Cheating...

There are some things in Life that you can cheat on. Or come "damn close, but not quite". Driving through Burger King (our family calls it Burner Keem onaccounta the local one caught fire a while back when my kids were little and they named it that, thus, it stuck) and realizing after ordering that you do NOT, in fact have the right change, because your nine year old mistook nickles for quarters, well, that was a near miss, and we got our vittles and icy slosh even though we were short.

Running out of laundry soap by about a half a dose? Another near miss that will go undetected past the radar. No problem.

But today, I was at the library. Austensibly looking up more Steinbeck. (I am a rabid reader of late. Not finding what I wanted, I settled on May Sarton to take with me to the log cabin in Vermont where I will spend the next few days. On my way out of the fiction section I spied two ladies sitting at the round table, a Scrabble board between them. I immediately walked to them and started talking. I asked who was winning and they smiled and said they were sorta stuck. I noticed some sheets of paper with typed "words" on them, each holding one, and I asked what they were.

"Cheat Sheets", they told me. Two and three letter word lists.

Bah. Humbug. Damn and tarnation. What the hell????

I could see downloading one, looking the words up for the definition and memorizing them, but actually using them during the game to refer to???? Nah.

I think that cheating at Scrabble is a Sin.

Imagine my dismay when I turned the corner and spied yet another elderly couple playing scrabble with the same sheets in hand. One even had a folder to look at that had more stuff in it to spring on her opponent.

Sheesh.

I would rather lose.

And, well, I have. But I have used "Asp". And, in fact, score quite well when one is able to use profanity words. I learned that from my grandmother.

shell 

Study of a Nautilus shell 

Thistle 

Thistles are fun to look at...so complex and so many stages of development. The sheer geometry of their youth gives way to a flurry and frenzy of fuzziness. 

Bottles in a window at the flowershop grabbed my eye. Something about vessels and the shiny quality of reflection... 

Meredith's eyes are the most amazing color of grey-blue-green. Sometimes it takes my breath away looking at her. 

Meredith 

My daughter is changing before my eyes. She is nine now, and starting to blosson into young womanhood. I see the changes in her everyday now, and wish I could document each one as it passes. 

Portriat of a House Elf. I saw this nail-thingie protruding from where my shutters used to hang (before the lovely painter dude came and painted the house then was remiss in putting the shutters back on...d'oh!). Maybe it is just me, but I immediately saw a face, a cute elfish one. I guess I have a house elf. How cool is that? 

Yessireeebob! Life is Just a Huge Slam Fest. I dunno why this makes me giggle so much. Okay, yeah, I do. But, I ain't tellin'. 

Hibiscus Bud. I love the form of tightly packed buds, just ready to pop open, all-a-promise of wonderful color to come. 

I found this doll's head by the side of the road. This picture really disturbs me. I guess that is a good thing. It speaks to places inside me that have feelings about abandonment. Sometimes uncomfortable things are the most telling. 

Shell 

Hibiscus 

The power of sunlight this summer is astounding. We have had so much rain. So many grey days. This is a testament to the energy of light and crystal. 

Late afternoon light. 

Me Bad...

Me: I think I have not yet seen Svetlana smile during this entire Olympics.

Him: Yeah, she sure has a sullen attitude.

Me: Um, really pissy, huh?

Me: I think she needs a few smacks on her ass.

Him: I could help you with that.

Me: Yeah, but how would we tell which side is the back?

I am obsessed with hands. I watch them all the time. This boy was just on the other side of the fence at the Library. I loved his soft features, his beautiful hands gracefully draped on the iron, touching his face while he was lost in thought... 

I met Andy at the library. He was chaining his bike to the rack. I asked if I could take some pictures of his bike and he said "Sure", followed by about 100 sentences about his girlfriend at the halfway house and how she wanted to spend time with him that day. I noticed a shattered distance in his eyes, and a sense of striving against the odds. A proud sadness and a light grip on what I considered to be Reality. I am very pleased with this portrait. It captures him well. Very. 

The Adventures of Twid 

Peach 

wet 2 

Clearheart 

Darkstar 

Wet 

I am not sure...

if I should be laughing or crying, or doing some sort of Jiggy-dance to the Gods That Find Things Currently in Lostralia. I have been looking for my daughter's birth ceritificate. The one I paid for a few weeks ago when I drove over 30 miles to the town where she was born to wait in line for a piece of paper. Oh. Yeah. I used the incredibly old bathroom there, too, all stone and wood and with a huge sink with big metal faucets and a key to get in that was the size of, say,Montana, on a chain with a paddle attaced. You, know, so you don't STEAL it??? Duh.

So...I had this certificate in hand a few days ago. I saw it. Envelope, handwriting and all. It. Was. There. I. Swear. And now my teenager is off to her first cheerleading practice ( I so, so, so don't see this) and she neeeeeeds that piece of paper, damn-it. And I have looked behind the microwave, in all my accoridon files that hold Really Important Stuff, In my Brain Bucket (actually a cleaning supply tote thing with a handle in which I put my wallet, keys, celly and other goodies, to carry back and forth to the car. No. I. Do. Not. Use. A. Purse. Shut up.

I have looked behind the pencil drawer, justincaseitkindaslippedbackthere. I have looked in notebooks and piles of art supplies.

I just know it is hiding somewhere, laughing at me "hee hee hee" while I go sweaty-crazy looking, searching, like a "good" parent for something that is Just. Beyond. My. Reach.

I vividly remember flying when I lived in this house in Framingham, Mass. I was three years old, and the world stopped short, just like in a Matrix Movie, and I flew down the stairs. It was a magical place and time. I spent hours calling to Mary Poppins, begging her to come out of that chimney you see. My parents still were together, and my father would play hide and seek with me on our property, his change jingling, giving him away every time. We had a barn and a cottage on the property, and a pond and much-much land. That was the last time I remember feeling spaciousness, full-open-wide living spaces, home, and wandering-lands to grow in. Now, all our land has been sold and re-sold, built and rebuilt upon, divided in a zillion ways. No longer the sloping yard, the fence, the long and winding road, nor quiet. Time and all her nasty attendants steamrolled over all that. In the name of progress. Yet, still, it lingers in my heart as the place where I learned to fly down the stairs with a pillow belted to my rear end.