Changing Seasons

"I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers."

-- L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

Oak leaf 9-30-14

"Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons."

-- Jim Bishop

Meadow 9-30-14

"I cannot endure to waste anything 

so precious as autumnal sunshine 

by staying in the house."

-- Nathaniel Hawthorne, The American Notebooks

Bench 9-30-14

I bitch a lot about the weather.

Winter is too cold, and too long.

Summer is never hot enough, or long enough.

Spring never comes soon enough.

Blah, blah, blah-de-blah.

But Autumn? You'll never hear me bitch about Autumn.

Autumn's arrival is glorious. Her stay is an ever-changing landscape of moving color. Even her departure is rather holy, cloaked in the sacred hush of Winter's first snowfall.

I took an impromptu walk in the woods yesterday. I was on a motorcycle ride, with the camera in my saddlebag. So I decided to stop and have a look-around.

Autumn in Ohio is just taking tentative, early baby steps.

Monarch 9-30-14

The late afternoon sunlight was streaming through the trees, spotlighting her first blush of colorful beauty.


A "V" of noisy geese shared space in the sky with a quiet crescent moon.

A ragged Monarch with tattered wings was loading up on last minute flower juice before making the big trip to Mexico.

As much as I love a good view of Autumn's grandeur through the visor on my motorcycle helmet, I have to say, it was equally lovely off the bike, up close through the camera lens.

It's a good thing I stopped.

Meadow grass 9-30-14

Cake For Breakfast

"Muffins are for people who don't have the nads

to order cake for breakfast."

-- Kitchen Confidential

Red velvet cake scraps with milk 9-28-14

"Shep claimed eating cake like that so early in the morning

was a 'whore's breakfast.'

The rest of them didn't care.

They were happy little whores who didn't worry about saving a morsel."

-- Rebecca Wells, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood

We had dinner last night with my beautiful friend Kelly, who happens to be a professional pastry chef. 

Kelly operates her own very successful up-and-coming bakery in Providence, RI, but she was home in Ohio over the weekend to be in a friend's wedding, for which she also made the cake.

When professional cake designers build cakes, a lot of the cake falls victim to long, sharp, serrated knives they use to shave and shape the cakes into perfect rounds and squares with perfectly flat sides and tops.

All of the discarded, trimmed-off cake becomes cake scraps.

I worked with Kelly in a local bakery a few years ago, and when there were cake scraps, she'd send them home with me in fondant buckets for the boys. They'd eat it right out of the buckets with their fingers.

I don't see Kelly as often anymore since she moved to Rhode Island. But yesterday she showed up at the restaurant with a cooler full of scraps from the wedding cake she'd made. She brought them all the way from Providence -- about eight pounds of red velvet, lemon, and pumpkin scraps -- enough to make a whole other cake.

When we got home, we immediately dug in. Red velvet cake is a little too messy to eat with your hands, so we scooped it into cereal bowls, covered it with milk and ate it with spoons. It was sweet and squishy and turned the milk delightfully pink.

It wasn't exactly breakfast. It was 10 p.m. And we weren't exactly hungry. We'd eaten huge dinners.

But it was cake.

There's always room for cake, no matter what time it is.

This morning when I got up I found tell-tale red velvet crumbs in the sink, and the milk was all gone. So I'm pretty sure I know what the boys had for breakfast.

Anybody who's ever heard Bill Cosby's schtick about eating cake for breakfast knows it's perfectly acceptable because it's got eggs, milk and wheat. As Cos says, "That's nutrition!"

I don't let my family eat cake for breakfast every day. Sometimes I let them eat cookies and brownies. I blame my grandmother, who always had to have "a little something sweet" with her morning coffee -- donuts, sweet rolls, apple fritters.

Nutritionally speaking, perhaps cake isn't the best breakfast.

Deliciously speaking, it's about as good as it gets.

I Got It From My Mama

"Genes aren't designed to make us happy.

They design us to make more copies of themselves."

-- Joe Quirk,

It's Not You, It's Biology: 

The Science of Love, Sex, and Relationships

Mom 9-28-14

"The laws of genetics apply 

even if you refuse to learn them."

-- Allison Plowden

"Got a pistol for a mouth, my old mama gave me that."

-- Gin Wigmore, "Black Sheep"

My mom visited this weekend to watch Leo's football game.

The older I get, the more I see my mother in me. It's like a little sneak peek into what's rolling down the genetic hill in my direction.

There's lots of good stuff. Some potentially bad stuff. And a lot of stuff in the middle.

The similarities we share are startling, sometimes. 

There is physical stuff, for sure.  

But it's the stuff that happens below the surface that really gets me -- our behaviors, our tendencies, even our demons are very much the same. 

There are some of my mother's traits that I'm glad she passed on -- because of her skinny genes, I can wear skinny jeans. 

Others not so much. We both wrestle on and off and on again with addiction. We are both maternally-challenged. We both hate making phone calls. We can both cuss a blue streak (she taught me all the good swear words at a very tender age.)

I guess it's safe to say that this apple didn't fall from from the tree. 

It's a good thing it's a goddamn great motherfucking tree.

A Good Seat Cushion

"If your plan is to wait on the sidelines ...

then you're in for a bad case of bleacher-butt."

-- Carolyn Hax, 

"A Bad Case of Bleacher-Butt," Heraldextra.com

Baby butt  9-27-14

"Now they knew that she was a real princess

because she had felt the pea right through

the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down beds.

Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that."

-- Hans Christian Andersen, The Princess and the Pea

"You gotta love livin', baby, 'cause dyin' is a pain in the ass."

-- Frank Sinatra

My neurologist once told me "Maybe you need more cush on your tush."

Those were his exact words.

He was right. I'm not blessed with much padding of my own.

And it's football season, which means lots and lots of sitting on hard bleachers and stadium seats.

Bleacher-butt sucks

And at my age, with my neurological issues, sitting on hard surfaces for a very long time is an extremely bad thing.

So it's a good thing I have a nice thick seat cushion.

I bring my big green 3-inch foam pad to all the games. 

It's a treat for my cheeks because it provides me with what nature didn't -- all dat ass.

It's booty-to-go. 

Happy Being Me

"Many people lose the small joys in the hope for the big happiness."

-- Pearl S.  Buck

Smiley face toy  9-26-14

"It isn't what you have or who you are or where you are 

or what you are doing that makes you happy or unhappy. 

It is what you think about it."

-- Dale Carnegie

"Just tell yourself, Duckie, you're really quite lucky."

-- Dr. Seuss, 

Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?

My life right now is super simple, tidy, small, uncomplicated and uneventfully predictable.

It might even be a little bit boring by some people's standards.

I don't give a fiddler's fuck about some people's standards.

I haven't felt this happy, this content, in a long, long while.

Maybe it's just the anti-depressants talking. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm routinely getting good sleep on a regular basis. 

Whatever it is, it doesn't matter.

 I'm happy.

But the even more remarkable thing is that I'm happy being happy. 

My life is my life, for once in my life.

And that, my friends, is the really good life.

Ball Park Hot Dogs

"An onion can make people cry,

but there has never been a vegetable invented 

to make them laugh."

-- Will Rogers

Me and Onion at the ballpark 9-25-14

I went to my final Indians game of the 2014 season last night.

Thanks to me being their lucky charm and them always winning when I'm in the park, the Tribe beat the Royals 6 to 4.

You're welcome.

That was all well and good, but the really good part was that we got to the stadium good and early and had time to wander around before the game. As I was strolling down the concourse, who should I see coming my way?

Onion! My favorite stadium mascot.

Me and Mustard 

There are three hot dog mascots at Progressive Field: Onion, Mustard and Ketchup. Onion is clearly the best mascot, and here's why.

"Mustard" is yellow.

Duh, right? Mustard is supposed to be yellow.

Well not in Cleveland.

Every baseball fan in C-Town knows that real stadium mustard is brown. Therefore, any self-respecting hot dog costume representing the Tribe in a Cleveland ball park should be embarrassed to wear a weak yellow squiggle on its chest.

Any real Cleveland stadium hot dog costume should look like it's slathered in runny brown baby shit.

Until that happens, I just can't get behind Mustard. On principle. I just can't.

Me and Ketchup 

As for "Ketchup."

I reject Ketchup on so many levels. But mostly because ketchup is just so fucking obvious.

Ketchup is the child's choice.

Plus, everyone knows that even salsa has passed ketchup as America's favorite condiment. So this hot dog shouldn't even be in the race anymore. He's a little passe.

Sure, the hipster glasses are sorta cute. But are they enough? I think not.

Maybe if Ketchup's wardrobe handlers spiced up his costume a little bit with some chunks of jalapeno, cilantro and onion, then maybe I could get behind him.

As is? Kinda lame.

But Onion?

Oh, Onion! Why do I love Onion? Let me count the ways:

A: She's the only girl. So, points.

B: She clearly has the best wardrobe. Jesus. That chopped onion bustier alone. Points. Plus the Chief Wahoo mini. More points. Her onion curls? Points again.

The other hot dogs don't even have pants. Which, ew. No pants, no points.

C: She knows how to accessorize. Earrings and a hot pink purse? Points. Points. The other guys have ball caps, but who the fuck doesn't have a ball cap at the ball game? That's not even trying.

And not to beat a dead horse, but Mustard's hat is yellow. Yellow isn't even an Indians team color. At. All.

D: Her Amy Winehouse mascara and Nicole Kidman lips. Who but Onion could make those two things work flawlessly on one face? Points.

Sadly, Onion didn't cross the finish line first in last night's hot dog derby. I guess she was running on fumes.

Which is another reason Onion is the best mascot.

Because despite last night's win, the Tribe's post-season hopes are running on fumes as well.

But hope on fumes is better than no hope at all.

Just ask Onion.




*photo credits go to my husband for being super awesome and taking me out to the ballpark!

Shrimp On The Barbie

"A phrase that NO Australian ever says. EVER."

or

"Normally the last words said by a dead-shit tourist

in Australia before someone hurts them."

-- Urban Dictionary

Shrimp and Barbies on the barbie 9-24-14

Lloyd:

"That's a lovely accent you have. New Jersey?"

Woman:

"Austria."

Lloyd: 

"Austria! Well, then! G'day mate! Let's put another shrimp on the barbie!"

Woman:

"Let's not."

-- Dumb & Dumber

I remember eating in an open-air seafood restaurant about 25 years ago that was somewhere by a river where they served giant barbecued shrimp in little galvanized buckets.

Everybody sat together, elbow-to-elbow at long picnic-style tables and ate with their fingers.

No tablecloths. No plates. No silverware. Bracingly cold beer in a bottle. Lots of paper napkins. Lots of licking.

I can't remember whether the restaurant was in Chicago or maybe Boston. But every now and then my memory of it triggers a serious craving for barbecued shrimp and cold beer.

So last night I made some for supper.

The beer was non-alcoholic, but it was definitely cold and definitely in a bottle.

The shrimp were medium-sized and served in a bowl, but they were definitely barbecued, definitely messy and definitely delicious.

It was a good way to end a g'day. Mate.

Crushing Cans

"I love smashing stuff."

-- Norman Reedus

Crushed aluminum cans 9-23-14

"Aluminum can be recycled forever. It never wears out."

-- Aluminum Can Recycling, wastecare.com

"Recycling one aluminum can conserves 300-watt hours,

enough to run a 100-watt bulb for three hours."

-- Gibson's Recycling Depot

There's a real big box just outside our back door where we toss our empty aluminum soda and beer cans.

We don't put the cans out on the curb with the regular weekly recyclables because Leo likes to take them to the metal scrap yard for gas money.

"Tin Can Mountain" 9-23-14

Lately, because the big box is getting real full, every time I toss in a can, it just rolls off the other ones onto the garage floor and causes an aluminum can avalanche.

I've asked Leo to take care of Tin Can Mountain's overflow problem, but it just keeps growing.

So yesterday I handled it myself.

I dumped the box out on the patio, laced up my heavy motorcycle boots and stomped, crushed and flattened 'em all.

When I was done I loaded the smushed cans back into the box. What was once spilling over was now only about a third full. An added bonus: when they're flat, the little fuckers can't roll around anymore. 

I felt good.

Smashing empty cans is oddly therapeutic. Cathartic, even.

They make a really satisfying "pop-crunch" sound when you hit them just right, and I even worked up a little sweat.

It was a good way to de-stress, clean up the garage, get a little exercise and help the environment in one fell swoop.

Turns out my carbon footprint is a size 9 steel-toe Doc Martens.

Too Much Of A Good Thing

"If it's worth doing, it's worth overdoing."

-- Anais Nin

Freezer packed with ice bags 9-22-14

"Too much of a good thing can be wonderful."

-- Mae West

"The bigger the better; in everything."

-- Freddie Mercury

In most facets of my life I feel like I don't do enough.

But when it comes to exercise, I am definitely guilty of overdoing it.

I go too far, too hard, too often.

To stave off injury and soreness, I take an ice bath every day after my ride. I dump two 7 pound bags of ice in the tub, fill it with enough cold water to cover my legs, and sit in it for 20 minutes.

I store the ice in the basement deep-freeze. It holds about 10 bags at a time (along with all of our frozen foods) which means I have to restock every 5 to 7 days.

When I'm on my game, I get my own ice. Sometimes, when I feel lazy, I can bribe Leo to do it. When I totally forget and it's an ice emergency, my husband is always great about making a last-minute ice run for me. Sometimes I don't even have to ask. He just does it.

Yesterday I was out of ice. I knew there wouldn't be any after my ride. 

Leo and his girlfriend were eating breakfast together, so I didn't want to make him do it. And I didn't want to interrupt my husband, who was working hard on a project of his own, and make him drop everything to go get ice. So after my ride, I opted for a hot bath with Epsom salt. 

It felt good. But it wasn't the same.

Later in the day, while I was out running errands, I dropped by the store and bought my ten bags. I felt good about being responsible for my own damn self, and for taking care of my own damn business.

I carried my ice-cold booty to the basement and opened the freezer.

It was already full.

Packed to the gills.

Ten big bags of ice, ice, baby. 

The Ice Man had already cometh.

So you know what I did? I called him on his phone (he was out scouting geese with Leo) and reamed him out. Ripped him a new one. I was all "Why didn't you tell me you bought ice? I have ten fucking bags and no where to put them. I hate it when you do this." I was super pissy because if I'd known there was ice I could have taken my ice bath after my riiide-uh!

And you know what he did? He apologized. For being nice. For helping me. For seeing a need and filling it. For being the kind of husband that almost every other wife wishes she'd married.

I huffily rearranged the contents of the upstairs and downstairs freezers as best I could and was able to cram in six bags. I dumped three bags into the bathtub, and put the last one in a cooler. Then I took the ice bath I'd missed earlier in the day.

Using three bags instead of my usual two made the bath extra icy and extra good, and it felt extra awesome.

I needed it to cool off my hot head and realize that I was a complete bitch to my husband who'd done nothing wrong except be a totally great guy. When he got home I apologized, and I thanked him.

And I realized, now that I have all this excess ice, I can take 3-bag ice baths for a few days to use it all up. I know it's a strange and unusual luxury, and not everyone's cup of tea.

But it's definitely my cup of tea.

Make that iced tea.

A Party Of Two

"It's surprising how much memory is built around things unnoticed at the time."

-- Barbara Kingsolver

Party punch for two in vintage martini glasses 9-21-14

"You can never go home again,

but the truth is you can never leave home,

so it's all right."

-- Maya Angelou

"Homecoming means more than kings and queens."

-- Unknown

When they get to be my age, most teenagers won't remember what they did at homecoming.

Mine will never forget.

Leo and his girlfriend Mackenna opted to forego last night's typical, sweat and hormone-drenched everyone-is-doing-it homecoming dance.

They still got dressed up and went out for a fancy dinner. But afterwards, they came back to our house, which Leo and I had transformed into a romantic, private little dance hall. 

We hung streamers from the ceiling.

We lined the "dance floor" with colored lights.

There were balloons and even punch in a punch bowl.

Leo made signs that said "Welcome to At Home Coming."

When he texted that they were on their way back from the restaurant, I lit the candles and put the dance music on -- an old album of my mom and dad's with Nat King Cole crooning "When I fall in Love," and "Stardust" and "Stay as Sweet As You Are." 

It made me feel really good to be Leo's wing man (or as he called me, his "wing nut.") And I was proud as hell of these two great kids who aren't afraid to break away from the crowd and say "fuck you" to popularity, and kings and queens, and alcohol and peer pressure and all that other high school bullshit, and take gentle care of their own happiness instead.

As a bonus, my husband and I had our own private party down in the basement with a stash of snacks, a cooler full of beverages, and a packed night of college football games on the big screen.

That was good too.

Going The Extra Miles

"I don't know what lies ahead, 

but I want to keep going forever."

-- Fuyumi Soryo

Bike tire, bottle and shoe 9-20-14

"A new challenge keeps the brain kicking and the heart ticking."

-- E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly

"There are no traffic jams on the extra mile."

-- Zig Ziglar

There's a song I like that opens with the line "Drunk on a morning sky, it's the kind of day you want to wrap your arms around." 

Yesterday was that kind of day.

Ohio was shamelessly showing off just how gorgeous she can be.

The weather was perfect.

My legs felt good and strong.

The bike felt good and snappy.

I'd had an extra cup of coffee, so I had plenty of extra energy to burn.

So I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled some more.

And when I got to the end of my usual bike ride, I just kept pedaling. 

There was no compelling reason to stop, so I didn't.

I kept riding until I felt that good and useful kind of tired -- the purposeful, heady blend of exhaustion and euphoria that is the preferred drug of endurance athletes everywhere, that feeling that keeps us going extra mile after extra mile after extra mile, day after day after day. 

When my ride was done, I totally could have called it a day right then and there and been perfectly, completely happy.

I could have called it good.

Because it was.

A Cute Jacket

"With its broad collar and princess seams, this nipped-in number fakes a tinier torso.

A belt and buttons the same shade as the jacket don't disrupt the chic sleekness."

-- goodhousekeeping.com, 

"Look 10 Pounds Thinner -- Instantly" 

Horses in cute jackets 9-19-14

"Yeah, I saw Jerry wearing his.

He looked like a bit of a dandy."

-- "David Puddy," Seinfeld, "8 Ball Coat"

I swung by the thrift store yesterday just to cruise through and see if I could find any hidden gems.

I did.

I got a super-cute, tailored, zippered denim jacket with big wide lapels and really cool button-y thingies on the sleeves and pockets for just $4.99.

Everyone knows the right jacket is a good foundation piece that can totally pull together any number of fall looks.

Add the perfect accessories, and, well, the possibilities are endless.

Good fashion advice. Straight from the horse's mouth.

Am I right, or am I right?

A Parade

"I love a parade, the tramping of feet,

I love every beat I hear of a drum.

I love a parade, when I hear a band

I just want to stand and cheer as they come."

-- Arden & Ohman, "I Love A Parade"

Sousaphones in a parade 9-18-14

"If you're not in the parade,
you watch the parade.

That's life."

-- Mike Ditka

Kids waiting for parade candy 9-18-14

I love a parade.

Seriously, I do.

This weekend is homecoming in our little town, and yesterday was the traditional homecoming parade.

Tiger mascot on a float 9-18-14

The marching band marched and blared the school fight song.

Homecoming king and queen candidates rolled past in fancy cars.

The football team rode on a flatbed truck and tossed candy to the little kids (and the big kids) lining the parade route. (I got two Crunch bars!)

Parents drove vehicles pulling trailers transformed into funky, precariously built floats, competing for best in show. One had actual live baby pigs on board. I'm not sure why, exactly. But live baby pigs!

Where else but in a parade?

Senior class parade float 9-18-14

It's kind of hard to watch a live parade and not feel good.

And it doesn't have to be a humdinger, big-city, Macy's Thanksgiving Day kind of affair.

A small town rinky-dink parade like ours will do the trick quite nicely, thank you very much.

It cracked me up how people lining the parade route carried out full conversations with the teachers, parents, coaches and other locals who were driving the cars and trucks that pulled the floats and carried the various sports teams and cheerleaders.

You can't do that in New York City.


Our town has two parades a year. At homecoming, and during our annual summer festival in July.

The summer one is pretty lame. But still, it's a parade. And a lame parade is better than no parade.

Parades are kind of like pizza. Even when they're bad, they're still pretty good.

Football team tossing candy in a parade 9-18-14

But I like the homecoming one better, for lots of reasons, but mostly because there are no politicians shoving propaganda in my face.

(*Note to candidates: You want my vote, give me KitKat bars, not a fucking brochure.)

But I digress.

The simple fact is, parades are fun.

Parades are positive, and hopeful, and celebratory, and silly, and cohesive, and noisy, and colorful.

Whether it's a homecoming parade, a Thanksgiving parade, a gay pride parade, a Rose Bowl parade or a Fourth of July parade, parades are always about celebrating something good or making something better.

A parade literally stops traffic and shouts "Hey everybody! We're in this together, so we might as well make a party of it."

Sounds good to me.

Marching band 9-18-14

Keeping It To Myself

"I keep a lot of shit to myself because in reality, nobody gives a fuck."

-- Unknown

Self portrait 9-17-14

"I have torn to pieces my robe of speech,

and have let go of the desire to converse."

--Rumi, 

Hush, Don't Say Anything To God: Passionate Poems of Rumi

I was at the corner store yesterday, headed for the checkout, when I ran into someone I knew.

He's a real chipper, cheerful guy. Nice enough. 

At another time, under other circumstances, I'd have called him a friend. Now? An acquaintance. Just some guy I recognized at the grocery store.

He was all smiles and "Good to see you!"  He reached out and grabbed me and hugged me heartily, right there in the grocery store, my arms straight down at my sides holding onto my celery and bacon, giving no indication that I wanted to be hugged at all.

Was I glad to see him? 

Meh.

Honestly? When he came around the corner I kind of shrank back and scanned for the quickest getaway, like I often do when I run into certain people from from a certain painful chapter of my life. Which he is. This guy didn't personally inflict the pain. But through no fault of his own, he is guilty by association. My mind and my heart automatically lump him in with the rest of it.

And so I went into self-defense mode.

I pulled back. I threw up a shield. I armored up.

After he monologued about himself for a few minutes, he asked me breezily "So what's new with you?"

There was a time when I'd have "shared," as they say, what's happening in my life. I'd have let myself get sucked into a long, time consuming, nowhere conversation. Not because I really wanted this person to know stuff about me, but because I was insecure enough to think I had to impress him, or prove that my life was valid, or important, or good enough or full enough of what I thought he thought it should be good and full of. I'd have confused a superficial, spontaneous, empty exchange with something real.

Not anymore.

I don't waste the energy.

All I said to him was "Nothing. I live a pretty quiet, simple life these days."

He looked a tad befuddled and said "Well, I guess there's value in that, too."

And the conversation was over.

I'd successfully barred the door.

I paid for my celery and bacon and headed home to my very happy, full, valid, good life which I was happier than happy to keep all to myself, lest I dilute its goodness by spilling it out all over the grocery store floor at the feet of someone who acted like he gave a shit, but who very probably forgot all about me the second we parted.

Which is perfectly fine with me.

Eating Sunflower Seeds Like A Ball Player

"Baseball and spittin' go hand in hand."

-- DavidSeeds.com

Sunflower hulls 9-16-14

"In the United States, they're mostly seen 

as an alternative to chewing tobacco 

for baseball players and other bored people 

with a penchant for spitting."

-- Mental Floss, 

"When Did Baseball Players Start Chewing Sunflower Seeds?"

When you watch a shit-ton of baseball, you also watch a shit-ton of dudes spitting. 

They spit a lot. 

They spit constantly. 

Spit. Spit. Spit. Spit. Spit.

Bubble gum spit. Tobacco spit. Regular spit. 

And they spit out lots and lots of sunflower seed hulls.

I have watched a shit-ton of baseball this season.

And maybe it's simply the power of suggestion, but I've been craving sunflower seeds. So I got some of the in-the-shell kind just like the teams have in the dugout. Then I taught myself to crack them open with my teeth, extract the seed with my tongue, and spit out the hull without losing the seed. Just like the big-leaguers do it.

Right now I can only do one at a time. The most I've done is three or four. I'm working my way up to holding a fistful inside my cheek, chipmunk-style, like the players do. 

I set my goals, I go for 'em.

I know it's not that sexy of a trick for a girl. It'd probably be much sexier if I could, say, tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue. 

But I'm not that girl.

I'm me. 

And sexy isn't really my thing.

Here is my thing, though.

I have a strong tendency to overdo it with snacks. I especially like to nibble on salty stuff while I am cooking supper, thus ruining my appetite for the real meal. And I am no stranger to the late-night chip binge.

But eating sunflower seeds in the shell slows me way down. I can't eat a bunch of these little guys all at once. Extracting each teensy weensy seed one at a time takes a while, which means I won't go overboard, even if I eat them through all nine innings.

Plus, sunflower seeds are a lot healthier than, say, pretzels or potato chips. They're packed with all kinds of vitamins and other good things.

Spit.

Thank You Notes

"Silent gratitude isn't much use to anyone."

-- G.B. Stern

Thank you note 9-15-14

"Don't forget, a person's greatest emotional need 

is to feel appreciated."

-- H. Jackson Brown Jr.,  Life's Little Instruction Book

"I can no other answer make but thanks,

And thanks, and ever thanks."

-- William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

I don't do nice things in order to get noticed, or for accolades or pats on the back or any of that needy, selfish shit. 

I do nice things because it's a nice way to let the people I care about know how I feel about them.

Still, it is nice to be appreciated. Especially when I'm not looking for the thanks.

Yesterday I baked cookies for my guys. It had been a long dry spell and the cookie jar was empty. So I baked some with extra chips for Leo, and some with no chips at all for my husband. That's how they each like 'em, so that's how I baked 'em.

I left the cookies out on the kitchen counter and let the feeding frenzy happen.

I don't bake delicious, perfect, homemade cookies with any agenda in mind other than taking proper care of my boys. Well-fed boys require homemade cookies. It's part of the basic nature of boys.

And yet, this morning, among the crumbs, my husband had left me a little thank you note, quickly dashed off on a yellow Post-It. 

I have to admit, it felt pretty good.

Sure, well-written thank you notes are proper etiquette. My grandmother drilled that one into me. She was all about keeping up appearances. There are lots of guidelines about how to write proper ones. And in my lifetime I've written and received plenty of those kind.

But they never make me feel the warm fuzzy way that the little kitchen counter ones do.

It's kind of upside-down, isn't it, how we are trained to express gratitude (even if it's just "good manners" gratitude) to the people outside our homes when they do something for us, but the people inside our homes get short shrift when it comes to written thanks.

Well, today, how about we change all that?

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Why not take the  "One Good Thing Gratitude Challenge" and write a thank you note to a person who does something nice for you today.

It doesn't have to be formal or fancy or long.

You don't have to use elegant stationery.

A few words, even a single word, on a little sticky note will do the trick.

And they don't have to do anything monumental or extraordinary.

If they fold your socks, write a note.

If they feed your cat or walk your dog, write a note.

If they buy you a cup of coffee, write a note

If they clear the hair out of your shower drain, again, write a note.

If they bake you delicious cookies, write a note.

If they bake you shitty cookies, but it's the best they can do, write a note.

Go ahead and scribble a little smiley face or a heart on there if that's your style.

You don't have to make it a big deal, you just have to mean it.

A thank you note is just a little thing. But it's a good little thing.

Cheering 'Til I Made Myself A Little Hoarse

"Sometimes Mommy says she has a frog in her throat.

Other times she says she's a little horse and needs the throat spray."

-- Fred Gwynne, The King Who Rained

A little horse 9-14-14

"Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,

Little souls who thirst for fight,

These men were born to drill and die.

The unexplained glory flies above them ...

-- Stephen Crane, "Do Not Weep, Maiden, For War is Kind"

Leo's football team played a very exciting game last night.

They fought hard, played tough, and defeated a good team. The win came right down to the wire.

My brother-in-law Russ was here all the way from California to watch his nephew's game. 

We got pretty into it.

We cheered a lot, and we cheered loud.

I cheered so much and so loud, in fact, that I made myself a little hoarse.

Which is why, for today's good thing, I made myself a little horse.

Get it?

Good.

A Bumper Crop With Plenty To Share

"Poke had never shared out so many raisins,

because she had never had so many to share."

-- Orson Scott Card, Ender's Shadow

Bumper crop of garden-variety Barbies 9-13-14

"The little I have, I share with you;

the little you have, you also share with me.

Together we all have a full share of everything."

-- Israelmore Ayivor

"Give it away give it away give it away give it away now
Give it away give it away give it away give it away now
Give it away give it away give it away give it away now."

-- Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Give it Away"

I can still remember my grandpa filling my sister's little flowered bicycle basket with tomatoes, cucumbers and peppers, then sending her teetering off down the street to sell his overage to the neighbors for a nickel apiece.

He had extra, so why not share?

I like the idea, but not so much the approach.

I'd rather just share, without the middle-man, or the hefty price tag.

Right now I have more tomatoes, peppers and broccoli than I can possibly use, popping up and ripening in my garden every day.

After yesterday's picking I walked over to my neighbor, Vera's, and held out the colander full of peppers and tomatoes like a big, plentiful basket of Halloween candy and let her choose the biggest, prettiest ones.

I've been sending Leo's girlfriend, Mackenna, home with bunches of broccoli. Broccoli is her favorite. She calls it her "go-to" vegetable. Tomatoes too -- her grandma makes tomato sandwiches, like me.

This weekend, I'm cooking a big pile of tomatoes into a third batch of sauce to share with Sam so he can still eat a home-cooked supper when he's away from home. Granted, he's a good cook himself. He keeps texting me pictures of things he makes -- steak au poivre sandwiches, grilled salmon with asparagus, and Greek salad stuffed pitas. It's impressive. But I know damned well that the little shit ain't making his own pasta sauce. I can still do some things that he can't.

Anyway, part of the joy of having my garden is sharing what comes out of it. And not just sharing because I have too much. But sharing because I have any at all.

I even like to share the harvesting duties. Sometimes I wait on purpose to pick stuff until Mackenna is here to help me, because she enjoys it too. And I enjoy her company. (She was also a very helpful assistant in setting up the bumper crop of garden-variety Barbies for today's photo).

My garden will be winding down soon. But while it keeps on producing an abundance of goodness, I'll keep on giving it away.

Because the only thing sweeter than finding good things, is sharing all the good things that I find.

A Doubleheader

"We've got the setting -- 

sunshine, fresh air, the team behind us.

So let's play two!"

-- Ernie Banks, 

National Baseball Hall of Fame induction speech, 1977

Baseballs in cycling and batting helmets 9-12-14

"I love doubleheaders. 

That way I get to keep my uniform on longer."

-- Tommy Lasorda

They say two heads are better than one.

I couldn't agree more.

Take yesterday, for instance.

The Indians were scheduled to play a doubleheader against the Twins to make up for their Wednesday night rain-out.

And I was out on my bicycle.

The first pitch of the first game was at noon, which is right in the middle of my daily ride.

But ...

Clever fan that I am, I tuned the game in on my iPod and pedaled happily along while I listened to Tom Hamilton and Jim Rosenhaus call the play by play.

The weather was still pretty dismal and gloomy, but inside my head it was all sunshine and summer. And, I had the best seat in the house.

I'm not usually much of a multi-tasker, but I had this one nailed, doing two of my favorite things at once.

After I got home and showered, the second game of the doubleheader came on, and I got to do it all over again. Except this time, instead of riding while I listened, I ate lunch, did some laundry, and made today's photograph celebrating the day's good turn of events.

In an even better turn of events, our boys swept the doubleheader, beating Minnesota in back-to-back games.

Go Tribe!

Blowin' In The Wind

"The wind shows us how close to the edge we are."

-- Joan Didion

Paper cocktail umbrella 9-11-14

"No one but Night, with tears on her dark face,

Watches beside me in this windy place."

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Night is My Sister"

"Everyone knows it's Windy."

-- The Association, "Windy"

I ride my bicycle primarily around farmland. Right now, the corn is high and the full fields provide lovely protection against the headwinds and cross-winds that typically whip and blow across the flat openness.

Except that now is the time of year when the farmer's start harvesting the crops. And as the combines gobble all of the corn and soybeans, they are also gobbling all of my good windbreaks.

The weather is particularly windy at the moment. Like, tornado watch windy.

Winds like these make it pretty tough sledding for a solo cyclist.

Unless that breeze is at my back, it's nothing but a bitch.

And so, while they still stand, I will appreciate and enjoy each day that the towering stands of corn line my route, like sentinel soldiers, watching out for me. Protecting me from the enemy.

Pretty soon the fields will be stripped shockingly bare and that cruel taskmaster, wind, will have its way, eventually driving me indoors until Spring comes 'round again.

Sometimes you don't know how good you've got it 'til it's gone.

Graffiti

"Everyone has to scratch on walls somewhere or they go crazy."

-- Michael Ondaatje, In the Skin of a Lion

Graffiti 9-10-14

"Some people become cops because 

they want to make the world a better place.

Some people become vandals because 

they want to make the world a better looking place."

-- Banksy, Wall and Piece

Graffiti 9-10-14

"If it takes more than 5 minutes, it's not graffiti."

-- Mint Serf

When I was very small we lived for a while in a house near a train underpass.

That underpass was like a magic tunnel, its walls completely covered in a confetti spray of layered and peeling colors, words and pictures.

To me it was beautiful. I anticipated passing through and tried to see as much as I could in the split seconds it took to get to the other side. 

Probably its a good thing I couldn't read yet, because I'm sure there was some not-so-beautiful stuff written there. But small details aside, the overall impact of a graffiti-covered wall still gets me.

I've been a fan of street art ever since.

I like it on walls, on buildings, on trains. I like it done excellently by talented artists, but I even appreciate it done shittily by rank amateurs. Sometimes if it's too good it takes away the immediacy and the urgency of the art form.

I have even dabbled in graffiti myself. A-la Banksy, I won't reveal when or where. But I've done it late at night under the cover of darkness. I might even do it again if I need to.

There's a train underpass near where I live now where people write graffiti now and then. But the city keeps power-washing it off, and covering it with flat, gray paint. So the walls, now, are a patchwork of big gray blobs. 

But graffiti writers gotta write. And they keep trying, using the renewing gray walls as their blank canvas.  

To me, saying that a graffiti artist can't use their spray cans on public surfaces is like saying a sculptor can't use chisels on stone, or a potter can't use their hands on clay, or a painter can't use brushes on canvas, or a singer can't sing the notes with their voice, or a writer can't use words on paper.

Your art is your art. And you don't always have a choice in what your art is. I won't be cliche and say "your art chooses you." But it kind of does. Mostly, I think it's just there, in you somewhere, until it ultimately burbles up from your personal ooze and demands expression. 

You either let it speak, or let it die.

A paint-covered wall is a small price to pay for saving an artistic life.

I'd like to see what would happen if the city used its resources and manpower (and paint) elsewhere and left the underpass walls alone and let them bloom into an explosion of color and expression and art and opinion and emotion and secret messages and voices and feelings. 

Some, I'm sure, would call it vandalism and brand the graffiti-writers criminals.

But not me.

I think it would look good.

Maybe even magical.