"A Man's Worst Nightmare": Chronicles Of An Adult-Child Of Aging Titans (for adults who need to laugh to keep from crying over their parents)

A Man's Worst Nightmare (continued from "You're Costing Me Money")

"Owen, did you bring the food?"

"The food?"

"Yes.  The food for tonight "

"Uh-"

"Go back and get it."

"[Expletive, expletive, expletive].  Why didn't you say anything earlier?  [Expletive, expletive. expletive].  I'm not going back!  [Expletive], Gladys, you did this on purpose..."

We are waiting for the garage door to swing open and when it does, my dad juts through with only the merest space between the top of the car and the garage door. For some reason, both my mother and I compulsively hold our heads as he passes through, still swearing and refusing to turn back. But his words fade away as we swing onto the street which is covered in white fuzz and more is raining down as massive shopping bags of "toilet paper bombs" are deployed from windows above.

"Holy christmas," my dad turns to my mom but she turns to me instead to respond, still miffed with him from his earlier hijinks.

"Have the children gone mad?"

"This," I suddenly realize, " is why your neighbor looked like he'd just crawled out of a heating duct... he'd been toilet paper bombed."

"Yes, and never said a word to his elderly neighbors. Should've laughed even louder at him in the elevator."

"What should we do?" My dad is stopped in the ramp leading up to the street, still under the cover of the building.

"GO GET THE FOOD!"  My mother whirls around on him and breathes the words like a dragon.

She startles my dad so bad he follows her command in a near frantic, almost knee-jerk response that has us turned back the other direction so fast that there's like a lag time - and I have to blink really hard to focus - before my brain catches up to present time.

Just as my dad is tapping the garage door opener though, four police swoop past us on motorcycles and block the doors.

"At this time, there will be no entries or exits from the parking garage until further notice," one of them announces into a megaphone.

By now two other cars are lined up in back of us to get into the building and as we wait for them to back out, my parents have already resumed the argument in their minds so it takes me a beat to figure out what they're talking about.

"Nothing doing."  My dad is gripping the steering wheel rigidly and staring straight ahead.

"Yes.  There.  Is."

"Not doing it."

My mother breathes through her nose and fogs up the window on her side of the car - in nine thousand degree heat. Which means her breath is hotter than the air outside...

Slowly, my dad backs out and into a parking space on the street and there is silence.

A silence that builds and builds until it becomes this ominous cloud hanging over us. The kind of silence where you can tell the people are trying to choose their words carefully. Except not for the sake of prudence but for slice-and-dice-you-up, box-you-around-the-head-with-my-words type of effect. Before lightning strikes, I jump in the mix.

"I'll go get it," I say for the heck of it, not intending to go anywhere, but my dad opens his door and swings a leg out.

"No, Tucker, you stay in the car. And Gladys?"

My mother turns to him belligerently and he points a finger at her, standing in the door. Although it is very hard to take him seriously as he is already beginning to look like a zombie in a B movie, and keeps being overtaken by sneezing fits, and twitches every time debris falls in his eyes.

"This is the first and last stop. Once this car gets rolling, I'm not stopping again for one.  [Expletive].  Thing!"

He slams the car door for emphasis and then disappears into the white haze, sneezing and twitching and swatting his way through the debris.

And I watch as a small mirthless smile indents my mother's face on one side.

"Tucker, I think," she shifts so she's facing forward again in her seat, "I'm going to have some fun with your father..."

"No, no, Mom, I can't take anymore of you all's fun!"  I cry, fed up now.

"Oh yes. Revenge, my dear, is a dish best served cold..."

~Look for "Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold", another episode of Chronicles, next week~

#aging #comedy #funnystories

"You're Costing Me Money!": Chronicles Of An Adult-Child Of Aging Titans (for adults who need to laugh to keep from crying over their parents)

"YOU'RE COSTING ME MONEY!" (continued from last week's "Daddy's Girl")
 "I'm not even sure we should still be going to this thing after all this.  What time is it, Knotty?"
My mother asks this while we wait for the elevator to go down to the parking garage.
My dad look looks at his wristwatch and scowls.  "[expletive], [expletive] watch's stopped."
"Oh, we'll never get there in time. It hardly seems worth the drive."
"Gladys-"
My dad's chest rises as he gets ready to blow up but it's cut off by the arrival of one of their neighbors who appears to be covered from head to toe - even (ick) his face and hair and eyelashes - with shredded paper of some sort.
We stare in wonder. And somewhere within me I am gleeful that finally there is someone stranger then we are to focus on.
He is oblivious to our stares as he presses the button to go up and I try to imagine what happened. And even though my lips strain like a highstrung racehorse at its gates to push into the "W" shape, I manage to stay silent.  Because the only plausible answers would be something like:
"My dog and I had a teeth-wrestling fight over a Costco-sized packet of toilet tissue."
...or...
"It's a new fabric softener I'm trying. Oh, and I use it on my skin too."
... or maybe he sleeps inside his mattress rather then on top of it...
The elevator arrives while I'm still caught up in my musings but I jump on at the last moment, when I realize I'm about to be left alone with the man.
"Can anybody say Dustbuster?"  My dad asks as soon as the door closes and he and my mom laugh loudly.
"Shh-shh, he still can hear you with the doors closed," I try to whisper over them.
"Well, if he does hear us, he has only himself to blame, Tucker."
"Yeah, your mom's right.  What kind of man it goes around looking like that? When I was his age it was three-piece suits."
"Oh, my," my mother interrupts in a breathy tone, "there must be a happy, twenty-first century medium.  Somewhere."
"I don't care what you say, Gladys, I like my three-piece suits!"  My dad proclaims, holding the elevator door open for us when we get to the garage.
"I like them too, dad."
"Do not encourage your father!"  My mom scowls ferociously at me then turns to my dad waggling a finger.  "The next time I see a three-piece suit, it better be on a GQ model first!"
"Oh, get in the car, woman."
"Which reminds me. Your costing me money."
"Yeah, yeah," my dad grumbles, walking around the car to the driver's side.
"What money, Mom?"  I scoot forward in the backseat, interestedly, sensing juicy gossip.
"Car insurance."
"Car insurance?  But dad hasn't even had a fender bender in years."
"No, it's not that. That nice young man over at the car insurance agency told me he'd give me a hundred dollars a month in grocery store gift cards if we let them put a video camera in the car so they could study people's driving habits and patterns. But of course I couldn't let them do that - they'd have your father locked up, or thrown into an insane asylum, or get so discouraged they'd stop selling car insurance altogether..."
She trails off because now that I have finally caught my breath.  Finally.  I let out a hoop of laughter.  And then another.  And then I'm laughing so hard it's like my mouth is about to flip itself inside out and swallow my head.  A mainly silent torturous laugh.  One from which I imagine the vision for The Scream may have found its origin. I flop from one side of the car to the other nearly prostrate from the force of it, and beside myself trying to get it out of me.
Because I am besieged by all the flashbacks of my dad's tyrannical style of driving at once. And they are accompanied by sound effects, squealing brakes, screeching tires, the omnipresent expletives and those of other drivers, the growl of an accelerator revved to it's max.  
Even now, in the parking garage, I cling with both hands to the shoulder strap of the seatbelt as a car in the next aisle over and ours barrel down the short stretch of road and over two speed bumps to get to the exit lane first, reacting to some sort of intuitive homage to pugilism.
Although my dad stops short of actually burning rubber to turn into the exit lane in front of the other driver, then turns a contrary look on my mother before quaking with a deep belly laugh.
And when my mother finally turns to him her smile is gangster-like and unwavering even as she speaks.

"I hope you have nightmares every night for the rest of your life."

~Look for "A Man's Worst Nightmare", another episode of Chronicles, next week~

#comedy #aging #funnystuff #jokeoftheday

"Daddy's Girl": Chronicles Of An Adult-Child Of Aging Titans (for adults who need to laugh to keep from crying over their parents)

"DADDY'S GIRL", (continued from last week's "I Got Kicked Out!")
"That's right she's a daddy's girl.  If it weren't for her I'd have no allies in this family.  Because you - you are a piece of work."
My dad barrels through the door, drops my mother's shoe just at the threshold of the foyer, and then drops himself into a chair at the table to finish breakfast.  The way he wields his knife and fork - like the Texas Chainsaw Murderer of Breakfasts -  gives one the impression he's all too happy to have his hands busy.
"Oh, Knotty, really.  Must you use the same expressions day after day, year after dreary year?  I've been a 'piece of work' for fifty years now."
"Yes, you have" my dad finishes eating in time to slam down his knife and fork at this, "and I have about fifty more expressions I could use on you right now, but I guarantee you you won't want to hear any of them!"
"You are very agitated," my mom crosses her arms resolutely.  "Too agitated to drive."
The rage my dad emits adds at least two degrees to the temperature of the room and I pretend to be digging in my bag, while stealthily swaying and doing something like a grapevine with my feet towards the air conditioner.
"Listen, Gladys, this car is going up the road with or without you."
"It better not."
"Oh, but it will."
"It will not."
"Will too."
"Will not."
"Tucker, you wanna drive?"  My dad asks this just as my hand is hovering right over the AC switch and when they swivel their heads in my direction, I snatch my hand away and beat it with my other arm.
"What on earth?"
"I saw a spider."
"You did not.  There are no spiders in here."
"Mom, every house has spiders."
"Not this one."
I fall silent because I refuse to go to the mat with my mother over the fact that I saw a spider when I never did.
"Don't give me that look.  Where then?  Where is this spider?"
"Oh, Gladys, leave Tucker alone.  Leave us all alone, for Pete's sake."  While my mother and father engage in another bout of l-can't-stand-to-love-you fury, I decide to saunter by the AC and try to nudge it on with my shoulder.
Of course I miss.
And rip a little hole in the seam of my shirt.
"Oh, can it, Knotty, you wouldn't even know how to tie your own shoes without me," my mother is saying.
And round and round they go while I watch.  And wait.  When they get locked into this type of argument, they normally reach a point where a zebra with translucent fairy wings and red wellies on could make itself dizzy and collapse right at their feet after galloping and leaping around the room in circles unbeknownst to them.
Naturally, the moment I manage to score with the AC, they lose momentum and my mom stands up.

I do a jazz hands move for added insurance but they don't look my way.
"Well, I'm ready to go now.  If Tucker's driving..."
"Sure, I'll drive."
"No, you won't.  I'm driving."
"Dad, I said I'll drive."
"Let her drive, Owen.  It's bad enough you're costing me money."
"How's dad costing you money, mom?"
"Don't listen to your mother.  Anyway, I said I'm driving and that's the end of it." He swings open the door.  "Anybody who has a problem with that can stay here."
"Don't press your luck, buster.  Do you know how much money we could be saving if it weren't for you?"
They glare at each other as she walks through the doorway and I wonder with the internal brio of a reporter what money my mother is talking about.
"Can it, woman."  My dad mutters this with his back turned, locking the door.
They pass by me and I look at the door cheerlessly because I think of the AC and how I never got cooled off and how it's going to be freezing when they get back and they'll run and fling open all the doors and windows with fumbling hands rigid with cold, and pile all the blankets in the house on their shoulders and drink back-to-back cups of tea until the temperature goes back up to ninety-nine degrees.  And they'll be calling me and inevitably I'll miss the call and they'll leave at least five messages apiece which I won't listen to because in every last one of them they will be instructing me to "pick up the phone, it's your [father/mother]".  And then when I do call and try to explain why I didn't "pick up", my dad will testily dismiss the concept of voicemail as nonsense before handing the phone to my mother who will triumphantly declare post-haste:
"You're costing me money!"

~Look for "You're Costing Me Money!", another episode of Chonicles, next week~

#comedy #aging #funnystuff #jokeoftheday

"I Got Kicked Out!": Chronicles Of An Adult-Child Of Aging Titans (for adults who need to laugh to keep from crying over their parents)

"I GOT KICKED OUT!", continued from last week's "Tasteless".
My dad is ejected suddenly from the condo, whirling awkwardly as if in the eye of the tornado of my mother's wrath.  The vacuum from the door whooshing open so forcefully has popped my ears and I start banging on the side of my head at the precise moment the neighbor across the hallway from them decides to open his door to leave his apartment.
He takes it all in with a little tremor; my dad lurching to get his bearings with arms outstretched like he's playing Blindman's Bluff with himself, my mother's shoe still arcing through the air from where she must have tried and fallen just short of kicking my dad in his rear, and me banging my head agitatedly as if there's something rolling around in there that I believe I can force out like coins from a piggybank.
The neighbor starts in one direction then the other then retreats, disappearing through the door.  He's a thin man and since he's barely cracked open the door, he's able to perform something like a magic trick in his utter haste to get back into his condo.
"And stay out!"  My mom directs this at my dad before yanking me inside.
"Your father gets more and more like a buffoon every day!"
"What happened?"  I say just a beat too late, and with all the aplomb I can dredge up from my only acting experience as a leaf in a Thanksgiving play when I was seven.
"Everything."  She responds in a disgruntled huff, plopping down on the sofa.
"And don't you dare touch that air conditioner."  She suddenly snaps upright and pins eagle eyes on me.
"But mom," I fling my arm at the thermostat, in a fit of pique already, "it says it's 92 degrees in here!"
"Can't be.  Feels downright chilly to me."  She shivers and assails me with a look like she's desperately cold.  Meanwhile, I feel as if I'm trapped in a burning house being ravaged by white-hot invisible flames.
As I open my mouth to protest, there's hearty knocking at the door.
"Don't answer it, Tucker."
"Tell your mother I can hear her."
"Dad says he can hear you."
"Tucker, open this door!"
"Let him stay out there, til he can learn some manners!"
"Mom..."
"Ignore him, Tucker.  Come, let's go on the balcony where it's more pleasant."
My dad is now beating on the door in that way that you do when you don't want one area of your hand to get too sore.
"Gladys [expletive]!  You [expletive] well better answer this [expletive] door before I reach the [expletive] number ten!  I'm not taking anymore of this [expletive]!  Not in my own [expletive] house!"
My mom is beckoning me from the balcony but I'm dragging my feet, looking between the door and then back at her balefully.
"UGH!"  She suddenly gets disgusted, vaults herself out of her seat and across the room - unhampered by the other shoe still out in the hallway somewhere - and flings open the door.  "You are such a daddy's girl!"

~Look for "Daddy's Girl", another episode of Chronicles, next week~

#comedy #aging #funnystuff #jokeoftheday

"Tasteless": Chronicles Of An Adult-Child Of Aging Titans (for adults who need to laugh to keep from crying over their parents)

     I'm standing outside my parent's condo, afraid to knock.  It's Saturday morning and I am exhausted from the week and dread over this outing with my parents.  We're headed to a family cookout about two hours away, four hours roundtrip, and I'm wondering if the good Lord'll see fit to let us make it back alive one more time.

     It's my dad and his driving that are   foremost on my mind.  Picture back to when little boys played on Big Wheels, trash-talking at the top of their lungs and hurtling their vehicles at each other at top speed, and here is where my dad would have flourished.  Perhaps if they'd had Big Wheels when he was growing up, it would have saved us and other drivers the harrowing experience that is my dad on the road but as it is - even after fifty some odd years of driving - the aggression has not abated.

In fact, both he and my mom share this trait.  Except she tends to unleash her aggression on him as she is doing now.  I could hear them as I got off the elevator in their somewhat tony building, squabbling over the blaring relentless drone of the news radio station they like to listen to, violating the code of silence observed by all their other neighbors.

"Where is she, Knotty?" My mother is asking him, using her nickname for Nottenwattle, which is our last name.

"How the [expletive] should I know?"

"Honestly, for a former executive you have an astonishingly limited vocabulary."

"It's because of my pea-sized brain."

"It must be the size of a pea.  By now.  From lack of use."

"Yeah, right, whatever, Gladys."

There is a pause where I can hear excessive, loud banging and rattling and clanging, presumably of pots and pans and cabinets, and the aroma of something burning begins to permeate the air before I hear my mother's voice again.

"I'm not eating this."

"What?  Why?"

"This toast is black, Owen!"

"You oughtta be grateful you got somebody to make you breakfast."

"Grateful!" I hear a scraping noise which I assume is her pushing her plate away.  "Burnt toast is not breakfast."

"I'm not making you another piece."

"Where is your daughter?  She's half hour late already, we need to get on the road."

"And I'm not going up the road on two wheels, either."

At this my mother bursts out in her remarkably youthful- sounding laughter that sounds of crystals tinkling.

"What?"

"Nothing, Owen.  Here, you want this?"

"[expletive, banging of table], can't I sit down and eat in peace without you wracking my nerves over the toast?"

"Owen, my egg is getting cold."

"And why is Tucker my daughter all the sudden, when she's late?"

"Thank you, Owen.  You're a gentleman and a scholar."

"Aw, can it.  Acting so sweet now you've got your toast.  It was probably you who changed the setting on the toaster in the first place."

"Now, Owen, you know I never even go in the kitchen, so that won't fly."

"Yeah, but it wouldn't surprise me if you engineered the burning of your own breakfast toast just to keep me hopping up and down, doing your bidding all day long.  I never should've retired."

"I wish you hadn't retired."

"I should have worked til I dropped dead in my office."

"You should have."

"At least at work I could eat in peace if I wanted."

"Ha!  As if.  Don't talk to me about peace, buster.  Before you retired my life was well-ordered and serene.  Now the only place I can go for some peace and quiet is the bathroom!"

"Well....you could always go back to work."

I hear her chair scooting across their hardwood floor, then the dainty clomp of my mother's retreating footsteps.

"Where you goin?  You're not eating breakfast now?"

"Oh, Owen, eat it yourself!  I've lost the taste for breakfast."

"You better EAT this TOAST or YOU'RE GONNA WEAR IT!"

...Look for "I got kicked out", another episode of Chronicles Of An Adult-Child Of Aging Titans, next Tuesday.

#comedy #aging #funnystuff #jokeoftheday

Crochet-etry: Final Words from Lore of the Lookbook

Vol. 6 (continued from last week)
As I was shrugging into the Cinched Cardigan
a lean icy blade of wind

slung itself aimlessly

into the thick lazy honey golden haze of summer

Masquerading itself

among waves of heat

then plunging into the ocean of life

ambushing the revelers

causing them to straddle the hemisphere of Change that surprise visitor

announcing its arrival with big brassy invincible knuckles of certainty

Demanding Receptivity

Or Else
Watching us hide underwater

mutinously against the tides

Knowing the water would be too formidable an opponent  

ionically

that positivity would triumph
like Peace versus two men fistfighting underwater.
But you could find yourself somewhere where you'd have to fight to return to peace.
Dumpster diving through rubbish

in order to brandish a shard of truth
faithfully polishing it

til darkness would look elsewhere to avoid its gleam.
And with truth shining so bright,
you would know where to find Peace

In The Midst Of Change.

~Final Words in Lore of the Lookbook ~

#TravelTuesday

Crochet-etry: Another Ode To Clothes (& So On)

Vol. 5 (continued from last week)

"Not strange, not-strange, notstrange"
the stones seemed to be chanting that afternoon
nodding in vigorous assent
stirring the earth in outrage
as they click-clacked up against
made-new, centuries-old mosaic tile glossy with the toils of ubiquitous hands
the watery onslaught of sand
the maroon of fire, once.
And the stones danced defiantly
up against and around winding
tumbling and blurring the boundaries
of glass remnants of civilizations
too proud to disappear
yet winking merrily
underneath their frosty facades
flirting recklessly with detection
waving algae strewn limbs indolently
on the floor of the Mediterranean Sea.
Where I sat
in the Eyelet Bikini
watching sea creatures
swoop and dive and glide and careen
the bold, the demure, the haughty,
the primitive, the exquisite, the lumbering
the indiscriminate masses, plucky
yet divine
when perceived through the eye of the composition of life
unfathomably
absolute and resilient
legacy species enduring nearly beyond comprehension of time
manifestations of an amen proclamation on the Genetic 5th Day
after already the Spirit of God had moved upon the face of the waters.

~2nd to Last Ditty From Lore of the Lookbook ~

#TravelTuesday

Crochet-etry: A Lore of the Lookbook Entry (continued from last week)

Vol. 4
An accumulation of time and space found me dreaming one night in Tunisia
dreaming I was staring at myself through a camera lens mottled with dust motes
as I hurtled through space driving a white Mustang filled with children
while wearing the Horizon Jumper
and being chased by four roaring, high powered, burgundy Broncos
"There will be five horses today but only one white horse. This is the horse we should ride. I don't know why."
My traveling companion shrugged this off the following morning - largely indifferent to my peculiar declarations, as we awaited van transportation to our horse and camel trek through the hills of Hammamet.
Upon arrival we stared in dismay
at the anorexic single white horse with gray speckling its oily, febrile-looking hide,
doubtfully, at legs that seemed unsure of carrying its own weight.
"We can get on?"
We asked, gesturing inquisitively at the guide.
He nodded, "This horse have babies but is Arabian horse - she is ready."
"But I want to ride one of those horses," my friend waved at the four other gleaming, powerfully muscled, massive, Rock-of-Gibraltar-style Arabian stallions.
"The white one, remember?"
She gave me a rebellious glare, as this was her first horse ride, and I also felt it was a shame that it would not take place on one of the other magnificent stallions. However, she was distracted when they brought out the camel and capitulated.
"Fine, we'll ride the white one."
At a fork in the road, the two other women with us who were astride the stallions, went a separate direction and we looked at each other in relief.
The women - ensconced in jewels and clean and shiny as new pennies - had been regalling us with how many years they'd been riding, how many horses on their estates, how many competitions they'd placed in
...while the Tunisian hillside had been slipping by unnoticed.
Even the white stallion I was riding became more peaceful as the sounds of nature prevailed again, augmented occasionally by the clicks, 'tuh-sut's', and 'sis-ha's' as the horse guide whispered certain mystical messages in their shared language.
Upon our return, we waited at the fork in the road for the two women
and they came into view, with horses being led by their guide.
Noticing our puzzled looks at the wild disarray of their formerly meticulously coiffed hair, the fine coating of dust over their cheeks and arms, and the damp, slightly rumpled appearance of what was pristine clothing,
they grabbed their hearts and began babbling
"These horses", "I was fright!", "Very strong!"
My traveling companion and I fell silent
but before too long she glanced over at me and said
"You are a strange one."

~More From Lore of the Look book To Come~

#TravelTuesday #TravelJournals

Crochet-etry: An Entry From Lore of the Lookbook (continued from last week)

Vol. 3
Speckles of dust around the lion transformed him into a gold cloud
as I waved from the train until his image united with the earth.
The following afternoon I walked alongside the Indian Ocean
wearing the Earthbeat Halter
The waves had forbidden me to enter
with an invisible force field that pulled out of my mind the notion to go in that water
so I walked the Earth
eventually I laid prone in the sand while all the worry captured in my belly delighted in burrowing itself back down to its terrestrial origin.
And the waves settled down and the water,
no longer carrying out the arduous task of hurling waves,
began to sigh from relief.
My heart slowed to the sound of the Indian Ocean's breath as it met the shore.
In the haze of sunset my awareness sharpened
and my eyes connected with those of a man
standing beneath a tree umbrage a fair ways down the beach
Brown orbs trimmed in amber and a hint of periwinkle
Reluctantly, it seemed, he held up a hand and began to amble my way.
"You are fortunate not to have done this only yesterday - the beach was covered with green mamba snakes."
" Well where have they all gone today?"
"I killed them."
"Pardon? How would you have done that?"
His laughter was woven with kindness
"Ahhh, America, there was no 'would' - I did it.
I jumped on the head and the tail like this"
He disappeared from my line of sight and I looked up in the nick of time to see him suspended in the air above my head
"And I grabbed my knife,"
he mentioned casually on the way down
"And I did like this," landing on feather toes he swung his arm across the sand
I cringed and jumped at this nonchalant display, swift and lethal
"Do you work for the resort?"
"Yes, I am the guard for the bungalow you are staying in."
"Well if you're guarding me, who's guarding you? You're only one man."
"There are more but, no, I need no guard"
He sat down on a rock. "I have laid many animals to rest, it is the way of life here. The lion come and eat my sheep then there is the question, 'must I and my family suffer starvation or must the lion be hunted and killed."
"You've killed lions?"
"I am slight but I am a man, I am smarter than the lion"
"Now how would you do this?"
He did not speak for a long time as he stared at the ground.
He grabbed a handful of it.
"Do you know how sacred is your word? Do you see this?"
Grains of sand drifted out of his hand into the wind
"The sand is would, could, maybe, 'I think', sometimes"
He opened his hand to reveal the rock remaining,
"But this is your word."

~More To Come From Lore of the Lookbook~

For #ChooseDay : Truth or Illusion? 

Crochet-etry: A Page From Lore of the Lookbook

"You are protected..."

Vol. 2 (continued from last week)

A voice seemed to rumble

from the attic of the heavens

or

cellar of the earth

or from within

and like I'd received a shot of pure

undiluted power

waves of it undulated in the air around me.

The baboon and hyena disintegrated even as they drew nearer to me.

I fell down on the grass laughing as the lion

perplexed

circled around trying to find them.

Although I froze in my hilarity when I felt the earth vibrate with his leaps and bounds

then moments later the humid gamey aroma of his breath surrounding me 

the dry nubbiness of his tongue on my face 

the slickness of his sharp teeth grazing my scalp.

It was now his turn to laugh

and soon we laughed together 

with a spirit as relentless in gaiety as the hyena's as I hung myself from his belly with arms strong as the baboon's

and we raced across the countryside alongside the train tracks...
~More to come from Lore of the Lookbook~
#TravelTuesdays

Crochet-etry: An Excerpt From Lore of the Lookbook

"I once fell off the train from Nairobi to Mombasa...."
Vol. 1
Dinner Was Served At Eight
passengers were expected to be prompt
and fiercely elegant in attire.
Five courses
and at least as many spirits later
diners mingled over cordials at the slender glimmering bar in the Victorian era dining car.
I had worn the Vinyl Sheath
for the very first time
and found myself engaged in a great many conversations
with men of "unaccompanied status".
One of such
and I
wandered to the platform outside the last car
to marvel at the unfolding countryside eddying behind the back of the slowly moving train. Eventually we began, subliminally, to dance
him steadily waltzing forward as I shimmied backward or to
the side.
Although the cast iron guard rail dug a groove into my back, I took a fatal step backward and felt myself gliding,
and then sprawled
across the countryside
at dusk.

A stunned disbelief gripped me as I came to and saw the train slip
lazily around a bend in the horizon
then the vacant depthless stare of a baboon

the certain confident glint of a lion's

the mirthful glitter of a hyena's.

~More To Come From Lore Of The Lookbook~

A Dislocated Shoulder Brings Blessings In Disguise (Once I Looked For Them) Plus A Bikini Challenge

Blessings in disguise is normally an expression that makes me mildly nauseous.  Blessings are fine, but a disguised blessing generally means one has to work and/or endure pain to find it and after so many of these types of blessings, one may find it difficult to distinguish whether one is actually blessed or cursed.
However, in this case - despite everything (I am so not going to regal you with my woes of pain and suffering) - I do believe I found rainbows after the storm.
Of course, there was the obvious blessing of having written (and finished!) my first book.  Sheer exhilaration.  Anybody who's working on their first novel should know that the other side feels marvelous.  Kind of like when you first start jogging and it feels like endless torture and then all the sudden one day something clicks into place where complete mind/body/spirit alignment sets in and everything in your mind that has held you back and behind melts away and you're running and breathing effortlessly.
However, the not-so-obvious, reach-down-inside-yourself, clock-your-demons-in-the-eye blessings came with the bits of clarity that caused me to go online and search for methods of healing to "help the doctors help me".  Now, keep in mind that any savvy patient does not actually tell their doctor what things they are doing that rivals or surpasses their healing methods.  The same way you wouldn't tell somebody who gave you a wedding gift of, say, a toaster oven that somebody else bought you a convection oven. 
But anyway, there was a glut of information online explaining why so many of us are experiencing ailments such as Alzheimer's, Parkinsons, obesity, heart disease, structural maladies (such as a dislocated shoulder), etc.
The main culprit was MSG.  Apparently, somewhere circa mid1900s, gelatin - the flavor component in our foods that is derived from the boiling of bones (a staple in our diets since the beginning of time) - was replaced with MSG.  Now, while the effects of MSG on the system can be negated and vary regionally, a study of its effects on mice caused them to become obese, form lesions on their brains, and blindness, etc.  Additionally, the removal of gelatin from our diets lowered collagen levels which is essential in healing, particularly of tendons. 
So the first thing I did was to get myself some JELLO.  Vegans don't like JELLO.  It's recommended that you eat grass-fed beef broth - not JELLO - but it works great on my system since I don't regularly ingest a ton of sugar.  Apparently, you're not supposed to eat sugar while healing anything (of course, now I want a piece of cake).
And I don't care whether it's ground up lizard bones (it's not), so long as it works.  The JELLO took away this shooting pain that I got in my arm since I refused to take pain meds, and I can tell it's healing something because I've been able to not eat JELLO for longer periods of time without that pain returning.  Just to gross you out :), "the pain" is like somebody's blowing up your veins like a balloon and then brushing them with a dog brush - lol, sorry, I truly am, I couldn't resist.
The next thing that I did was compile a list of foods that worked for me.  I'm just going to say them all in one breath, so forgive me if you're the type that likes things formatted:
Lemongrass (anti-inflammatory, and incidentally lowered my blood pressure by ten points - well into normal range),
Fennel (it's like having a Christmas tree (an Oliver Twist one) in your fridge but when you eat the fronds raw its an excellent system cleanse - if you know what I mean - so that the healing stuff I was eating worked faster/better),
Thyme ( I used it with the lemongrass and fennel in a tea that was most effective when boiled for thirty minutes - just throw in a third of a stem of lemongrass, maybe a third of the fennel root and a handful of fronds, a few stems of the thyme, and two or three cups of water),
Vegetable Juice!  (Yum@!  I love it%!  I'm being totally serious - here's a great recipe that I've loved for about fifteen years now:  one beet (with the tops if you can get em), four or five cabbage leaves, fill your feeder up one and a half times with kale, then, two carrots, two celery stalks, and one clove of garlic.  This is kills/stomps-into-the-ground/annihilates, colds, depression, and brain fog),
Pineapple/Kale/Oatmeal/Fennel Smoothie!  (I am aware that this sounds like something a bulimic might enjoy but it is so good - I use the frozen pineapple from Costco so I don't have to use ice, I don't like mine too cold because it makes my stomach feel like it has bricks in it. Oh!  Also, it's not just kale -  it's the kale/spinach/chard Power Greens blend from Costco),
and Yogurt, Grapes (huge anti-inflammatory benefits on my shoulder), Iceberg Lettuce (anti-inflammatory again and calms my nerves somehow), Parsley, Papaya, MANGOES, Sardines, GREENS+ ENERGY BARS, and Trader Joe's GREEN PLANT JUICE (Yum).
And then, one time (when I probably did eat some cake) and had drunk the tea, ate the JELLO, had a smoothie, etc., and nothing worked I literally PRAYED the pain away.  Prayer changes things.  Usually not that fast, not for me anyway but it does change things.  I remember the first summer when I moved to Manhattan and it was so hot outside and in my brick oven of a building with no central air, that I hadn't slept in days.  I had no money for an air conditioning unit until the next day and was in agony so I started praying - back when God should've looked down on me and been like, "Who the blazes is that!?!", and after praying for hours (that's how desperate I was), God sent a cool breeze.  In the middle of a full-on heatwave with no end in sight - I know this because I was glued to the weather reports like we were in the middle of a war!  I thought I was delirious, but then another gust of wind came in and then another, and I was able to sleep and by the next day the weather was seventies, partly cloudy, no humidity...
don't ask me why this hasn't happened yet with the lottery....
Speaking of sleep:  NEWSFLASH, get as much as you can.  We are not superheroes, we're just ordinary people going about our lives with ordinary things happening to us.  So, I had to tell myself this and get some sleep so I could heal. 
Once again, in a run-on sentence, here's how to do it:
Nice Sheets (my favorites are midnight blue with the imprint of a moose under a sickle moon - makes me feel like I'm camping which I enjoy in theory, but not actually),
Bedspread you like to look at (mine is just white cotton, but the cotton reminds me of clouds, which reminds me of sleep - or at least daydreaming),
Sleep upright in the bed if your shoulder feels wobbly and you're afraid it'll slip out of the socket in your sleep,
Febreze Sleep Serenity - Bedding Refresher (at CVS for around five dollars),
Tea Before Bed (chamomile's great for healing, too - but if it makes you gag like it used to do me, the lemongrass is just as good, I just like variety),
and AVEDA SHAMPURE LOTION (if you don't use it, get it - if you do, then you know just what I'm talking about).
For music I was listening - of course - to Coltrane, the Love Supreme album.  Someone great once said, "Illness/Fear Cannot Exist In An Atmosphere of Love". 
Also, when I couldn't quiet my mind, I took to reading the Bible out loud and, as a last resort, opening to a page and writing down everything I saw.  Somehow the energy of the author infuses my spirit with peace and whatever angst I'm feeling just dissolves.
Finally, the hardest thing I had to do by far was be more conscientious in thoughts, actions, and speech.  Right after I injured my shoulder, all these people started coming out of the woodworks with the same injury as mine. One of which was my cousin who said, "I was scared to do anything when I dislocated my shoulder because I didn't want it to come out of the socket again, I didn't want to get in any arguments..."  I was shocked when she said that because that's exactly what Carolyn Myss related shoulder injuries to in her book, Anatomy Of The Spirit.  Everything else seems to get in the way but our relationships with God, ourselves, other people, really can chart our course in this life.
So in the course of getting in the way of what beach we're charted:) - because no post of mine is complete without crochet-talk - I wanted you to see how metallic yarn added glitz to this basic crocheted bikini design:

And issue a challenge for you to make (with elastic/cotton yarn, unless you want to go skinnydipping) and/or at least wear a bikini this summer.  When I was at a European beach, those women put the blessed bodies God gave them into their bikinis and wore them proudly!

Wishing you all of the best things,
xoxo Vanessa

As seen in Joy & Crafter article - Free Customization Instruction for A Really Easy Lightweight Crocheted Sweater Pattern Plus Tips on How To Attain Crochet Yoga Nirvana (and New Clothes Nirvana)

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Hello fellow and potential crochet geniuses!  My name is Vanessa Johnson and I design crocheted clothing (and more).  Crochet love - and bliss - began for me when I decided I needed a hobby and a few days later happened to pick up an afghan patterns book for fifty cents at a bookstand on one of the streets in Times Square New York:  in homage, also, to a compulsive shameless magpie tendency.  Anyway, there were two pages at the most on crochet in the book but they sparked an interest that has not waned in nearly twenty years. 

 

An interest that has heightened into what I call a sort of Crochet Yoga (I've sort of quit doing yoga and feel bad about it so I now I try to come up with all the different ways I'm doing yoga without actually doing it.).  Why yoga? 

1)  Because there's the hum-sa breath that I coordinate with any number of stitches, maybe breathing in for eight single crochet stitches and out for eight.  Or four, or two, or one (at least, do one).  Which keeps my mind from wandering and muscles from cramping if I'm in it for the long haul.

2)  Then there are any number of mantras I coordinate with my stitches, coordinating the cadence of the mantra to each motion of the stitch.  Such as "I am whole", "I am perfect", "I am powerful", "I am strong", "I am happy", "I am loving", "I am harmonious" (as described by Wayne Dyer, in one of his books).  So that each phrase, e.g., 'I am whole', ends with a single crochet completed.  Plus, I get to chip away at any negativity I've been retaining at the same time.....And if you tell yourself you're amazing you won't even hear the malice if people try to tell you you're not.  They'll be like:  "wonkwonkwonk".  And then you'll be like: "What an extraordinary thing to say - thanks for caring so much about me!"

3)  And, of course, there's music - nearly always a mood lifter.  I like jazz or house because I like to keep up with the percussionist (or the violinist if it's classical, since I used to play the violin and tend to like strings - bad joke, I know) if I have a lot to do in very little time.

4)  And I can't leave out my latest obsession:  The Aura Cacia Aromatherapy Room Diffuser.  If you love essential oils and believe in aromatherapy, this takes it one step further.  It's fifteen dollars (at Whole Foods) and all you do is plug it in, put one of the included diffuser pads in place and pour your fav essential oil over it and it's like being at the spa....or you could just open a window:).

 

Anyway, these four components of Crochet Yoga put me in a really good place for a really long time, during and after my crochet session.  Plus, I've made something; a sweater, a dress, or whatever, and new clothes really boost my spirits (ahem).  Speaking of which, I want to tell you about this design I've included below that is beyond easy and could help you attain Crochet Yoga nirvana. 

 

First of all, the yarn only cost me thirty dollars!  I got the maize and white yarn Aunt Lydia's Crochet Thread, Classic 10, at Michael's craft store:

And then, technically, the "pattern" - which is really two squares of the crocheted fabric sewn together, with the black and white panels used for contour - only takes one full day of crocheting.  You could finish in a weekend, or over the course of a week on the train on the way to work, or during an international flight if that's how you roll.  Because you could totally wear this as a beach coverup or as an extra layer on cool nights since you can scrunch this wrinkle resistant sweater up and it only takes up a small corner of your hobo bag.

 

So, let me tell you how to custom design this for yourself, since that's how I spend most of my time these days:

1)  First, buy about four skeins of Aunt Lydia's crochet thread (fingering weight), a skein of the white, and a skein of sport weight black cotton yarn.  And make sure you have an E and an N hook.

2)  Measure from one elbow, across the shoulders, and to the other elbow to obtain the width of your sweater.

3)  Determine your gauge by treble crocheting ten stitches, if you're not using the fingering weight recommended.  Otherwise, ten treble crocheted stitches will equal two inches using an E hook. 

4)  Determine the amount of stitches needed for your measurements by dividing your measurements by the gauge.  For example, if your measurements are 40 inches, then you will need to chain 205 for 200 treble crocheted stitches (using the last 4 chains as the first treble crochet in your next row).  By the way, 40 inches is a pretty safe guesstimate for one size fits all if you don't feel like doing your own measurements.

5)  Treble crochet until piece measures the height you desire.  Do this twice for front and back.  To measure height, start measuring tape at your shoulders and measure down the body.

6)  Partially sew the sides of your crocheted fabric together and leave 8 - 12" inches unsewn at the top to create a generous armhole.  To measure armhole, start at shoulders and measure down the side of the body to desired height.

7)  Using an N hook for all the black and white borders, single crochet black and white together in every other treble crochet for fourteen rows around hem of sweater and bind off.

8)  Single crochet black and white together in every stitch for seven rows around the armholes (do not attach the front to the back yet), bind off.  Do this twice.

9)  Single crochet black and white together in every stitch for two rows across entire top of sweater - from black and white detailing to black and white detailing on the other edge.  Do this twice.

10) Measure shoulder width and subtract this number from the inches of the top of the crocheted fabric.  Then halve the number you come up with, and with black and white together, single crochet that number of stitches together on each edge at top of garment.  So, if your shoulder measurement was sixteen inches, then you would subtract that from forty to get twenty-four inches.  Half of twenty-four inches would be twelve and that is the number of inches you would single crochet on each side, starting from the outer edges and moving inward.

11) Single crochet black and white together in one stitch, then single crochet two stitches together for first row, then single crochet every stitch for fifteen more rows (sixteen total) around neckline and bind off.

 

So, here you have ended your Crochet Yoga session and you are now aligned with the Golden Chain of Crocheter Yogis, plus you've designed this marvelous thing you're going to have to stop yourself from wearing all the time! 

 

For more patterns or if you just want me to make it for you, visit http://www.vannazhandz.com. or +Vanessa Johnson.

To access my blog where I often feature crochet designs I've created, it's http://jazzoftheuniverse.blogspot.com/

 

Wishing you every good thing,

xoxo Vanessa

 

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