When Worlds Collide

I have just come down after a rather frightening encounter with a raccoon on my bedroom deck. He was big--a beautiful animal, but that is quite irrelevant--and clearly not afraid of me. I do not know how I convinced him, or her, as the case may be, to leave.

And the leaving was very slow and full of some kind of thought. Like, if I wait long enough, the old woman will go back inside the house. And then . . . and then what?

I had hoped that turning on the light would frighten the animal. They are nocturnal, after all. Not so. Not frightened. Well, I was frightened, and I am an animal. But that's not the animal I needed to frighten.

I growled at it and made faces and other noises. I opened the door--but not very wide because I know they can hurt you--and yelled at it, told it get away. I slammed the door, hoping to scare the thing. It just crouched down and kept looking at me. Meanwhile, my heart is pounding.

Finally, it went over to the railing and slowly climbed down. One front paw clung to the deck and was the last to disappear. Then I had to come down to see if it was on the downstairs deck.

What is on my bedroom deck that is so attractive? I heard the thing moving around out there and scratching at my window. Why? Have they made a nest under my house?

I'm a bit creeped out.

What should I do? I had thought I might sleep tonight. Don't think so.

Still some things I need to work on with this picture loading

Edmund. What can I say? He's cute, too.






Johnny, the redhead. I said smile and this is what he did. I said no, smile, and he said I am.

Charlie with his best smile for the camera.

They all live in Pennsylvania, for goodness sake. That's because their mom and dad live there.

How did this happen? I mean the Pennsylvania part. Because that's two daughters who live there.

Wait. This post is about these boys. Just look at them.

About My Mom

It's not new, but neither am I.

Dear Mama,

I miss you. I always thought

you might come back to tell me

some good news about where

you've gone. Nights and even days

I think about the last time I saw you,

lying in that bed, hair bunched

from sweat and struggle and

strung out long like grandma's.

Sometimes my dreams bring you

here and you look young and good

in your sparkly black dress. Wouldn't

I love that.

Your daughter,

Carol

Everybody talks about the weather

Especially on a day like today.

Two days until Spring, officially, and it's snowing here. Not just a flake or two. Snowing hard and blowing.

Winter will not go quietly.

What's the deal?

It really is a still, small voice

I had a premonition today.

As I prepared to go to the temple I thought about what assignments I might have, and this came into my mind. I would find my shift coordinator and she would say, "Oh, Carol, I'm making changes to your schedule because you're going to be an attendant."

That is what happened. Exactly. Almost word for word.

Another thing. I thought to put on some of my new perfume, although we're asked not to wear perfume. And I decided not to. Part of the premonition, I suppose, or else just me being obedient.

Good thing. The woman I acted as attendant to was Bobbi Hardy, who happens to be in my ward. But I have not known her because she is violently allergic to perfume and other chemical scents and sometimes can't stay in church. Often she sits in the foyer or even the primary room, just so she can listen.

I know her now. I'm glad of it.

Today is Pi Day

Because it's 3.14.

And I saw a recipe for pi pie. But I'm not going to make it.

All of which has nothing to do with this post.

Here is this post:
I did my income tax today. Thanks to TurboTax. Federal and State. It's done. Yippee!

Wonderful to have the weight of it off my back.

Now, let's hope it's right.

AND
I pruned the heck out of my Rose of Sharon. Which is not to say I knew what I was doing. Just to say that it's done.

Buicks

They're old people's cars.

And I was about to say, "Trust me in this, because I know."

Instead, I say, "You don't have to take my word for it. Just start looking for Buicks and see who is driving them. It's old people."

Or take a look at the Temple parking lot. Many Buicks there.

I have to say that I have thought about test-driving a Buick. Not sure why. They've started to look good again. Maybe that's it. Certainly not because I'm old.

I do have a history with Buicks.

• We used to joke about the holes in the sides--part of the trim--and say they were for the oars you would need when the car stopped running.
• Richard Wangsgaard drove his parents' big 1956 Buick on the few dates we had together. I know he was a nice boy, but I could not like him. I did kind of like the car, though. Quiet, smooth, comfortable, and it had a sleek, sophisticated interior.
  
• Back in the 1970s, I think, Wayne and I sometimes got a Buick Century as a rental car. First time it was by chance. After that by choice. I liked them. I don't suppose Buick even makes the Century anymore.
• In the 1980s my friend Sandy had a Buick. It was a lemon.
  
• And way long ago on a trip with my mother, I showed her the new 1959 Buick in a dealer showroom. That was one good looking car. Certainly not an old person's car. Google it and find out for yourself.

These days it's harder to like Buicks. It's the whole bail-out thing. I mean, GM took the money, so I think they should actually be giving their cars to the driving public. Clearly, they don't see it that way.

As to their being old people's cars, I think Buick knows it. They're making them look really good again, as I said before, no doubt hoping to appeal to younger drivers. Maybe that will work, but from what I've seen, it isn't working yet.

Wayne never got old enough to be an old person. He drove a Subaru.
Me? I like my Acura. If I bought a Buick, it would have to be a second car.

This is not about my thumb

My face hurts. (Yes, I know the old joke.) It hurts me, my face does. On the left side. I believe I have a sinus infection. I have been struggling with it for a few days now, trying to deny it, trying to just carry on. But today it really hurts.

I could mention the other ways I have of knowing this is a sinus infection, or believing it, but that would border on gross.

I suppose I could call the dr, but I hate doing that.

"Oh, you'd better come in." I can hear her little voice right now. But, of course, I don't want to go in just so he can tell me what I already know and charge me for it.

Wow, not a good attitude. Mine.

Anyway, after I finish eating the apple I just bought, I'll go up, take a bath, maybe take something--like aspirin--and climb into bed.

By the way, the apple I'm eating is a Jazz. Never heard of it before today. Don't know what they've put together to make it, but it was grown in Washington. Doesn't that automatically make it good?

Well, there you have it. A sinus infection and a Jazz apple.

Or there I have it.

* * *

It's after seven. I didn't do what I said I would do. Instead I ate, I read, I walked 31 minutes on the treadmill. I know. Thirty-one minutes is not much at all, but it's better than nothing.

Now I'm going