Secret Diary Year 39 Wandering in Desert:
Day 35:
Sand. Wandering. Yusef found a dry leaf. Tribe stopped for 5 hours to admire dead leaf- first thing we have seen in 6 years that wasn't beige. Food- rain of manna; again.
Day 37
More freaking sand. Wandering. Tribe walked backwards for 3 hours to "improve team building." Moses is a weirdo. Food- guess what- iittttt's manna.
Day 39
Slightly darker sand. Tried marching in straight line. Found footprints after 8 hours- great excitement. 2 hours later, found Schlomo's sandal and the leftover's from last night's manna. Are back at starting point. Crud. Returned to wandering. Food- built temprary houses out of manna- ate rocks. Rocks tastier.
Day 40
Lighter sand. Wandering with occassional falling over. No water. Moses smacked rock with stick- rock gave water- tasted like wee. Noted small ocean crawling with lobsters, shrimp, clams, and catfish. Gentile tribe camped on shore- wearing linen and wool clothing and eating bacon cheeseburgers and wine. Going to make friends...
Day 40, 2 hours later
Have gotten ropes untied and made Yusef put me down. Moses is a bastard.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Taste the Rainbow
A while ago at work I was happily sitting and munching on some chips and guacamole from Chipotle's. I offered some to a friend, who said "No way- that stuff tastes green."
I took another bite. She was right- it tasted green. Fortunately, I love green. Who knew?
I took a leaf from her book and started paying attention- other tastes have colors too.
Pumpkin tastes orange, at least when made into pumpkin pie. You can't bite it without seeing that orange brown color in your mind's eye.
Watermelon tastes deep pink.
Snowcream (NOT ice cream) tastes white; the true blue/white of a snowy day.
Matzo ball soup tastes yellow, bright with the colors of sunflowers and melted fat. Honey is golden, a richer, fuller shade of taste that clings in the mouth like the last rays of sunlight before the dark.
Things you don't want to eat taste grey, like ashes in the mouth.
A great meal served with people you love is a rainbow of color and light; bad food in a sad place is a study in the water-logged colors of a November day.
What a great discovery to make, all because I ate some chips.
I took another bite. She was right- it tasted green. Fortunately, I love green. Who knew?
I took a leaf from her book and started paying attention- other tastes have colors too.
Pumpkin tastes orange, at least when made into pumpkin pie. You can't bite it without seeing that orange brown color in your mind's eye.
Watermelon tastes deep pink.
Snowcream (NOT ice cream) tastes white; the true blue/white of a snowy day.
Matzo ball soup tastes yellow, bright with the colors of sunflowers and melted fat. Honey is golden, a richer, fuller shade of taste that clings in the mouth like the last rays of sunlight before the dark.
Things you don't want to eat taste grey, like ashes in the mouth.
A great meal served with people you love is a rainbow of color and light; bad food in a sad place is a study in the water-logged colors of a November day.
What a great discovery to make, all because I ate some chips.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
It's Only A Book
L-rd love a duck, I'm being serious here.
When I was 12 I read The Diary of Anne Frank for the first time. I read fast; it took about three days. No one noticed what I was reading, and no one had ever discussed Anne Frank with me, at all- I had never heard the name prior to buying the book at a school sale, and was actually disappointed at first to find out it wasn't fiction.
The first two days were fun. I would read, and think about it... imagine being Anne in my secret hiding place. I actually ate my lima beans for dinner, pretending that they were all we had, and that food rationing was in force.
I couldn't wait to reach the end- to see how Anne and her family escaped. I imagined them laughing as they reached safety, and even wondered if there was a sequel; maybe one that told whatever happened to Anne, talked about her life as a grown-up.
And then the diary ended.
I breezed into the afterword, still wondering about how Anne grew up.
I finished the afterword.
I burst into tears.
For the first time in my life I understood evil.
After a few days of thinking about it, I realized that I also understood something more- hope.
That above all things, men are good, and that if the words of one little girl could outlast the rantings of a maniac, then there was indeed a G-d.
It started me towards accepting a viewpoint and outlook that have saved me time and time again, and left me standing when everyone around me has fallen.
Above all things, mankind is good.
Thanks Anne
When I was 12 I read The Diary of Anne Frank for the first time. I read fast; it took about three days. No one noticed what I was reading, and no one had ever discussed Anne Frank with me, at all- I had never heard the name prior to buying the book at a school sale, and was actually disappointed at first to find out it wasn't fiction.
The first two days were fun. I would read, and think about it... imagine being Anne in my secret hiding place. I actually ate my lima beans for dinner, pretending that they were all we had, and that food rationing was in force.
I couldn't wait to reach the end- to see how Anne and her family escaped. I imagined them laughing as they reached safety, and even wondered if there was a sequel; maybe one that told whatever happened to Anne, talked about her life as a grown-up.
And then the diary ended.
I breezed into the afterword, still wondering about how Anne grew up.
I finished the afterword.
I burst into tears.
For the first time in my life I understood evil.
After a few days of thinking about it, I realized that I also understood something more- hope.
That above all things, men are good, and that if the words of one little girl could outlast the rantings of a maniac, then there was indeed a G-d.
It started me towards accepting a viewpoint and outlook that have saved me time and time again, and left me standing when everyone around me has fallen.
Above all things, mankind is good.
Thanks Anne
Friday, June 13, 2008
Artsy smartsy, I was bored!
More colors !We are redecorating in the living room, and I've been working on some 8X10 oil crayon pieces to hang next to a big print of calla lillys over the couch. These are the first two.
Looking forward, looking back
"Looking forward to"- a term meaning to anticipate with pleasure.
Until the last few years I have always had so many things to look forward to. So many reasons to hurry my life from moment to moment and milestone to milestone.
When I was seven I looked forward to second grade, to writing in cursive, and to not sitting next to Sue Ann Wiglin, who ate paste.
When I was fourteen, I looked forward to shirts that showed my boobs, getting a tattoo, and sitting next to Brent Jones, who could have eaten raw weasles for all I cared.
When I was eighteen I looked forward to getting a job, getting a house, getting an education, getting a spouse, getting a life, and getting on with it all.
When I was 21 I looked forward to getting seperated. And again at 25.
At 34 I looked forward to getting rid of the one I didn't marry, and swore I would never do that marriage thing again.
At 36 I looked forward to my wedding.
And somehow, it all changed. I stopped planning and waiting for the next thing, the best thing, the last thing...
Now, firmly in the grips of middle age, I look forward to each day, without a plan in mind.
I wake up excited to see what will happen next, and I go to bed pleased as punch I made it there once again. Being married to a lunatic helps; I can say with certainty that I never, ever, know what any given day will bring.
I look forward to not knowing what I am looking forward to.
And you know what? I'm having a ball.
Until the last few years I have always had so many things to look forward to. So many reasons to hurry my life from moment to moment and milestone to milestone.
When I was seven I looked forward to second grade, to writing in cursive, and to not sitting next to Sue Ann Wiglin, who ate paste.
When I was fourteen, I looked forward to shirts that showed my boobs, getting a tattoo, and sitting next to Brent Jones, who could have eaten raw weasles for all I cared.
When I was eighteen I looked forward to getting a job, getting a house, getting an education, getting a spouse, getting a life, and getting on with it all.
When I was 21 I looked forward to getting seperated. And again at 25.
At 34 I looked forward to getting rid of the one I didn't marry, and swore I would never do that marriage thing again.
At 36 I looked forward to my wedding.
And somehow, it all changed. I stopped planning and waiting for the next thing, the best thing, the last thing...
Now, firmly in the grips of middle age, I look forward to each day, without a plan in mind.
I wake up excited to see what will happen next, and I go to bed pleased as punch I made it there once again. Being married to a lunatic helps; I can say with certainty that I never, ever, know what any given day will bring.
I look forward to not knowing what I am looking forward to.
And you know what? I'm having a ball.
Blogroll Topic: What Is Your Favorite Smell?
Favorite smell?
That should be easy, right?
Except that there are so many, and I love them all in different ways.
The smell of Lily-of-the-Valley, at twilight on a spring evening. It is the smell of my mother, of dressing up and going out somewhere in white gloves and city clothes.
The smell of bread, baking in an oven. The smell of simmering chicken soup, homemade by my childhood next-door neighbor.
The smell of a gasoline lawnmower, cutting fresh grass. It slides into your nose and for a moment everything is green, and young, with shorts and flip flops, and a million years worth of summer vacation just waiting to be spent.
The smell of the sea at dawn. The salt air wraps around you and you can hear the gulls talking just to you.
The smell of rain hitting summer grass. The smell of autumn leaves. The tinny smell of snow.
The smell of an applewood fire, tinged with hotdogs and marshmallows.
Each smell is a memory; a perfect moment preserved for all time. Who could pick just one, when there are a kalidascope of choices to enjoy?
I love them all.
That should be easy, right?
Except that there are so many, and I love them all in different ways.
The smell of Lily-of-the-Valley, at twilight on a spring evening. It is the smell of my mother, of dressing up and going out somewhere in white gloves and city clothes.
The smell of bread, baking in an oven. The smell of simmering chicken soup, homemade by my childhood next-door neighbor.
The smell of a gasoline lawnmower, cutting fresh grass. It slides into your nose and for a moment everything is green, and young, with shorts and flip flops, and a million years worth of summer vacation just waiting to be spent.
The smell of the sea at dawn. The salt air wraps around you and you can hear the gulls talking just to you.
The smell of rain hitting summer grass. The smell of autumn leaves. The tinny smell of snow.
The smell of an applewood fire, tinged with hotdogs and marshmallows.
Each smell is a memory; a perfect moment preserved for all time. Who could pick just one, when there are a kalidascope of choices to enjoy?
I love them all.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
That dream, the one about the mold...
Blogroll topic o'the week: What is/would be your dream job, and if you don't have it, why?
Dream job huh?
If by dream you only mean "those things you have while sleeping", and wisely don't limit it to "visions that don't involve serial killings or giant chattery teeth on legs", then I certainly do have my dream job. Boy. oh boy do I.
At least, I definately see visions of my job whenever I close my eyes, and that counts, doesn't it?
Most little girls go through a period where they want to be a nurse- they usually recover from the madness sometime between jump rope and birth control. The realization that nursing goes beyond bandages and backrubs to poo and pus seems to put the final nail in most wanna-be Florence Nightengales before they are released to commit mayhem.
And then there are the rest of us: the few, the proud, the often covered with bodily fluids,
the nurses.
We eat chicken stew out of clean emesis basins with spoons and then help patients who have the flu. We can remove and replace a leaking colostomy bag and wafer without pausing, and sit back down to finish our chocolate pudding. We see intestines, and say "Cooool" before putting them back.
We have 2097 multicolored scrub shirts which don't absorb liquids, stains, or jet collisions- and nothing to wear on Friday date night because we just had to buy the new scrubs with the cute doggies wearing glasses. We catch ourselves refusing to buy the new open toes pumps for vacation- because they don't prevent needle drop injury.
We poke, we pick, we squeeze, we mess with. Our husbands, wives, and kids learn the drill so well that family complaints start to sound like shift change reports: "I had a BM yesterday and I'm peeing ok with no pain. My blood pressure is slightly elevated and I ate a large salad with chicken for lunch so my sugar isn't low I have a 97.6 temp. Now can I tell you how I broke my arm?"
Nursing is a dream job, the kind of dream you have after eating a pound of fudge and a double salami pizza right before bed.
And I love it.
I can get an airway in with one hand and an elbow, while finding a good site to start a line on your arm. Put in a catherter while getting bitten- I'm your girl.
I do 40 hours in three days, and get peeved if the "cool stuff" happens when I'm not at work.
I admit I enjoy my other jobs; I'm also a writer, and I teach healthcare-based Law and Ethics, but nursing is in a class all by itself.
Covered in gunk, smelling like old tube feeding, looking like hell...
I'm living the dream baby!
Dream job huh?
If by dream you only mean "those things you have while sleeping", and wisely don't limit it to "visions that don't involve serial killings or giant chattery teeth on legs", then I certainly do have my dream job. Boy. oh boy do I.
At least, I definately see visions of my job whenever I close my eyes, and that counts, doesn't it?
Most little girls go through a period where they want to be a nurse- they usually recover from the madness sometime between jump rope and birth control. The realization that nursing goes beyond bandages and backrubs to poo and pus seems to put the final nail in most wanna-be Florence Nightengales before they are released to commit mayhem.
And then there are the rest of us: the few, the proud, the often covered with bodily fluids,
the nurses.
We eat chicken stew out of clean emesis basins with spoons and then help patients who have the flu. We can remove and replace a leaking colostomy bag and wafer without pausing, and sit back down to finish our chocolate pudding. We see intestines, and say "Cooool" before putting them back.
We have 2097 multicolored scrub shirts which don't absorb liquids, stains, or jet collisions- and nothing to wear on Friday date night because we just had to buy the new scrubs with the cute doggies wearing glasses. We catch ourselves refusing to buy the new open toes pumps for vacation- because they don't prevent needle drop injury.
We poke, we pick, we squeeze, we mess with. Our husbands, wives, and kids learn the drill so well that family complaints start to sound like shift change reports: "I had a BM yesterday and I'm peeing ok with no pain. My blood pressure is slightly elevated and I ate a large salad with chicken for lunch so my sugar isn't low I have a 97.6 temp. Now can I tell you how I broke my arm?"
Nursing is a dream job, the kind of dream you have after eating a pound of fudge and a double salami pizza right before bed.
And I love it.
I can get an airway in with one hand and an elbow, while finding a good site to start a line on your arm. Put in a catherter while getting bitten- I'm your girl.
I do 40 hours in three days, and get peeved if the "cool stuff" happens when I'm not at work.
I admit I enjoy my other jobs; I'm also a writer, and I teach healthcare-based Law and Ethics, but nursing is in a class all by itself.
Covered in gunk, smelling like old tube feeding, looking like hell...
I'm living the dream baby!
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