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I Didn’t Mean to be Melancholy

I had meant to make a post about one of my recent Mohawk Valley adventures, but I’m afraid today is going to be more of a Middle-aged Musings Monday, if not Melancholy Monday, or even a Memories Monday.  Oh, all right, I’ll stop alliterating and start blogging.

Today on my Facebook On This Day, I noted that one year ago today we brought our sweet Spunky home from his foster dad’s (I even wrote a blog post about it).  Regular readers may recall that we sadly lost Spunkman (as Steven liked to call him) far too soon (I wrote a blog post about that, too).  I miss having a dog, but the time seems not right to adopt another one yet.

Logging on to WordPress, I noticed a post from a blogger I follow about how she and her guy adopted a puppy, Meet Harper, the Resuce Pup!  Full disclosure:  I do not read all posts by all the bloggers I follow.  This one I read.   Rescue dogs are the best!  And people who adopt them are awesome!  Oh dear, that sounded like I was tooting my own horn, but I was not, really.  For one reason, I have not adopted another dog since losing Spunky.  I don’t know if I ever will, although as I read somewhere, pets happen.

So I am remembering our little Spunky, and our sweet Tabby, who lived with us from 2007 to 2015.  Dogs enrich our lives immeasurably, but so is the sadness immeasurable when we lose them.  I suppose I could say something profound about how you have to have the sad to appreciate the happy, and I even know such a thing to be true.  But I’m afraid it would sound glib and trite, because profundity is not my strong suit.

I also feel I should apologize for intruding sadness into my silly blog, especially when the occasion for sadness is sometime past.  Then again, who can explain emotions and why apologize for them?  I like to say, sometimes you just have to feel that way until you don’t feel that way any more.  I’ll try for a better post tomorrow.

 

Theatre Memories on Tired Tuesday

I interrupt my reading of other people’s blogs to make my Tired Tuesday post.  I’d like to do the picture thing, but I think I’ve used all the good ones in our Downloads, and I haven’t downloaded any new ones lately. I wonder if Steven has.

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Photo by Mark Hanna, who is also a pretty good actor.

This is the cast of the murder mystery I wrote last year for Morning Star Methodist Church in Ilion, NY, Engaged to be Murdered.  I’m writing a new one for that church, to be presented April 1.  This one is titled He Laughed Himself to Death.  I intend to incorporate the April Fool’s Day holiday in the plot.  I shall write more blog posts about that, rest assured.

 

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They were all leading ladies to me!

To continue the theme of theatre memories, here is the cast and crew of Leading Ladies, which I was blessed to direct with one of the finest groups ever associated with the Ilion Little Theatre stage.  Perhaps you read one of my blog posts about it.

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Full disclosure: a selfie stick was used in the taking of this picture.

Is it silly of me to post two pictures of the same cast and crew?  No matter; it is what is in my downloads, I will post it.  We took a selfie of the whole group a few times before performances.  It was one of those casts that really bonded.  I’m hoping we take a few backstage selfies of Steel Magnolias.  I’ll be sure to share them here if we do.

For now, I must scurry off to rehearsal, which is a little earlier tonight.  Happy Tuesday, everyone.

 

Steven and Me

There is nothing like not having a damn thing to post about to make one less self-conscious about the thing she did NOT want to post about yesterday (one and she being, of course, me).  Additionally, when I asked Steven what I could make my blog post about, he said, “ME!”  Well, it will be about him and me, as I share a few photos and memories (yes, I’m still relying on the find a few pics method of blog posting.  I kind of like it).

The first photo is from our wedding day, back in 1990.  Check out my ugly big glasses!  Big ugly glasses are coming back into style, but I don’t think we’ll see these again.

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How handsome Steve looks! He still is pretty cute.

We are drinking the toast offered by his best man.  I have no memory about what was said.  I don’t even remember if it was a good champagne.  I like dry champagne now, and I prefer to drink it out of a flute.

This next picture was taken at the HALO Luau Fundraiser, a few years ago.  I think I wrote a blog post about it.  I wonder if I can find it and make a link.

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Us get silly for a photo op? Say it ain’t so!

This next one is more recent.  We visited Woodland Hops Farm.  I don’t think I made a blog post about it, but I wrote an article for Mohawk Valley Living magazine.  My sister Cheryl took the picture.

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Cheers!

It’s kind of too bad that we are toasting in two but not three of the pictures.  It would have been nice to have, you know, kind of a theme. On the other hand, they are all pictures of a happy couple enjoying themselves.

 

First You Take the Blog Post…

So there I was, pressed for time, short of brain, and I wanted to make a blog post.  Would I get it done in time?

First, I thought, I will make Steven’s sandwich.  You see, I must meet him at his work at six, to go to our pick-up rehearsal at 6:30 for Roxy, the play I will apparently never stop talking about.  Steven nicely left me a recipe for the sandwich.  I will share it, with explanation and memories, for today’s post.

I had asked Steven to leave me a note, reminding me to make the sandwich. Included in the note was the sentence:  “First you take the sandwich.  Then you make it.”  Now I will explain that.

Many years ago, when Steven and I had recently moved into our first apartment together, we were discussing things we could fix for dinner.  I suggested meatloaf.  Steven did not know how to make meatloaf.

“Oh, it’s easy, ” I said.  “First you take the meat.”  Then I realized I did not feel like going through the whole process, so I just said, “Then you loaf it.”

He was not gratified by the explanation.  However, some time later we had gotten some fish, which Steven also did not know how to cook.  He was to arrive home first that day, so I undertook to leave a note explaining what to do.  My note read:

“It is very easy.  First you take the fish, then you loaf… oh wait, wrong recipe!”

I went on to explain the intricacies of cooking fish (you put it in the oven with butter and garlic, if you want to know), and we both thought it was a very funny joke.

I believe this explains why we are still so happily married after almost 25 years. We laugh at each others’ silly jokes.  Perhaps nobody else will find our jokes so amusing, but I thought for a Wuss-out Wednesday, it would do.

 

Grandma and the Left-Handed Compliment

For today’s Friday Lame Post, I share a memory that for some unknown reason popped into my head this morning.

My grandmother taught me the meaning of the term left-handed compliment one time when she said I gave her one. The occasion was a cousin’s wedding. We were dressed in our finest, uncomfortably placed in the family station wagon.

I was uncomfortable because I liked to ride in the back end, curled up or sprawled out as the mood struck me (these were the days before seat belt laws), not perched on the back seat in a supposedly lady-like fashion. My brother was uncomfortable because he was forced to ride in the back end, not the front seat in his accustomed spot. Well we, that is my three sisters and I, were in dresses. He was wearing pants.

Additionally, my mother had insisted we wear full pantyhose, not knee-his. Our dresses were long. We thought knee-his would be OK. Mom said it might show when we danced. We didn’t buy it, but she was Mom. She won.

We picked up Grandma at her house. When she got in in the car, the first word out of her mouth was, “Damn.” I can’t even remember what she was damning, but she went on to say something disparaging about her knee-his. Cue reproachful looks at Mom.

I said, “Fancy clothes don’t change you, Grandma. You’re still the same old Grandma.”

She told me it was a left-handed compliment. I never explained to her that I meant it as a sincere, loving statement. When Grandma had walked out her door in a long dress with her hair beautifully styled, I had felt a little intimidated. I remember thinking she looked like a Duchess. I think I was half-expecting her to act differently, too. To hear my “same old Grandma,” apparently just as uncomfortable dressed to the nines as we were, was a profound relief.

Thinking back on it today, I feel really bad that I did not explain that. Having subsequently received more left-handed than right-handed compliments myself (although I confess I haven’t really kept track), I think I know what one is. Grandma, if you’re up there listening, here is what I meant: You looked beautiful that day, but your true beauty was the person that you were.

Another Stroll Down Memory Lame

Does anybody else remember this:

“TASTES GREAT!”

“LESS FILLING!”

“I still don’t know why they wanted me to be in this commercial.”

Yes, I am about to write a Friday Lame Post worthy of Non-Sequitur Thursday. The fact is, once again, I got nuthin'(the period doesn’t look right after the apostrophe). (Oh, but it looks fine after the parenthesis.)

I didn’t even try very hard to write anything while I was at work. I managed almost a page on my novel (it seems to be going well, but I’m sure that’s deceiving), and I conversed with a co-worker.

Oh, here’s… I don’t know if it’s a random observation or what, but the word is “converse.” Certain sergeants in the army said “conversate,” as in, “You don’t need to be off there conversating.” My elementary school teachers used to say “visiting,” as in, “Do your work and don’t be visiting with your neighbor!” Incidentally, I almost always visited with my neighbor, even when the teacher sat us boy/girl in hopes of curtailing such a thing.

And how about that, back when boy/girl was supposed to be a bad thing? Was it ever, really? I mean, I didn’t want them to be my boyfriends, but I would always talk to the boys (visit? conversate?).

Just as a final note (and here’s the real non-sequitur of the day): I think today is my 1,000th post. Isn’t that cool? Happy Friday, everyone.

I’m Not a Basket Case

For this week’s Middle-aged Musings Monday, I would like to dissect a ditty I learned in elementary school. I still sing it on occasion, because it has kind of a catchy tune. Luckily for you, dear reader, this is not an audio blog. Without my awful singing voice, then, here is the first part:

There was an old woman tossed up in a basket,
Fifteen times as high as the moon.
And where she was going, I couldn’t but ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom.

Excuse me, what? Of course, I’m no expert on astronomy, but considering how small the moon looks from here, how in the world is this guy seeing this old woman, never mind the basket and the broom (I say “this guy,” because there was a picture of a guy next to this song in my fourth grade music book) (although it might not have been fourth grade; I just thought the sentence would sound better if I was specific) (but I digress).

Who tossed her, the Incredible Hulk?

OK, let’s assume the guy has the Hubble Space Telescope, how does he manage to carry on a conversation with her, which he does, because the song continues:

“Old Woman, Old Woman, Old Woman,” quoth I,
“Oh whither, or whither so high?”
“To swee-eep the co-obwebs out of the sky-y-y!”

I guess that was how people talked back then, “quoth I.” In my younger days, it would have been, “So I sez to her…” These days, it might be, “So I’m like, ‘What up, Lady?’ and she’s all, ‘Sweeping the cobwebs, dude.'”

Do people still call other people “dude”? It was “man” in the ’60s and ’70s, “dude” in the ’80s and ’90s, and then I completely lost touch. I did mention that these were middle-aged musings, didn’t I?

Come to think of it, these days, he could have texted her. This probably would include “lol” and “fml,” but I really don’t know a lot about texting.

It just goes to show, though, how I took everything at face value when I was a little kid. You taught me a song about a lady in a basket, and I sang it. It isn’t till YEARS later that I finally say, “Waaait a minute!”

On further reflection, that basket may have been sixteen times as high as the moon.