NOTHIN' LIKE THE REAL THING, AND COKE AIN'T BAD EITHER
So, what does one offer up on reentrance into an overlooked arena once more frequently maintained, read: this here blog? Why, a shared continuance of life’s to-doings and observances, I suppose, just as before. Though not fully halted, these’ve been abbreviated and relegated to the likes of Flickr in months (and months) past. Today, a bloggerly conglomeration of words and imagery shall do nicely in way of return. Since, at last, I’m a tad less busy. A few giant obligations have lifted, only to make way for new ones, of course, though not quite so Jolly Green. Still, I’ve been here all along even so, managing to capture and record bits of life, thought and want in a minimal form via Tumblr over the last several months:
I meant to return sooner, in fact, only to be met with a bunch a wop, bam, boom- among it all, my grandmother requiring dire surgery this past week from which she wasn’t expected to recover. Elated to report she did indeed recover, and is on the increasing mend even now. Standing at her bedside in ICU after a day and night vigil in the waiting room early this week, her first words to us were, “Oh, hi! Good to see you, how are you two doing?” (Tina, too.) The woman looked like she’d merely just awoken from a mild nap as opposed to the traumatic ordeal she’d really just undergone best not aired out in the current moment. In related news, I’ve been frequently lunching at the HoneyBaked Ham store just up the street as of late. Upon entering, the waft of ham in all its varying qualities of sweetness to smokiness envelopes me and I breathe it in, on the exhale internally uttering “Grandma.” Why, I know not, I’ve not an abundance of memories that would associate my grandmother with that of ham, yet with every breath, thoughts of her swirl and keep me company in an odd and most welcome way. I’ve come to crave the comfort found there. That, and the navy bean soup.
The toughest part in this ordeal, has been attempting to console my mother in her fear of potential loss over her own mother. Finding words and offering actions of comfort for a woman whom I fiercely love, but rarely trust, makes for an abominable rending of the mind. So glad to have it dissipate. In moving forward, I continued the week with a rousing night of cookie tossing. Gave it the old Kramden. Foodly poisoned. Le barfola. Not to be outdone, this morning brought with it a greeting- a centipedish creepy-crawly. In. My. SHIRT! Down my shirt, the front, in fact, the thing certainly got an eyeful, crawling about all willy-nilly, trapped and apparently, happily so. I coulda won Olympic gold in shirt ‘n’ undie flinging, that’s for sure. Managed to squeeze in midweek Independence Day festivities, all the same, my red, white ‘n’ blue strawberries in tow.
Yes, I’ve so wanted the opportunity to just live, but life keeps getting in the way, if that makes any sense, a reoccurring theme, it seems. I’ve said that before, I’m sure. The above, being only a certain portion of it, too, another portion being the great migration. And I haven’t even moved anywhere! Just everyone seemingly around me. Households upheaved, relocated and then needing rebuilt in order to make a home. I often gift a candy jar complete with the sweets as a house warming gift. Maybe I should begin including toothbrushes as well. Here, my own candy jar, filled with some classics, currently, as opposed to the all chocolate variety of last year. Favorites- butterscotch, cinnamon (le), strawberry (and duh), and peppermint, never wintergreen. All those warm and hot flavors- it’s a fire not yet stoked, much like me.
Classics- in recent family discussions about TV shows from the past, I’m told I just loooved That Girl. No recollection. Like, at all. And I seem to remember bunches from an early age, too- “firsts” often leave BIG impressions on me- so you’d think I’d grasp something from the recesses of the mind, but no. So, when it finally arrived after over a year of unavailability through Netflix, it was with great curiosity that I began the first episode. No bell rung, no hint of memory, nope, nothin’, nada. Yet I found myself a smiling fool (again). In fact, my cheeks hurt as the last episode concluded. Didn’t find it immensely moving or delightful, just an amusing show as with any other despite its ground-breaking status, though apparently, something was brought forth subconsciously for it to have had such an affect on me, yes?
Aside: Why must such a happy thing as that of smiling be likened to a fool, I wonder. Like somehow to be happy, one must be empty-headed, mindless? As though all whom dare ponder deep thoughts must lurk and dwell in a dark corner content to don a brooding, sour and dour expression. “Pfft,” she said, and smiled on.
Well, hot dog! Time for a frank evaluation. Pass me a Coke. The best of the bunch last year, I thank Eric’s grill skill for a most savory, crispety charred bit of tastiness.
Exceptional frank-to-bun ratio, mustard, extra, of course
Looks a bit lurid and looming, vulgar, somehow
2-yr olds in love with baseball (“Bae baw!” cried Jack), this should happen more often, as it results in the second best of the bunch.
This year’s count thus far- a few dogs have been downed, though, only one of particular note- a Dante’s Inferno dog, Seattle-style. A Pacific Northwestern diggety dog goes like this- a toasted bun schmeared with cream cheese, topped with a grilled hot dog, and then grilled onions. Mine got a bonus sprinkling of oregano and cock sauce to boot. I don’t know, I’m thinkin’ we ripped off this “Seattle-style” thing somewhere along the line, but who’s to know if it’s the real thing, or not. Certainly tastes like it.
Even Better Than the Real Thing now begins on iTunes. Sometimes I think it may be hardwired to my brain.