Tattered II

Got out of the car this afternoon at The Lovely’s, and this is the first thing I saw:

I left it there. Looks like it might’ve taken on a lawn mower and survived that battle; who am I to play God?

; )

Poppies

The only way to find what you seek is to know what you seek.

(Or at least what it looks like.)

Sounds a little Zen-like or fortune cookie-ish, doesn’t it? Nevertheless, I had one of those moments of clarity the other morning — Friday, ’round about 7:15, on my way to work. I dread Fridays, too, and overall: This one was no different. Except for that minute or two of figuring out something.

It was “AFOG,” as Roommate might say: “A Freaking Opportunity for Growth.”

Now that was special.

Anyhoo, a few years ago, sometime in mid-March, I was in a pretty bad state of mind. I had just returned from a trip that was designed to allow me to clear my head/seek contrition (in other words, I basically just took off driving) — destination unknown ... mostly ’cause I knew I couldn’t go where I wanted/thought I needed to go, for that would not have remedied anything.

A thousand or so miles and a couple of days later, I found myself right back home again.

“I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon,” said The Lovely, to which I replied: “I got sick of my own company.”

A couple of days later, we packed up and headed to Huntsville, Alabama, which is a pretty nice road trip, from here: About a five-hour drive, mostly interstate, with some decent scenery, mostly from about Nashville, Tennessee, on.

When we started getting close to Alabama, something in the median of the interstate caught my attention: Poppies. Patches of bright-red poppies, every few miles.

They were beautiful.

And to say that I needed to see something beautiful right about then would be a colossal understatement.

It was during that trip that I decided poppies were among my favorite flowers. (And it didn’t hurt, either, that poppy seeds AND the character Poppy figure prominently in a few episodes of Seinfeld!)

: )

Since that time, I have attempted to grow poppies a couple of times. With no success. Go figure.

And I have looked for poppies. Always for the red ones like I saw en route to Huntsville a few years ago. I will see a flash of red in a yard or a field and give a double-take, but no. It’s usually a geranium ... and nothing against geraniums, but: They’re not poppies.

This is where Cher (a.k.a. coldteablues) comes in.

On Thursday, she posted some poppy pictures in The Orchard, along with a link to her photos. And they are lovely! And they are orange and, obviously, a different kind of poppy than the kind I have been seeking, but: They are poppies!

: )

I really adore her photos. And, for whatever reason, I became determined to find some poppies like those. SOMEwhere.

So, on Friday morning, I decided to stop by the ATM on my way to work. I drove down Maple, a street that I usually drive on at least twice a day, and when I got to the house on the corner where I took pictures of blue irises the other day: Poppies! Just like the ones Cher photographed!

Earlier in the week, I had not even known they were there. Mostly ’cause I had no idea what I was looking for.

Vile weed!

#&%@ YOU, poison ivy!!!

: )

(The plants are actually kinda pretty.)

Iris

Iris

And I’d give up forever to touch you
’Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be
And I don’t wanna go home right now

And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
And sooner or later it’s over
I just don’t want to miss you tonight

And I don’t want the world to see me
’Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah, you bleed just to know you’re alive

And I don’t want the world to see me
’Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

And I don’t want the world to see me
’Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

And I don’t want the world to see me
’Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am

— The Goo Goo Dolls

(It is entirely possible that I have posted these lyrics before. If so: Oops! The flowers are what I am seeing; the song is all that I am feeling.)

Young Woman’s Fancy

“In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.” — Alfred Lord Tennyson

(For the record: It’s the same for young women.)

: )

So, how many times have you been in love? Truly in love?

Do you count the times you thought you were in love — only to realize, a few months or weeks or even days (hell, maybe even hours) later that you were, in fact, merely infatuated or in lust or majorly crunching on someone? Are those who have been in love only once in their lives the only ones who have truly experienced being in love? (Is their love more powerful, fiercer somehow, because it has been devoted solely to one person?)

Is it possible to be in love with someone if she or he is not in love with you? Or can being “in love” truly occur only when two people are in love with each other?

Hey, don’t look at me for the answers! I’m just throwing some questions out there; I really don’t have a clue how to respond to some of them!

: o

When I was in eighth grade, I was in love with Ronnie Hagan. (Yes, a boy. I was most definitely a very straight girl when I was in junior high ... well, except for that crush on my math teacher ... a female ... also when I was in eighth grade, now that I think about it! OK, mostly straight.)

I don’t even remember how Ronnie and I got together. He was a year younger than I; in fact, I had met him when he was in fifth grade and I was in sixth because he was going with my sister — and, to be quite honest, I wasn’t all that crazy about him when they were together ’cause I thought he was kinda dorky and ... well, he liked my sister! I never liked the same boys who liked my sister!

They went together for the better part of their fifth-grade year, and then they broke up, and I don’t remember having any awareness of him whatsoever until I was in eighth grade and suddenly we were going together.

And:

Oh. My. God.

How I loved that boy. How in love I was with that boy — more than Tony or Brad or Rickey or Tim or Kenny or even Luther ... and how in love Ronnie was with me. How in love we both were, for a few wonderful months during the 1978-79 school year. Damn.

Pardon me while I enjoy being completely lost in a junior high moment, won’t you?

: )

Let me just say that I see him in all kinds of people — most recently, Christopher Moltisanti (Michael Imperioli) of The Sopranos. And it never fails to make me smile ... especially when Christaphah is at his most, uhm, brilliant.

Columbine in Bloom

Am I cheating on Blogger by having a space — and a bit of a blog! — over on MySpace?

It doesn’t feel as if I am being unfaithful ... but then again, sometimes the person involved in the alleged affair is the only person who doesn’t feel as if she’s doing anything wrong ... or so I’ve heard. Or read. Or something.

Either way, I think the other space is just what I needed to provide me with a little burst of creativity. I’m a bit more haphazard over there (if it’s really possible for me actually ever to loosen up, really, in an ultimately oh-so-public forum); MySpace is actually a bit more fun with the friends comments and the music and what-not.

This is kinda my quiet place. And: I like it.

: )

I have conversations here. Sometimes I converse with Paté over a pitcher of beer (or three!) at the Uptowner ... unless we’ve decided to stay in that particular night and hang out in her dorm room or mine; other times, I am talking to Lea or Brett or Sheila during those precious hours before we officially have to start the workday, before everyone else gets there to interrupt the flow of our discussion. Other times, I am writing an e-mail to Roger or my responses to an online chat with Lisa J. or posting, here, something in reply to one of my fellow Apples from the Orchard.

Once in a while, I talk to people who don’t drop by all that often — such as my beloved Tee-Hee, who gets irritated because I don’t write about me and her and our various adventures often enough, or my sister, who is put off by my occasional use of the word “fuck.” Other times, it’s my mom or The Lovely, who don’t have the link ’cause I don’t think they’d be all that interested.

Yet other times, I converse with someone who remains deep within my soul, no matter how much I try to deny her presence there.

“Whose voice do you hear in your head?” she asks me one night, late. “Sometimes,” I answer, “it’s yours.”

(Many times, it’s hers.)

: )

Donald and Virginia’s columbine plant is in bloom — oddly enough, just a few days after the anniversary of the Columbine shootings. Strange that such a horrible event (has it really been seven years?) would share the same name as such a beautiful plant.

Columbine seems to have such a short-lived bloom; usually, I will notice the flowers, snap a few pictures, and then, they’re gone in what seems to be a matter of hours.

(This evening, whilst snapping away, something landed on the back of my right hand. I looked down and saw four or five teeny-tiny inchworms — which weren’t particularly frightening, but they kinda gave me the creeps because I kept wondering if any of them had landed in my rapidly becoming rat’s nest head of hair [I keep telling myself I am going to grow it out; everyone keeps telling me I won’t!], so I cut short the photo session and headed home, immediately, to take a shower!)

(I have decided I truly would like the outdoors if only it weren’t so ... outdoorsy!)

(By the way: The poison ivy is almost completely gone. Thank goodness and Ivy Dry.)

: )

Tattered

This is how I feel today. Only not nearly as colorful.

Finally!

After approximately eight months of being officially signed up for MySpace, I finally managed to get a template, write a few bits of random information, slap a photo on the page and more or less activate my MySpace space.

For what it’s worth: http://www.myspace.com/di1965

God Bless the Internet!

I absolutely LOVE those days when I receive a random e-mail from someone I have not seen nor heard from for, like, ever ... or days when I open the newest issue of Editor & Publisher and see one of my old college pals (actually, she was more of an acquaintance, but someone that I truly respected who was in the same field as I) in one of the photos adorning the pages of the cover story — so I decide to send her an e-mail, mostly just to say, “Hey, I saw your picture in E&P, you look GREAT, whatchoo been up to?!” — and she e-mails back almost immediately and tells me how great it is to hear from me, too!

: )

Poison ivy sucks ass.

And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

Except to note that, approximately one full week since I first noticed those three mysterious little bumps that I thought were insect bites (mosquito or possibly spider) on my left wrist/forearm, the poison ivy/oak/sumac appears to be healing.

And I will admit I have tried a little of everything in my quest for a cure:

1. Hydrogen peroxide — I thought this would dry out the poison, but it really didn’t seem to help much. Also, I would not recommend this early on when the urushiol could possibly still be present, as the bubbling action of the peroxide could help spread the poison.

: (

2. Calamine lotion — A co-worker of mine who claims to have once had poison ivy everywhere let me dab some of this on my arm. Seemed to help the sooth the itch slightly.

3. Nyquil Cough — I had noticed this had an antihistamine in it, so I thought, there’s only one dose left, what the heck? Not sure if it helped quell the itch at all, but I sure slept like a baby the night I took it! (For the record: Regular-flavored Nyquil also sucks ass. Make sure you get the cherry-flavored kind, or else don’t even bother!)

: )

4. Benadryl spray — I bought this last year for mosquito or chigger bites (I don’t remember which), and it didn’t seem to help much then. Or with the poison ivy. Mostly it’s just sticky.

5. Gold Bond Medicated Powder — I use the kind in the green container. Early on, I sprayed some of the Benadryl on my arm and would then apply some of the Gold Bond powder. Quite messy, but it seemed to calm the itch.

6. Ivarest — I bought a bottle of this stuff for a couple of bucks at Wal-Mart, which also offered poison ivy “remedies” costing $33 and $28. The Ivarest seemed to be your basic calamine lotion but had the appearance of makeup! Helped sooth the itch a little, but very messy and came with a disclaimer that it could stain fabric.

7. Baking soda — One of the Web sites I visited advised poison ivy sufferers to soak in a bath of baking soda and let it “leech the poison out of your system.” Well, for starters, I do not have a bath tub, so I opted for soaking my arm in a sink full of baking soda and warm water. Seemed to make my skin feel a little better. Oh, and the site also said to make a “paste” of baking soda and water and apply that to the affected areas of skin; I did this, and by the time I had driven from The Lovely’s house to my house, the so-called paste had flaked off my arm and all over my shirt and the floorboard of my car! (Pretty cheap remedy, though: 67 cents at Wal-Jack!)

: o

8. Isopropyl rubbing alcohol — Appeared to help dry out the skin. Another relatively cheap home remedy.

9. Ivy Dry — This IS your mother’s poison ivy remedy! Unfortunately, I couldn’t find it at Wally-World during my first venture and didn’t get any until I stopped by CVS last weekend. This stuff WILL dry your skin and it DOES burn like fire (for a few seconds after application), but it works. My sister used it 25 years ago when she had poison ivy so bad she couldn’t sleep at night, and, obviously, it’s still around today.

10. Benadryl allergy pills — I am breathing better at the moment than I have all year, and I truly believe I have these pills to thank. OK, so perhaps that has nothing to do with poison ivy ... but I think this stuff, in combination with the Ivy Dry, has substantially reduced the itching. Plus, these are hands-down the most colorful pills I have ever taken! (May cause drowsiness, however ... which is not necessarily a bad thing!)

: )

Tina?!

“Tina, you fat lard, come get some dinner!” — Napoleon Dynamite

: )

OK, so I’m taking the back roads from Aunt Janie’s to the interstate, and as I’m travelin’ along (singin’ a song), I glance to my right and see a LLAMA! Not that that’s as unusual as it would have been seeing a giraffe or an elephant, but still. So, even though there’s a big scary-ass storm behind me, I turn around and snap some pictures.

Who wouldn’t have?!

: )

I have decided that Napoleon Dynamite is one of those “love it or hate it” flicks. Not to the extent of Vanilla Sky, perhaps, but similar.

I happen to be someone who loves both films. Vanilla Sky from the first time I watched it; Napoleon took a couple of watchings, but now I truly adore it.

For it makes me smile.

School Colors

When I was in high school, our colors were purple and white.

Grandma Ginny would’ve loved these flowers.

Mom’s Dogwoods

Yeah, I’m a little obsessed with dogwood trees right about now.

It’s as if I never noticed them before, or perhaps they’ve never been as pretty as they are this year. Probably the former ... knowing me.

: )

Dutchman’s Breeches

This was one of the best days of my life. Spent with my family. Easter dinner at Aunt Janie’s, followed by a wagon ride around the farm.

Discovered one of the coolest-looking flowers I have ever seen: Dutchman’s Breeches (though Aunt Janie pronounced it Britches) growing along the side of the path.

Poisoned! — and Annoyed

OK, so no one slipped me any arsenic or cyanide or anthrax — a word which, every time I hear it, makes me want to yell, “ANTHRAX!” in the same voice as that duck that hollers, “AFLAC!”

However, somehow, for the first time in my life, I have managed to get poison ivy. Or poison oak. Or perhaps even poison sumac. Almost every source I look up on the Internet has the three plants/afflictions listed together, and everyone I have talked to says I have poison ivy. Which, to me, seems to be the least exotic of the three, yet I am sure it is every bit as irritating and annoying.

(And at least 100 times more annoying than having a post almost finished before reading the “Internet Explorer is not responding, blah blah blah” message on my screen and realizing that I have no choice but to start all over again.)

: (

Yes, I have poison ivy. No idea exactly when or where I got it. I do know I have a patch of what I believe to be poison ivy growing in my back yard, but it’s not as if I go wading through it on a regular basis ... or ever, for that matter. And who knows what’s growing on the various trees around here? Yet, again, I don’t exactly go around touching any of those plants or anything. Except maybe when I’m taking a picture of something, which probably accounts for why those not-so-mysterious little bumps appeared on my left arm earlier this week.

I had hives, once, when I was in fifth or sixth grade. The big, raised, splotchy kind (unlike the smaller, patchy, rashy kind) that just appeared, outta nowhere, on my thighs and stomach. And they itched like CRAZY! Because we didn’t know what caused them, though, and since I could NOT stop scratching, my mom told me to go lie down and take a nap. Which I did (hey, who am I to refuse a nap?!), and when I awoke an hour or so later, they were gone. Never to reappear.

I thought I had poison ivy, once, on top of a couple of my toes. This, however, was back in the days when I occasionally paraded around semi-nude along with the rest of my high school P.E. class members, so it just as easily and most probably was a very minor case of athlete’s foot. Again, thankfully, never to reappear.

Here’s what the Easter Bunny left me (she’s so smart!) :

BTW: I took that picture with my camera phone, and I am SO pleased with how it turned out!

And now the Benadryl is kicking in, so ...

Critters

Just a few from the past couple of days.

Restin’ Robin (tweet, tweetle-ee-deet!)

Crunchin’ Cardinal

Watchin’ Whitetail

I almost missed the deer. I was driving out of one of the picnic areas at Wayne Fitzgerrell State Park this afternoon and glanced to my left just before I got to the bike/hiking trail. Off to my left were three or four white-tailed deer, snacking on the vegetation. I slowed the car, which usually prompts deer to bolt away. This one stayed and stared me down for several seconds, allowing me to snap a few pictures before it ran off.

(One of the things I love love LOVE about digital photography is that I know, immediately, whether I got the shot or not, instead of having to wait to get my pictures back! Granted, if I did not get the shot, I am still out of luck ... but at least I know, instantaneously.)

: )

Dogwood

This evening, I found a dogwood tree in bloom.

Passover

According to my calendar, Passover begins at sundown tonight. And there is a full moon tomorrow.

I like to think I am spiritual, though I am not necessarily religious in the truest sense(s) of the word. Still, I was born on Easter, so this time of the year always seems to affect me, somehow.

For this occasion, I dusted off my little red Bible to look up the story of Peter’s denial of Jesus. This story struck me when I was a kid and even more so when I was (almost) an adult, during my sophomore year of college.

First the story, from Mark 14:20-72 (there are other accounts, of course, in the New Testament) in the Revised Standard Version of the Holy Bible:

And when they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives. And Jesus said to them, “You will all fall away; for it is written, ‘I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered.’ But after I am raised up, I will go before you to Galilee.” Peter said to him, “Even though they all fall away, I will not.” And Jesus said to him, “Truly, I say to you, this very night, before the cock crows twice, you will deny me three times.” But he said vehemently, “If I must die with you, I will not deny you.” And they all said the same. ...

And as Peter was below in the courtyard, one of the maids of the high priest came; and seeing Peter warming himself, she looked at him, and said, “You also were with the Nazarene, Jesus.” But he denied it, saying, “I neither know nor understand what you mean.” And he went out into the gateway. And the maid saw him, and began again to say to the bystanders, “This man is one of them.” But again he denied it. And after a little while again the bystanders said to Peter, “Certainly you are one of them; for you are a Galilean.” But he began to invoke a curse on himself and to swear, “I do not know this man of whom you speak.” And immediately the cock crowed a second time. And Peter remembered how Jesus had said to him, “Before the cock crows twice, you will deny me three times.” And he broke down and wept.

OK, so what does this story have to do with me?

Without going into the sordid details of my sexuality, suffice it to say that, during college, I was a bit of a mess. Yes, I had known for most of my life that I was different, in many ways, from most of my friends. And not strictly in terms of sexuality; in fact, to be quite honest, there were times during my growing-up days when I was as straight as any other straight girl out there (well, except for the fact that I could throw a perfect strike, hit the ball a mile and field almost anything hit my direction).

: )

I didn’t mind the overall differentness, per se, except that I really, truly did not want to be gay. Who does, really? I mean, yeah, once you get past all of your hang-ups about it, the whole thing really, truly is NOT that big of a deal ... but when you’re in the midst of it all, trying to figure out everything: Well, it can be rather huge. And I have never, ever wanted to be defined by my sexuality. (Again: Who does, really?)

Anyhoo, in the midst of getting to know people and drinking too much beer and, occasionally, going to class, I started to realize that, unlike some of the girls I knew, I didn’t have much interest in the guys I met. Yeah, I liked ’em well enough — was even known to have random drunken makeout sessions (sometimes in public!) with some of ’em. However, as far as wanting to have a relationship with any of them ... uhm, nah.

Meanwhile, as is my nature, I had developed a massive crush — or, as my friend Jack would say, crunch — on the girl who was only The Most Well-Known Lesbian on Campus: Jennifer Soule, the editor of the school’s gay newsletter. (Oh, boy!)

She was cute and smart and a damn good writer. A poet. And, by virtue of stepping up and putting together the newsletter, she was also something of a pioneer. A definite hero for people who were gay — or bisexual or straight or transgendered or whatever, really — who were searching for some kind of community.

And, uh, she was cute.

: )

Jennifer was a senior English major and I, a lowly underclass journalism student; I was minoring in English, though, so our paths occasionally crossed. Still, we weren’t exactly running in the same social circles ... except I did convince my friends to venture into the town’s only “gay bar,” which actually was mostly a place filled with an intriguing collection of artists, performers, professors, eccentrics and townies, of varying degrees and kinds of sexuality.

[The bar ended up being our favorite hangout, mostly because the music selection was most excellent (plus it was played at a volume that made it possible to carry on actual conversations with your friends), the place was rarely crowded and, eventually, they added a pool room complete with a dartboard AND a Super Mario Brothers game!]

I got to know several gay people at the Uptowner, and I occasionally saw some of my other gay friends there. Still, this whole concept was somewhat new to me, and I was unwilling to go “on the record,” so to speak, as being gay myself.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with it!”

So, anyway, we’d been hanging out at the Uptowner for a few weeks when, all of a sudden, this John guy I knew from Student Publications came up to me and said, “Hey, didn’t I see you at Jennifer Soule’s party the other night?”

“No,” I said. (This was true, actually; how on earth would I ever have been invited to Jennifer Soule’s party?!)

“Huh. That’s funny, I could have sworn I saw you there.”

“Well, it wasn’t me,” I said, somewhat defiantly, then I added: “I don’t even know Jennifer Soule.”

Which, too, was true. I didn’t know Jennifer Soule ... yet I had an undeniable crush on her and would have given my eye teeth (and a couple of molars!) to have been at her party!

And there I was, denying having any knowledge of her existence.

Denying myself, really.

Certainly, she wasn’t Jesus and I wasn’t Peter. There were no cocks crowing as I made my denials, and, ultimately, the only person to whom this entire incident meant anything was I. As is the case in most moments of truth, clarity and discovery.

[For the record: I looked up Jennifer on the Internet a few years back. Sent her an e-mail, told her the whole story of my big crush — about which she had never known, of course; matter of fact, even though we had actually met a couple of times, she really had no memory of me, either. She told me, though, that she found my story “charming” — and that she was flattered! Naturally, my crush had long since subsided; still, it was a beautiful chapter in my rather ordinary little life.]

: )

Virginia’s Tulip Garden

You probably wouldn’t guess this, but I just spent the last 90 minutes or so watching the final few rounds of the 2006 Masters. And I like it that Phil Mickelson won, mostly ’cause he’s one o’ those players who was really really good but had never won a major, and then it seemed that’s all anyone ever wanted to talk about.

I also like Phil ’cause he’s a lefty. (No, I’m not a lefty, but I do have lefty-envy.) And also ’cause he looks like our former mayor — who, by the way, is female ... and right-handed, to the best of my knowledge — who also has a bit of a Hugh Grant thing going on. (Don’t ask.)

: )

Virginia’s tulips were mostly closed-up Friday, thanks to the rain.

Today, though, they’re open. And quite gorgeous.

Tulips rock!

The First Time

Heh. Which reminds me that, earlier today, I had the Styx song, “The First Time,” running through my head:

It’s the first time / The first time for love ...

Heh. I wanna say that’s from the Styx Cornerstone album ... which, admittedly, I was QUITE fond of back in the day (sometime during the early 1980s; I was actually obsessed with “Babe” there for a bit ... yeah, and NOT the pig!) ... but I am not certain. Fairly sure, though.

: )

Anyhoo, the real reason for the title of this post is this quote (or something close to it) by Maya Angelou:

“When someone shows you who they are, believe them. The first time.”

Brought to my attention by my dear pal Paté, whom I have known for more than half my life, who showed me who she was the first day I met her and has remained honest and loyal and true from the very start.

And there are others, too, who have shown me who they are, in similarly good ways. And I have believed them, and in them, and I have rarely been disappointed. And even in those moments of chaos and disagreement and sometimes even sadness, knowing them (and them knowing me, I suppose) has gotten us all through everything.

There are still others, though, whom I have been shown, unexpectedly — or, admittedly, sometimes right from the start — exactly who they are, and I have refused to see it. Have even willingly overlooked exactly what they are all about because I thought I saw something ... else.

I wonder: Does anyone else ever do this? Does everyone, at one time or another?

(which sports car are you?)

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

Of course, my initial reaction to the question: a 1964-1/2 Ford Mustang!

And then I took the quiz:

You are a Ford Mustang!

You’re an American classic — fast, strong, and bold. You’re not snobby or pretentious, but you have what it takes to give anyone a run for their money.

: )

You love life very much.

That’s my fortune cookie message from tonight’s chicken with snow peas ... most of which I managed to eat with chopsticks! Which was quite an accomplishment for me because, for someone who is relatively adept with my hand-eye coordination, I struggle when I attempt to use chopsticks (prolly ’cause, as I’ve mentioned before, I never even learned how to hold a pencil correctly).

Anyhoo, I love that fortune. I mean, it would be cool to get one that said I’d just won a million bucks or something, especially if it were true! And I got one last week that said something about me having a great sense of humor and loving a good time or something along those lines.

None of which explains this bad mood/case of the gloom ’n’ doom I’ve had since about ... oh, what year is this? ... but at least this afternoon I saw a glimmer of hope.

First of all, I take my car to Jay’s so he can drive it around to hear the squeak it’s been making (only on bumpy roads ... which, as Jay pointed out: fortunately, there are plenty of those in this little town).

“Sounds like you’ve got some squirrels in there!” Jay says as we tool down ______ Street, about a block from the news office. (Not trying to hide anything; I truly have no idea what the name of the street is!) “Oh, and your brakes are squeaking, too; you need to get those fixed sometime within the next couple of weeks.”

We get back to Jay’s shop. He bounces the car up and down and asks me if I can still hear the noise. Yes, I can.

He opens the hood, looks around and then goes inside. Comes out with a spray can of some sort and sprays it on some squarish-looking thing on the left side of the engine, up near the windshield.

“What’s that?” I ask, meaning the part he is spraying.

“Oh, this? It’s like WD-40, only stronger,” he replies.

God love him. He is a mechanic, but he doesn’t try to make me feel stupid for being a woman ... even though I made him drive my car a couple of years ago to try to hear the squeak, which conveniently did NOT squeak whilst we were driving around.

Maybe I really DO have squirrels.

; )

Today was a lovely day, so I decided to go for a walk. Mostly ’cause I wanted to take some pictures of the yellow tulips a few blocks down, but also because — well, who couldn’t use a little fresh air now and then? Just to “blow the stink off you,” as my pal Patti might say.

It was a short walk, about 20 minutes, but I came back with some goodies.

These remind me of badminton birdies (??):

Some tiny violets scattered all over the ground; the flowers are about the size of a quarter:

I believe these are buds on a gumball tree ... but I could be mistaken:

Weeping sugar maple (this is from my favorite tree, color-wise, in town):

I think this is a Norway spruce (it’s the tree just outside the window right in front of me):