My Birthday 2011

My birthday began at 2 AM – the Meowing Menace of Pembroke took it upon herself to herald in the new day by prowling the halls and bedroom, moaning and grinding against the bed like a feverish crack whore in need of a fix. It is her nightly ritual and it lasts until the wee hours of the morn. She wants to be pet. She wants to be kissed. She wants to sit on someone’s face or chest, vigorously propelling cat hair up their nostrils or into their eyes because they, her insignificant staff, can not possibly exist without her molecules breaching their every pore.  We don’t see her during the day (unless she graces us with her presence as she vomits up a hairball or some undigested kitty kibble).

Better Half had his PT appointment, we called Mum and she sung "Happy Birthday" to me, and then we headed to Pittsburgh. Our first stop was the Robinson Dennys (eternally pronounced den-WAHs) for my free birthday breakfast. It’s an Old Punk thing.  They were recovering from a breakfast rush (comprised mainly of loud, testosterone-packed young adults, and I do use “adult” loosely) so we had a bit of a wait. The waitress was a kindly dear, obviously overworked already, and the service was excellent.

We trekked through the Fort Pitt Tunnel and into Pittsburgh proper, weaving through grey streets bustling with pedestrian traffic. A very tangible pre-holiday feeling surrounded us.  ThePittsburgh Three Rivers Regatta begins tomorrow.  It will be wild.  

Phipps Conservatory  wasn’t as crowded as we’d expected. We renewed our membership, accepted some lovely coffee table books as gifts, and enthusiastically entered the Happiest Humid Spot in PA.

We had a delightful time. Our preferred exhibits are Butterfly Forest and Headwaters of the Amazon.  

Butterfly Forest is an all-ages-pleaser; children especially enjoy wandering the paths while graceful insects dance about them.   

The summer flower show is Living Harmoniously with Nature. It’s fascinating but I’m not into pop art or interpretive sculptures.

Enjoy:

Orchid from the Frank Sarris Orchid Room

 

Fae Pathway

Mason bee hive

A vibrant display for sight, scent and taste

Beauty found clinging to concrete

Aqua

 

Better Half releases his Inner Child

Koi

We stopped by Crystal on Penn for Lebanese food. Better Half and I ordered the lamb sandwich: large chucks of prime lamb and peppers stuffed into a perfect pita, served with a traditional sauce. It is casual dining and the bill was much less than we expected.  I’m going to try their kibbee next time around.

I finished off my day with phone calls to and from Mum and Dad, Better Half's Mom, and more family (I couldn’t get in touch with my Aunt Paul, and was really hoping to) and then some work in my own flower beds. The fireflies are out in force once again. 

I’m ready to embrace my forties. I’m eager to see what the next decade will bring. Most of all, I’m very happy to have family and friends, even if they are long-distance or bogged down with their own life’s journey.

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Goodbye 30s

Tomorrow is my fortieth birthday.

Arrivederci e ringraziamenti per tutti pesci.  

(Meh. Close enough.)

I’ve decided to not stress over it. It’s a new decade. Besides, there are yet more mysteries to unravel.

What exactly is the meaning of life?  How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? 

Most importantly, and surely the most pressing question of all –

How does the man on the right wipe his own ass?

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Catch Up

Obviously, I haven’t visited here in a while;  Facebook usurped every joule of my lingering blogging energies. How can I possibly write my thoughts without the mind-dulling distraction of Angry Birds or City of Wonder?

Facebookless friends have sent me well-meaning email (“did you die?”) and general inquiries (“if you died, can I have your plastic dinosaur collection?”) not to mention Better Half chiming in (“I check your blog every day to see if you’ve written.”) so I must have a lepton-sized fan base out there somewhere.  They’re quite flavourful.

“Autrice, is that a piss-poor physics joke?”

Yes. My wit, much like my writing skills, has decayed over time.

My goal for today was to set up shop on my back deck and essentially finish a blog entry. The weather is perfect. Wind chime tunes mix with the sporadic hammering from our neighbor as he works on his new deck. I can watch birds flit about our trees (inside joke, that) and enjoy the breeze tussling my pepper plants’ leaves.  Humming birds and carpenter bees frolic around our mimosa tree. Lovey setting.  I’m not accomplishing much.

Woe the pitfalls of writing in a natural setting! I turned my back for a moment and Better Half had to fish the wireless mouse from the clutches of the rogue tomato plant growing at the garden level of the yard.

The Village of  Wintersville held Thunder in the Valley last weekend. Our back deck is a prime spot to see the fireworks. There is something magical about rainbow-colored chrysanthemums illuminating the sky. The grass was freshly mowed that day, a heady scent that rejuvenates the soul. Fireflies (we’ve been calling them Firefly Storms due to this year’s large population) dotted the landscape from ground to tree-top. I miss the beach. I miss Colorado’s natural beauty. I wouldn’t leave Ohio if you paid me.

Our spring was rather exciting. We experienced a major plumbing leak in the bathroom. It destroyed the kitchen ceiling. The owners prior to us installed the horrid apple-theme wallpaper below. Above it is the original 1920s wallpaper. I'm going to see if we can save a small strip of it. I'll place it in a frame and hang it in tribute to the Yocums (first owners). We are the third people to own this silly Craftsman.

The plumbers demolished what was left of the ceiling, took down a cabinet, and installed all new pipes. The plumbing between the bathroom and first floor stack is now up to code and all of the original 1920s cast iron, lead and copper pipes are gone. The plumbing in other parts of the house has remained.

We should hear from our insurance adjuster any day now. They will have to remove all the old (hideous!) wall paper, repair the plaster walls, construct a new ceiling and replace one counter top. Ugh. I’ve picked out new colors for the room, chosen an inexpensive counter top (we’ll have to install matching ones on our own dime) and experimented with cabinet painting techniques. Everything is on hold until we have an answer from Allstate. 

The tomato plants are flowering and I’ve seen some pepper buds. Our front garden is glorious this year, accenting the house with shades of maroon, orange, white and lilac. The lawns have gone a bit weedy but I can’t work new seed or sod into our budget.  

My birthday is Friday and we will spend the day at the Phipps Conservatory. My membership expires at the end of July. Time to renew.

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Pittsburghese

One of my old friends (whom I am currently very angry with) has a fluid way of retelling his adventures. His writing style is atrocious. Grammatical rules (and spelling) are cast aside in favor of rustic (guttural grunting) grace. I envy him in many ways.

“Anyways… the gardens coming along. I got the girls ta help me plant some corn, and they had fun. Y’know, nothing sucks more than a fucking sunburn… and now I got four kids with sunburn… fucking aloe plants sacrificed, and I was just getting ‘em ta grow big again. S’okay, tho. Kelsey had ta plant, and she couldn’t go to the mall with Josh, and hey… y’know my rule about dating. Anyway, the roses are all bloomed on the porch. Reminds me of Mignon. Yeah, I miss him. He’s doing good… did ya know he finished his novel? Said he’d send me a copy before it was out on stands. That’s my Migs. So now we're gonna go ta the Strip for a sammach…” and so on.

A "sammach". Fries and cole slaw arrive between the bread and meat. Primanti Brothers best!

I can’t duplicate his style. I would need to pepper my paragraphs with plenty of F bombs, to begin with. My goodness, the man is Lord of the F Word. Reading his letters is similar to sitting across from a dock worker, sharing a pint and ogling pretty girls as they pass. He writes as he speaks, a soft Scottish accent mingled with a Pittsburgh croak.

Pittsburghese is its own dialect. Dr. Barbara Johnstone, Department of English, Carnegie Mellon University, gave a lecture regarding it. You can watch it on Youtube if you have 45 minutes to spare. I highly recommend it.

Yinz might enjoy a shorter, less cerebral approach, n’at. For Crab, Ox, Miss Feather and Reeses Pieces:
click here.

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Happy Easter!

Happy Easter!

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Eastertide 2011: Holy Saturday

In the quietude of Holy Saturday, shortly before midnight, I find myself standing on my back deck and looking out into the twinkling lights of houses and roads. The celebrated agony of last week is over, both physical and mental. Soon the sun will crest the horizon, church bells will peal and the Good News will be spread.

My upbringing gave me an appreciation for solemn things. Raised Catholic, I kept the entirety of the Paschal season, including the full forty days of Lent. I was taught to reflect upon the events; I believe that I became a more empathic (sympathetic) person for it.

Good Friday, the Veneration of the Cross, marked the intense end of a whirlwind Jerusalem Tour. “They are killing him today,” I would think when I was smaller, and I would spend the day in quiet bereavement.

Holy Saturday. This was the one day of the year that brought me the greatest wretchedness as a child. Reared in a theatre family, I always thought of Holy Saturday as the day God went Dark. It was the one day of the year that God wasn’t turning His face to look at man, according to my child’s mind. It saddened me, especially if it rained on that day.

I can distinctly recollect crawling into bed after a very long Easter vigil. I was still at St. Rose, and probably no older than seven. The moon shone through my bedroom window and I turned my eyes toward the heavens (because everyone knows that is where God lives) and I felt a profound sense of loss. If I was this sad, then surely God was “upstairs” crying over the death, too. So, in true innocent form, I offered God my best sympathies for the death of Jesus.

“It’s okay, God. You come back again tomorrow. Don’t cry.”

I began attending sunrise services in my late teens. It seemed fitting. Mary headed down the darkened roads on her way to tend to Christ’s body. In the early morning light, while all the world was just starting to get busy, Mary came upon what she thought to be a gardener near the tomb. The story is well known. I needn’t repeat it here.

Easter Sunday is bitter-sweet to me. Yes, “Jesus rose”, and all of Christendom rejoices… for a day, perhaps even two. Then it seems as if everyone goes back to their lives. Disaster averted. Panic over. Been there, done that. Christ walked the earth forty days after the resurrection. The New Testament records chronicle a few key events and end with his Ascension into Heaven. And then that’s that.

Eastertide, like Christmastide, becomes a memory shortly after it is celebrated. The children and grandchildren have binged through their sugary hoards. The adults have put away their Easter outfits and put on their grindstone mantle. People tuck away all the “Easter bible stories” much as they stash the plastic decorations and gaily-colored baskets in the attic. They may glance upon them during the rest of the year, if they happen to be in that part of the attic.

Christians seem to have lost sight of the Passion of Christ (and I don’t mean the movie, although I do get a chuckle when I recall how horrorstruck many Protestants were over the “gruesomeness” depicted therein. Goodness, did they honestly believe that the death was no harsher than an Easter parade on a balmy afternoon?)

I was in a debate recently and my (apparently unarmed) opponent was a self-declared “OSASBABBTC” (translated: Once Saved, Always Saved Born Again, Bible-Believing True Christian). We were discussing the importance of the Last Supper and the symbolic act of communion.

He used the advantage to rant about “pagan papal Catholic demonists speaking demonic Latin” and his ire grew to epic proportions when I softly pointed out that Jesus Himself stated, “As often as you do these things, do them in memory of me”. His response to me was, “YOU don’t know Jesus!”

I wonder if he knows Jesus. I don’t mean the “made in our image God suit” that many people use to form God in their minds. I certainly don’t mean the parroted words typed in red font found in every bible. Nor do I mean Paul’s teachings to the early churches.

Does this man really know Christ and all that He endured? Has he ever taken time out of his hectic “born again” life to contemplate Jesus? Does he feel the pregnant and heavy weight of Holy Saturday bearing down upon him tonight?

I certainly do not place myself as being higher in the Salvation Station than my debate opponent. I’m not. I don’t spout bible verses. I don’t wear a cross or crucifix. I avoid labels such as “born again” and “true”, and refuse to identify with any single denomination. I seldom attend church services. I’m quiet in what I believe and in how I believe, and there are days where I wonder if what I believe is actually to be believed or not.

God will probably take one look at my sorry carcass and punt me straight into hell. Still, I’m the one standing on my deck and reassuring God (and myself) that he’ll be back tomorrow. It’s a weird relationship between Father and prodigal child.

I keep Eastertide in my heart, and heed every dreadful and every miraculous moment of it. And so I find myself once again contemplating Holy Saturday, and the promise of Easter Sunday. May each of my friends and their families experience the peace and hope of the season.

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The photographs are from a meandering road in West Virginia. I took them Saturday afternoon as we were coming back from our friends' home.

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Not a Lazy Day

There are some days when you are just too exhausted to do anything. We all have them. We crash and burn like an Italian Greyhound coming down from a milkbone high.

Unfortunately, the inhabitants of Pembroke Cottage didn’t have time to be lazy this week. CAP meetings, a broken kitchen faucet, the VAMC, and the dire need to do yard work seem to have demanded most of our attention. I have yet to start my spring cleaning, I haven’t planned my garden, my cabinets all need to be purged, and I can’t decide how to best purge my favorite couch from the dining room (yes, the dining room).

We did manage to rake out our flower beds and move Schmedly the Gargoyle to his new home. The grass growth was hindered by leaves (thank goodness) so I can put off calling the gardener for at least another week.

Today was faucet day. Jeff and I spent the afternoon pulling all of the previous parts out (rusted bolts, improper seating and a lot of grunts and groans). Piper supervised and thus the job went well. It’s very nice to have both hot and cold water coming from the tap.

I can’t think of anything I need more than a good, long nap. Perhaps after we are done cooking the brisket on the BBQ, I write a few articles for the CAP newsletter, I finish the dishes, and straighten up the dining room...

Perhaps.

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Journey of My Heart

An online friend (and my favorite hero) started blogging: Journey of My Heart.  I'm so proud of her!

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