The Rising and the Setting

The Vix and I are burning the candle late at the office this evening; together, we watch the sun melt into an ochre puddle behind the pines.  I whisper a little prayer of gratefulness to The Giver each time I realize how fortunate I am indeed to be employed within eyeshot of such beauty. 

My fortunes have turned in my favor for working here, for I've previously found myself employed within the confines of the structural equivalent of a lightless dungeon.  I would rather pull my small toenails off with children's safety scissors than repeat such an experience.  Humans need some connection to the wheel of the seasons, and to the cycles of natural light and shadow. 

Man-made beauty is awe-inspiring, I think, but God-beauty is essential.

The Ragamuffin Library

Due to my habits and how I spend most of my time in my home, you would think my most favorite room in our humble dwelling is the bathroom.... but not so.  It's the Ragamuffin Library. 

Every inanimate creature, estate sale book and antique instrument I decide is worth hording all live here.  Nevermore, my wooden raven, lives atop the sushine yellow bookcase, which previously stood in residence as the basement canning supply cabinet.  A date with bleach and a rag, and it was good as new....all for the price of a little tap water and a rag.  Its twin, the mint green bookcase, is a little bit more on the tough-love side of reclaimed.  Upon our first meeting, I discovered blackberry preserves that long ago became gritty blackberry wine within its cobwebby back corners.  Given that the previous owners of the house were also card-carrying Baptists, I doubt that was their original intent.      

I've planned the perfect date night with my Ragamuffin Library tonight.  When I get home from my labors and appointments, I plan to work late into the night, lighting shadows and scraping off dust with the carosene lamp flicker keeping time with my wood-and-cloth olde tyme radio.

The Best Kind of News

Guess what, boys and squirrels!  The Queen of Cakes has a lil cupcake in the oven!  My frien is pregnant!  WOOT!  Bring on the maternity fashion!

Dodging Miss Daphne

Now that the weather's turned popcicle-y, my eyes fly open automatically at 5:40 a.m. and I trudge down the hallway to the spare room and do my morning workout. The morning walk thing seems a bit ridiculous now that I have to bind my body up like Tutankamun to keep all that valuable toastiness in.  So, Zumba and cruches it is!

I have to admit the cheeky little Zumba leader fellow gets on my last flaming nerve before sunrise, but by the time I get my heart thumping and my adrenaline flowing, I begin to think the little Columbian chipmunk is pretty cute.  Then I spend the rest of the workout envying all the great whippy hair the lead workout model has. 

The last bit of my routine in the morning involves a bit of cat butt dodging.  I go into the library, turn on my old-timey wood-and-mesh radio to something peppy, stake out a spot on the oversized rug and go to town on my abs.  At some point in my routine, my cat Miss Daphne beats her little biscuit head on the door sufficient to open it a crack and sneak in to disturb me.  As I'm laying in the floor in various states of pretzelhood, she never fails to flick her tail in my face or rub against my shoulder.  She's a bother, for sure, but I'm so soft toward a creature that wants nothing more than lay beside me and soak up my attention.  This occasionally results in the odd supersonic situp, but hey, when you love somebody, you make sacrifices. 

That Dadblasted Seaweed Song

A few weeks ago following Wednesday evening church service, Duckie and I lingered in the parking lot (as Baptists often do) to discuss our mutual obsession with un-Top 40 music.  Bopping from topic to topic -- Eric Whitacre, Il Divo, The Muppets -- we discovered that we shared a passion for Celtic music. 

"Have you ever heard Dulaman?" he asked, completely unaware that I had been blasting it in my Mazda every morning like a pretentious college kid who blows out his Bose speakers listening to Ben Folds.  Wwwwwow, I'm a dweeb. 

He then proceeded to tell me that he was in posession of a copy of the choral sheet music for the song, complete with pronunciation guide and translation.  He brought it to me the next week, wearing his biggest kid grin like he'd just made his first peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich.  I was moved.  Share your music with me, and I'm your golden retriever for life.

The stupid song is about seaweed. 

Here I was taking cues from the rousing accompaniment and the heart-hammering chants, thinking that the piece was the record of some epic battle or raging love affair.  Nerp.  Seaweed.

"Dúlamán na binne buí, dúlamán Gaelach

Dúlamán na farraige, b'fhearr a bhí in Éirinn"

Which translates:

"Seaweed from the yellow cliff, Irish seaweed

Seaweed from the ocean, the best in all of Ireland"

 

Which begs the obvious question.....  Irish sushi?

Best. Early. Present. Like, EVER.

So, the Queen of Cakes brought me the most bestest Black Friday prize today: a brand-spanky-new DVD Leap Year!  Eek eek, I love you, CuppyCakes! 

I heart this movie because holding it in my hand is like owning everything charming I've ever imagined Ireland to be.  Heck, it's like owning a permenant Irish passport I can keep under my bed like a picture of David Cassidy .  Not to mention that the delicious Matthew Goode who steals every scene he's in with his fiddle-dee-dee, chihuahua-on-yer-duvet wit and those smashing soulful eyes of his.  Om nom nom nom.

Turkey Day with Bob Cox

After much chewing, chatting and tooth-picking, I can reflect upon the past twenty-four hours fondly and call it a drowsing-yet-satisfying success. 

Phrase of the day:  "DON'T TOUCH IT!"  -- attributed my husband's uncle, the original Ouachita Mountain Bobcat, whose actual name shall not be violated in writing.  Not that you couldn't keep a secret; he just likes to go by "Bob Cox" whenever he's in mixed company.  It's his way of "staying off the grid", he says.  Not like drawing a government check diminishes that kind of anonymity, right?  After all, one must always be on guard and prepared for the fall of modern man. 

I somehow, toward the end of the meal, became the designated pie slicer.  Lemon, chocolate meringue, turtle cheesecake, all the stars were out.  Uncle "Bob" leaned over grandma and I, eager to bestow his wheezing breath upon the portions displayed below.  "What can I do fer ya?" I piped in the local brogue.  "Iiiii think I'd like yonder piece of lemon, please," he said, decided only at the last possible second. 

I carefully split the pie, carefully beginning with the DIVINE shortening-laden crust and inching my way toward the precisely-congealed center.  As the piece I had so carefully cut began to lean over and give way to the weight of the meringue on top, I began to reach over and catch the wobbly confection when the Thundering Voice of Zeus hollered:

"DON'T TOUCH IT!"

And now I know better than to stick my clean finger into the man's holiday pie.  The very same man who relocates his sleeping quarters whenever the ticks take over his previous one.

REALLY?

Really.