enjoying the mystery

no words, just pictures…that is all we need late in the summer sun. no expressions, just a moment that lingers. the icy gel of white-tipped waves in a basin planned by engineers…i turn away from the dam, the unnatural spillway, and watch the waves. for mystery and happiness is so much better than numbers and drawings…

the pink icing got me

the pink icing got me. really. if it had not been for the pink icing, i would have been good. isn’t it always like that? you’re doing just fine and then some pink icing shows up on a brownie cake on your desk at work. and then all Spain breaks loose. (nobody expects the spanish inquisition!!!)

 

 

 

Not at all like when i was ten and used to sit on the floor of the library for hours reading about Jenny the cat, or some French girl with a horrible haircut and a bunch of watercolor nuns, while my mother and father roamed through the stacks, or did whatever they did when they went to the library. back in the days of run-on sentences from getting-up-in-the-morning until the head on my pillow sank into a white-cloud ocean-going-vessel set sail for Sleepytime. ah, those were the days, and the nights, and the dreams…mostly sweet, with kitty cat cakes decorated with lime, orange, and cherry gumdrops…back before looking in the mirror at Mister Hippo wasn’t a daily morning encounter.

Now don’t get me wrong, Mister Hippo has been there the whole time. Even on my vacations. But lately, Mister Hippo has…been…looking…middle age. there, it had to be said. middle. age. where the thirtyish looking body went, God only knows, replaced by a complete foreigner looking like Mon. Poirot and belching like a sea lion off the coast of California.

i found solace in Pepto, as in Bismol, but the raging circus from parts unknown disturbed my sleep. i awoke staring in the mirror like an Escher painting meeting an Edgar Alan Poe short story. Why are the eyes red? And why do I feel like I have been rummaging through the cask of amontillado when i haven’t partaken of liquid spirits since a glass of kosher wine with my spaghetti…many moons ago?  

if i had known that middle age was going to be like this, i would have come prepared. i would have brought a year’s supply of peppermints, a complete Shakespeare, and a lifetime-guaranteed Gumby…to yank and pull rather than go through a metamorphosis myself.

but no. age demands we take notice. i may still be able to pass for thirty five some days, but there are too many others featuring mornings resembling the day after Ghenghis Khan’s final invasion, days when i do not feel human until water is sliding down my face…and warm at that.

and while i have adapted to not being as handsome as i was, say, six months ago…i can still look in the mirror and recognize the spittin image of Clark Gable…and Johnny Depp…and even swish my hair back out of my face. i may be sitting in middle age, but i refuse to succumb to an image as Mister Hippo every morning. Maybe mini Hippo, but not full blown….

 

all the friends in the world…

I gotta admit, I don’t like some people. I love them. They’re the kind of people you want to make laugh- the kind of people who smile like when the sun comes out, the kind of people who just brighten up every day they live. I wish I could be like that, but my life has been too much of a saga for that every day Smile-A-Thon kind of thing.

I can’t forget some of those radiant smile-puppies. I’ve lost all of their whereabouts, every single one of them. Hopefully, the fire of their smiles has not dimmed over the ages, as the evil of the world has assailed them.

Perhaps somewhere they are hiding among  the smiling faces on a virtual friends list, blessing facebook with positive happy thoughts. If you see one of them, let them know you love their smile. After all, not everyone on facebook is smiling- some pictures were taken during constipation, bloating, and the menstrual cycle (not unlike a unicycle, which is also a pain).

But the best pictures are when happiness and joy exude from the face of the facebook photo. It is as if Mama Boucher (see The Waterboy) was right and the”magic rays of sunshine that come down when you’re feelin’ blue” have scattered across the screen, bringing a smile to even the grumpiest face.

And those folks become irresistible. Downright friend material. So what if you don’t actually know them? They know Billy, who happens to live in your town, and Billy knows your cousin’s boyfriend’s mother’s cousin, who happens to have a beautiful smile, and that’s good enough, isn’t it?

It seems like that must be one of the processes of “friend-finding” done by  thousand-plus friendophiles. I’m amazed that I’ve managed to gather thirty some friends on facebook, while Stewart Nobody boasts thousands. So, after some shallow thinking, I have reflected on some other possible friending processes employed by these friendophiles:

1. “Hey, I know that country, I’ll friend them.”

2. “That was my brother’s cat’s name, therefore, he has to be a great guy.”

3. “His profile says he lives in my town. I must know him. I think.”

4. “She is really hot, therefore, I will friend her. (or vice versa)”

5. “That photo reminds me of my dog Ralph, who died in a car accident when my dad backed up in the driveway…”

6. “I swear he looks like Jay Leno. I’ll friend him. He could be Jay Leno, even if he calls himself Hans Van Druschek.”

7. “Her name is Shelly. I think I’ve heard that name before…somewhere.”

8. “She’s wearing my favorite burka.”

9. “If I looked like that, I wouldn’t have any friends. I’ll just send this friend request to make him feel better.”

10. “I’ll friend anyone once.”

makes you wonder about these people…who do they really know?