bare feet (happy) … bare knees (breezy) … bearing news (blog)

Some o’ this ‘n’ that …

A Buck Buys Happiness

Yes it does. If you doubt me, ask the homeless man who scrapes together enough change for a couple swigs of booze from the airplane mini-sized bottle.

Or a lotto ticket with the sad hope it shall deliver him from poverty.

Or ask me.

As attentive readers shall recall, I’d live life barefoot if circumstances and conditions permitted. Or with feet clad in leather or zoris.

Happy feet in the sunny azure skies of Colorado call for a sunny color. Happiness for a buck at the Dollar store:

Zoris: first spring in Colorado

Comfort and coolness in the cafe[/caption]

In that former place of perpetual dampness, darkness, coldness and gray, a single pair of zoris lasted years. Feet and I are joyful at the purchase marking my first spring and summer in Colorado.

The Bee’s Knees!

Speaking of yellow … them bee’s knees be a single pair of blue jeans, THE most comfortable and perfectly-fitting trousers I’ve ever had the pleasure of wearing! And wearing. Wearing and wearing. To date, I’ve never blogfully exposed of my personhood more than my shoes and, if memory serves, on one occasion, feet. (Only one reader could identify me in the crowds.) So brace yourselves for revelation:

Evidence that I’ve yet to undertake the dreadful shopping for new old jeans, per a prior post. Neil* – my steadfast fashion guru forever and ever and until the threads themselves disintegrate.

*that’s Neil Young for youse unfamiliar

And Thar She Blows!

And goes. Speaking of bare, I bear news, hesitatingly, of a new blog germinating in my evolving, creative and intelligent psyche. The fate of this blog (and accompanying readership) is to be determined. That is all on that.

A Mother’s Day without the Hallmark stamp

It is Mother’s Day.

It is hardly the happy Hallmark moment.

Every year, be it publicly or privately, I contemplate, acknowledge and remember the mothers overlooked, forgotten, neglected, unseen and ignored by cardmakers and conventional society.

I give thought to the mothers who have lost their children in infancy, through stillbirths, crib death, deformities, illnesses and more.

I give thought to the mothers whose children have died in accidents and in war. In suicides and in murders. In freak occurrences and tragedies.

I give thought to the mothers whose children are relinquished through adoption and the adoptees who on Mother’s Day give thought to their natural mothers, perhaps known, perhaps not.

I give thought to the sons and daughters whose mothers treat/ed them like pieces of shit. Mother’s Day a warm celebratory event? Bullshit.

I give thought to all mothers brushed beneath the Hallmark carpet. The mothers for whom the day is not a bed of roses — or a bouquet; rather one of grief, loss, pain or sorrow.

The forgotten mothers. Forgotten and overlooked even by mothers riding the waves of their own lives, meals out, corsages and blooms. I never forget.

This post is written for and dedicated to you. To write Happy Mother’s Day would be unkind. Better is may peace be with you; and, just for you, a single flower.

coming out of the closet. with a wheelbarrow.

Yesterday brought victory of sorts in goodness and right.

A resident (at the assisted living facility that employs me) whose identity shall remain anonymous and therefore be assigned the moniker of Messy Woman with a Cat Who Hoards — Ms. Hoarder for short — got her clock cleaned by moi.

Just substitute “closet” for “clock” for the truth.

Piled high in her closet were newspapers. Stacks of newspapers. Loads of newspapers. Mountains of newspapers. Describe it as you wish. An overabundant lot of newspapers dating to 2008.

And, in my goodness, and outside my job description (for any who cares), offered to clear them out.

Now, others have attempted to persuade Ms. Hoarder to let the newspapers go. Until yesterday, she refused.

Not only did they pose a fire hazard, they’d multiplied — and were continuing to do so — at such the dangerous pace, like the rabbits of Australia, the overflow from the closet threatened to cut off passage to her bed.

The bed that, among other things, the housekeepers such as I need to strip and make and upon which Ms. Hoarder slumbers.

With her umpteen stuffed animals. But that’s another post.

So … after running the situation past the executive director, I approached Ms. Hoarder, with whom I have a most fine rapport, gently and with exquisite sensitivity becoming my wise soul, with the proposition.

Lo and behold and breaking her track record of refusals, she accepted!!!

I went to work and hauled out two — TWO — giant shopping carts filled to the brim and then some with newspapers.

More still linger tucked here and there in the closet but that was the bulk. The mountain. The Lot o Newspapers.

Goodness achieved! Ms. Hoarder is happy. I am happy. And Menudo (because there’s no harm in revealing the big cat’s name I suppose) is happy.

Emptied of its ancient papers, the old box in the closet was promptly his to claim. A cat’s life indeed.

My magic green hat

A tickle to the tummy and not without its truth; this from a pal:

The other day I needed to go to the emergency room. Not wanting to sit there for four hours, I put on my MAGIC GREEN HAT. When I went into the E.R., I noticed that 3/4 of the people got up and left.

I guess they decided that they weren’t that sick after all. Cut at least three hours off my waiting time.

It also works at Department of Motor Vehicles. It saved me five hours.

At the laundromat, three minutes after entering, I had my choice of any machine, most still running.

If you live in Texas , it might cut your wait time at the grocery store.

But … don’t try it at McDonald’s. The whole crew took off and left out the back door and l never got my order!

My magic green hat?

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Mugging for the camera, errr, blog.

Well, I saved myself 10 bucks, I suppose.

From a post of March 6:

“While I didn’t accomplish anything toward a job change, I did achieve another goal of another variety that shall remain mysterious for the moment. Only clue: I’ll drink to that!!

Make an educated guess that comes close and win 10 bucks. Any risktakers out there?”

Sadly, only two guesses. (Where IS your sense of spirit and play, people?!) And neither correct. And the answer is …. {drum roll}

Each of those cross-offs represents achievement. Each is one more pint consumed toward the lofty goal of Mug Club membership.

Yup, 24 beers in total. Actually it was 48. Brews 2-for-1 at happy hour.

No small feat either! It wasn’t the beer-drinking part. That I got down. It was the drive. That pub, Govnr’s Park, is my favorite local hangout. Though “local” it could really hardly be called. It’s a 15-mile drive (24 km) into central Denver.

One way.

Is it worth it? Hell yeah! Though it’s not something I could or would do every day. To acquire Mug Club status, for sure it’s worth it.

What IS Mug Club? Before I get to that, there’s this:

That’s more than a delicious shot a mouth-watering roasty liquid craft. That’s my final beer. The end of the list. The culmination. The best saved for last. The Milk Stout by Left Hand Brewery in northern Colorado. A dark rich thick warmer saved for a bitter cold snowy day in March.

Only not so much, ironically:

Peer in and you might spot half the crowd in T-shirts!

The uncooperative climate, however, neither impeded nor diminished the pleasure. I drank that pint with all the relish of a starving man eating steak. Which, by and by, likely has fewer calories than that single glass!

An act that delivered me across the finish line into Mug Club status. What have I gained?

Other than a laminated card the size of a credit card with Mug Club on it you mean?

On Mondays – ONLY Mondays – from 5 to 6 p.m. – and ONLY from 5 to 6 p.m. – I drink from a large mug reportedly 28 ounces of the beer selected by the Mug Club. Free.

That one beer selected during deep and private discussions amongst Mug Club members.

Or a bunch of drunken fools who toss a dart on a taps list nailed to the wall.

Whichever, that chosen beer remains the freebie beer for members for a month.

So good on ya if ya like it! And tough toenails if ya don’t. Take me for example. My first month in Mug Club entitled me to:

Yuk!! Mug Club couldn’t have picked a lesser and comparatively worthless beer from the delish dozens on tap!

Did that stop me from drinking for free?

It did not.

April’s been Avalanche. A pleasant amber ale from the local Breckenridge Brewery.

What will May bring? Other than flowers?

Haven’t a clue. My job schedule prevents me from attending the Mug Club meetings on Wednesday, when these vitally important consultations and decisions are made.

I shall know soon enough. Perhaps even as early as today. When I make the 15-mile one-way drive for my freebie(s) for an hour.

Little left to say save SALUD!

And THANK GOD I just happened to have Mondays off! Otherwise I’d be screwed. Denied and deprived by the job of the fruits of my labors. I’d be one Mug Club member with the mug:

a potpourri. {sans the pot. :-(}

A dash o’ this, a splash o’ that and voila! a blog post.

Stuck in the Mind with Mike

“Stuck in the Middle With You” by Stealer Wheels just popped up on Pandora radio. I can’t listen without vivid images of the cop-in-the-warehouse scene and the dancing malicious Mike Madsen, playing Mr. Blonde, in Tarantino’s “Reservoir Dogs.” A film I’ve watched around 30 times, btw.

The power of music to meld with images and burn them into the brain’s amazing.

Goodwill jobs: My Rolls of Toilet Paper

I subscribe to the Goodwill (thrift store) jobs feed. I don’t know why. The jobs are menial and low paying and chiefly for youths — food service, retail and the sort. Also they’re typically in distant areas of Denver, thus impractical even were I in the menial job market.

I maintain the feed for the same reason that people who lived through the Great Depression horde toilet paper or string. When times have been that hard, when you’ve been truly that depleted, down and out and without, you cling to that single source that represents security, wealth or value. Might be a can of food, a roll of toilet paper, the Goodwill jobs feed. I’ll never forget the years and years of joblessness. I can’t. It’s within cellular memory like the Depression for my family members.

And btw, yes, I still actually read the Goodwill jobs. The terror of unemployment and homelessness never fades.

What inspired those revelations was a Goodwill posting today. “There’s something I’d like,” I thought when I read it. Job schedule prevents participation plus the worksites are at considerable distance. Nonetheless, something kinda different that I’d enjoy (and would be likely to land given my sorry extended food-service experience):

“Edible Arrangements (in x-locations) are in need of help this Mother’s Day making and delivering our beautiful arrangements.

No experience needed, but priority consideration will be given to applicants that have worked in commercial food environments before. Main job duties will include cutting, peeling, and skewering fruit, dipping fruit in chocolate, and light cleaning.

DRIVERS also needed to deliver our arrangements to recipients located around our stores. Must have reliable car & GPS.

Must be available to start work at 8 a.m., be available everyday between May 9 – May 14 and be on your feet throughout the day.”

Arbeit Macht Frei. Not to Mention Fatigue

I’ve been working a long and altered schedule due to my supervisor’s vacation. I’ve had two days off in two weeks.

Additionally, I’ve been putting in extra hours to make up time lost to handle a medical emergency. An emergency where the outcome could’ve gone one of two ways, the second being devastating physically and financially.

Fortunately the examination results were in my favor and I was/am elated. Not to mention profoundly relieved.

Honestly, I just don’t need more hardship in life. I truly do not.

So a crisis with a happy ending. The only sort of crisis I like. 🙂

Anywho, my supervisor’s now back, returning my schedule to normal. I need rest. I need sleep. I need NOT to see the workplace for a while.

Plus I’m growing increasingly bored and restless there. NOT an invitation or prompt to universe to lose said job! But that’s another topic. Just sayin’ …

The Seer Speaks

Regular readers will recall my prognostications in late 2011 on sweeping changes come March. They came to pass. Presently sister intuitions are traversing my system, with June and July the featured focal points. I can’t explain it, neither predict what form the big changes will take; I write this only as a record.

I also have a gut prediction about the presidential race (Romney vs. Obama) in November. I’m not ready to go public; if and when the time’s right, I will.

If I’m still blogging then. Again, another subject …

So true!

Obama on America. Love it!

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