Belongings · Irma · Pets · Relationships · Weather

Bring It.

Palm-Trees_Hurricane-Wilma

“The first rule of hurricane coverage is that every broadcast must begin with palm trees bending in the wind.” –Carl Hiaasen

The past twenty-four hours have all of us, here in Florida,  goggle-eyed at the weatherman tracking impending hurricane Irma.  Wasn’t it just a very short time ago that we were staring at our TV’s, watching the destruction and heartache of hurricane Harvey?  I am thinking that Mother Nature is very angry with us, indeed.

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 Maybe she is punishing us for polluting our land and oceans…”I’ll show you..take that” she screeches as she hurls ferocious winds that scream across our shores, darkening our skies with thunderous storm clouds eruppting in a torrent of rain, causing the ocean to swell and spill into our streets.  The rising floods wash away everything in its path, cars, homes, taking our memories in the rushing waters.    With shaking fingers she points lightening bolts to light up the black-as-night skies, flashing with angry thunder, they unleash a cacophony of brillisafe.ce and sound as we quiver and shake, trying to stay sa

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“Anyone who says they’re not afraid at the time of a hurricane is a fool or a liar, or a little bit of both” —Anderson Cooper

We know this is coming, we are trying to prepare.  “Hope For the Best, Prepare For the Worst” they tell us on TV.  I walk in and out of all the rooms in my little house.  I know I should be packing, gathering up essential things…but I am just a little bit lost.  What’s important enough to take? (apart from the obvious). I know what I want to take, and what I need to take, but I look around..what about my mother’s china? What about my beautiful grandfather clock? And the kid’s framed photos…

” It doesn’t matter,” I tell myself as I pack up what I can, those things that make up my home, and place the boxes in a hall closet for safekeeping. I cross my fingers and hope for the best.  I’m reminded of a saying ..”show me what you love, and I’ll show you who you are.” I think about that…A lot.

So I get the cat carriers ready, pack a few clothes, fill a cooler. The important papers, meds, electronic things go in an overnight bag. Yes, it’s my home but I can’t take it all with me. Not now and not later…you know..on the BIG TRIP..the one where there’s no coming back.

 This, then, is good practice.  If need be, honestly, I could walk out the front door with just the clothes on my back, knowing my kitties were safely in their carriers in the backseat of my car.  My grandchildren are safe with their parents.  In fact, everyone I know and love is safe. For now at least.  And that makes me a happy girl.

 So BRING IT, IRMA.  We are Floridians and we have lived through other storms and hurricanes long before you decided to pay us a visit.  No doubt there will be more to come.  Why maybe, just maybe, by the time you reach us, you might lose some of your power and vengence.  But, on the eve of the most dangerous and destructive hurricane on record, guess what? We will not wait to greet you.

Until after the storm is over, friends…

Cooking · Lifestyle · Pets · Writing

In the kitchen with….

download (1)The secret ingredient is always love…

Dedicated to Sass , who is one heck of a cook, and who always makes me wet my pants whenever we talk and laugh on the phone.

I don’t have time now to practice perfecting my pie crust recipe.  I’ve spent all morning and nearly half the afternoon at the kitchen table trying to troubleshoot WP issues.  I am getting more and more involved with the  “tech stuff” so I’m spending less and less time time writing.  This does not make for a happy girl, entirely.  Getting bogged down with the technical “how-to’s” interferes with my blogging for this neophyte blogger.  As a result, nothing gets done.  Breakfast dishes are still soaking in the sink at 2pm.  (Yes, I wash dishes by hand).  Heck, I’m still in my robe.  Hair is not brushed.  It’s not a pretty sight.   I have to shut down my mind and shove all the things I want to write about to the back of my mind and: getupfromhereanddosomething.  

Then Frieda-(cat), the little darling,  needs attention.  Why are cats sometimes like 2 year Olds?  She jumps onto the kitchen table where I’m writing and bats at my pen.  (It’s getting more attention than her). She rubs her head on my hand.  She bites a flea.  She licks herself.  She looks at me with goo-goo eyes.  The table is piled high with books, coffee mug, notepads, pens, phone and tablet.  All the necessary paraphernalia I need to get my creative juices flowing and to get down to the business of writing.  Oh, and Frieda.

What I really need, (and is on my wish list), is a writing sanctuary.  Not long ago, I read about a woman who blogged about her lovely little writing cabin in the woods.  THAT HER HUSBAND BUILT, just for her.  How twee.  I tried not to be envious, honestly, I did.  The closest my husband has come to supporting my writing/blogging is his daily query of “what’s for dinner?” when he sees me at the kitchen table.  The two are not remotely related, see what  I mean?  Just yesterday, he walked into the kitchen while a pot of chicken was simmering on the stove.  I was, as usual, busy writing away.  “Is that dinner?” he asked, peering into the pot.  I raised my head and looked at him.  I paused and thought perhaps now wasn’t a good time to tell him that no, actually, I was making gourmet homemade food for the CATS.  You know, something really tasty, with mashed carrots and chicken broth, too.  “Um, no…I said.  I thought about the Hungry Man Tv dinner I had grabbed at the store and thrown  into the shopping cart.  How was thso at going to sound appealing now that he had salivated over the simmering chicken?  So, I did what all good little wives do, (sometimes). I lied. I said “no, honey, that’s for homemade chicken pot pie for your dinner….tomorrow!” Now I’m not really proud of this, but I did it for him.  I couldn’t let him think I was putting the cats before him.  That would not sit well with the male ego.  He has already accused me of loving them more than him….and well, you get the picture.  Why is it that sometimes grown men are like 2 year Olds?

Which brings me back to the pie crust.  I had opened my big, fat mouth and told a wee, little lie. So there it was, the lie I had to make good on. And here it is, already well into the afternoon with no chicken pot pie in sight.

Until next time friends, I’ll leave you with this: “Happiness is homemade.”

YUM!