or French.   I, of course, chose French due to my heritage. Spanish wasn’t introduced until many years after I left public school.

         I had a grasp of a handful of phrases and thankfully the classes I participated in were mostly a “verbal” rendition of  the language.  If I’d had to write something on paper, I’d have been sunk.

         Over the years I have been exposed to French in books -
Agatha Christie drops phrases often and I had to look them up to figure out what they were.  And, many words in the everyday vocabulary come directly from the French language, and many are pronounced the same.

         One year, a dear friend sent me a French phrase-a-day desk calendar as a Christmas gift.  I read it daily. But without someone who knew how the words actually pronounced, I was handicapped.   [I still have that silly desk calendar and when I run across it, I flip through it to see if I can master any of it.]

         One time, on a visit back home, after my Mom had retired, I discovered her hand written notes all through the house with a French word or two and below an English translation.  While I was there on vacation, I practiced those words the same way my Mom did, daily.

         Less than two years ago, while cleaning out my Mom’s house just a week before her death, I ran up on a boxed collection of 33 LPs.  It was a 20-week French course.  I paused and flipped through all the records and the accompanying paperwork.  I didn’t have a stereo system that could play the old vinyl records and I knew I would never have time to work my way through the process.  I had a desire – no, more like a dreamlike wish – not a real desire.  The French course found the exit door with the rest of the unwanted items.

         We are back to the title of this little essay. Joie de vivre – noun – exuberant enjoyment of life.

         One day my husband came in the house and said,

         “That cat, you know the one I call ‘Tubby’ he barreled across the lawn and ran up the China tree, right to the top.  He has such boundless energy.  He does that all the time when he sees me out in the yard.”

         I pulled the phrase out of nowhere and replied, “Joie de vivre!”

         “What,” he cocked his head to look at me with a quizzical look.

         “Joie de vivre – love of life – a certain attitude about enjoying life to the fullest – it’s French – I am not sure I am pronouncing it correctly . . .” and put my nose back in the book I was reading.

         “You sure?”

         “I am pretty sure, would make a lovely name for that cat other than Tubby - Joie de vivre.”  It sounded good to me for a cat name.

         I snapped my book closed and padded to the computer – a wonderful tool for everyday life questions – a computer hooked to the internet.

         I put in my poor spelling of joie de vivre and up popped the definition.  I printed it off after I listened to the pronunciation several times.

         I padded back to the living room and dropped a copy of the below definition into my husband’s lap at the same time I pronounced it correctly two or three times.

         He read it and asked,

         “How did you do get this?”

         “The computer – a very valuable tool, isn’t it?”  It shocks me that he is so naïve sometimes.

         Meanwhile I was thinking – Gosh, I wonder if someone has bottled the essence of joie de vivre and it’s for sale – I could use a double dose of it right now.

         How about that, some French has actually sunk into my thick skull after all these years.  I wonder if it like laying bricks: “one brick at a time” –  rather learning one phrase at a time.

NOTE: Definition obtained from: Google search

joie de vi·vre

/ˌZHwä də ˈvēvrə/

noun

1.    exuberant enjoyment of life.

"they seem to be filled with joie de vivre"

synonyms:

gaiety, cheerfulness, cheeriness, merriment, light-heartedness, happiness, joy, joyfulness, joyousness, delight, pleasure, high spirits, spiritedness, jollity, jolliness, joviality, exuberance, ebullience, liveliness, vivacity, enthusiasm, enjoyment, verve, gusto, relish, animation, effervescence, sparkle, buoyancy, sprightliness, jauntiness, zest, zestfulness;  informalpep, zing, get-up-and-go, being full of the joys of spring, perkiness;  literarygladsomeness, blitheness, blithesomeness "Mediterranean joie de vivre is not a quality found in the typical Briton"

June 1, 2019 – Cat magazine – should I?

         I own a cat alarm clock.  No, it is not a Big Ben with pointy ears and painted on whiskers – it is a real cat, with pointy ears, whiskers, and a  fluffy tail who kneads my chest at just about the same time every morning – just before 6 a.m.

         Jasmine is my alarm clock. I think she wants to watch Steve Doocey and Brian Kilmeade on Fox News – no – just kidding.  She wants a bowl of crunchy cat food and a perch on her table in front of the front window in order to watch dawn break.

         Yesterday, in my junk mail – you can tell how darn hot it is that I am reading junk mail instead of being out in the garden doing something . . . oops I digress.

         I received an advertisement for Catster Magazine.  A newsletter with fascinating feline facts. 

         Why do I read these?  A few years ago I signed up for a “copywriter” writing course and since then – I read my junk mail.  I just couldn’t get into the mindset of the copywriting writing product.  I put in about two months and then let it slide because I really wasn’t into it.  So, I am impressed when I see good copywriting.

         I couldn’t help but notice the bolded question:

         Why does my cat wake me at the same time every day?

         Most mornings my eyes simply pop open at 5:45 a.m. even though the dawn isn’t breaking and there is no alarm clock ringing.  Knowing my cat’s early a.m. routine of walking up my body from toe to chest – the amount of single paw weight is magnified and often makes me wince - I try not to alert my cat that I am actually awake. Once she settles on my chest she licks me with her extra course sandpaper tongue and I have to move my arm to pat her as I don’t want my forearm to be sanded smooth.

         I’ve always wondered how does she know I am awake if I’ve only opened my eyelids and not moved my body or head.

         The answer was in the Catster literature trying to sell me on buying their magazine.  They say:

         It’s not just your routine that has her batting you awake at the crack of dawn.  Thanks to a cat’s internal hardwiring she can actually sense when you’re about to wake up and hasten things along with her paws!

         I’ve played possum on a few occasions and Jasmine has actually tapped my face with her paw as if to say – Are you dead or playing possum?

         So, I’ve said my cat is my alarm clock – now I know she really is.

         Among other items of interest were: 

         Why do cats love people who don’t like cats – or are allergic to them.  I now know the answer to tell my friend Becky.  She is allergic to cats, and doesn’t my Jasmine just jump into her lap with glee at every one of her visits.  Becky pats her lovingly and then pays the price later.  Reason:  The cat sees her as nonthreatening and becomes curious and feels safe approaching her.

       Another answer to my wondering: That sandpaper licking – a sign of great affection and paying you a huge compliment.

         Fun facts about your cat’s tail – confirmed my suspicions of what my cat is thinking or feeling.

         And lastly, “How your cat says, “I love you.”

         When your cat looks at you and slowly blinks her eyes, it’s her way of blowing you a kiss and showing you some love.  Funny that, when she wants up on my lap she sits at the foot of my chair and does the slow eye squeeze and I do it back to her and she jumps up for her long pat and comb out.

         I didn’t know I could “talk” cat.  This magazine might be of interest after all.

         Well, the last two made up my mind – I will bite for a sample issue.

  

         Free issue, no obligation.  I tore out the coupon and sealed it in the accompanying envelope then smiled to myself . . . darn good copywriter – I hope he or she made a good paycheck on this advertisement.