Part of what’s been occupying my time lately is the NHL playoffs. Some of you know I’m 35+ year New York Ranger fan. I never thought they’d make the playoffs this year. I’m not a fair weather fan, I’m simply realistic. I will be content if 1994 remains their only Stanley Cup in my lifetime-at least I’ve seen one. But another would be nice.

So far, I’ve let superstitions dictate my playoff viewing. And I’ve been trading game commentary texts with an old high school friend – all positively reinforcing our NYR support. After last night’s nail-biting game, I’m not sure I can sit through tonight’s game.

This morning I received the following text from my NYR fanatic friend:

My initial thought was to reply that I, too, thought the Rangers might fail. But to support Ovechkin? The Ranger buzzkill?

Thankfully, soon after she informed me it was a prank pulled by a Caps fan colleague of hers. I’ve resisted the urge to trash talk back. I don’t want to eat my words later. All I have to say is: LET’S GO RANGERS!!

Reblogged from Hippie Cahier:

Word, Sweet Brown.

(If you are unfamiliar with Sweet Brown’s original news clip, click here)

My story is not unique. I believe I read that the Blizzard of 2013 affected upwards of 24 million people. I’m just here to offer you a first hand view of digging out. As many of you know, I live in a condominium complex that’s full of rules, but also carries some limited outdoor maintenance benefits.

When I went to bed on Friday night (February 8), about five inches of snow had accumulated. The local New Haven television weather forecaster predicted a total of 10 to 12 inches by morning. However, my town was right on one of those lines they draw on weather maps that had 6-10 inches to the left and 12-24 inches to the right.

I woke up around 6:15am on Saturday, went downstairs, opened the curtains and saw this:

I guess I won’t be grilling for a while

Ut oh. How am I going to get the wiener dog out AND find a place for her to do her business?

Wading through thigh-high snow, I made it to the road and just put her down to do her thing.

At the same time, this is how my car looked:

How will I even begin?

The snow was still coming down. There was nothing to be done except go indoors and fire up the coffee pot. A landscaper-plow truck had gone by when I was outside and he told me not to bother even trying to dig out for a while. I offered him a fresh cup of coffee and told him to knock on my door whenever he wanted a refill.

When all was said and done, the Bubble ended with upwards of 30 inches of snow. Drifts went well to five feet and beyond.

Soon enough, cabin fever set in. By early afternoon, I had to go out and at least try to free my car. This is what I faced:

Really?

After 90 minutes of shoveling, this is all I had to show:

Ain’t nobody got time for that. It’s wine o’clock

I had achieved the goal of at least identifying where the snow ended and my car began, ever hopeful that the promised bob cat and pay loaders would take care of the mounds in front of my car.

After an hour break, I could no longer stand sitting idly indoors. And it was too early to open the bottle of wine. Further effort on Saturday brought me to this:

A couple of kind neighbors helped get me to this point.

I woke up on Sunday with arms sore in a way that they’d never before experienced. No choice but to carry on.

My main goal was to at least be able to free the car enough to move it forward a few inches and dislodge the snow’s hold on the back end. After clearing what I thought would be enough to let me rock it out of there, no luck. I shoveled more snow from around the tires and tried again. Still stuck. Finally, on my fourth attempt, I was able to move forward.

Be free, Tiguan, be free.

It’s not as if I can go anywhere because more than 75% of our town’s streets remain unplowed, but I accomplished my goal of freeing the Tiguan. My arms feel so sore and well-exercised that they ought to look like Jennifer Aniston’s. No such luck.

He should have read my mind….or at least clued in to the subtle hints I’d been dropping.

When I finally launched the bomb on him, to say his confusion was extreme would be an understatement. Post-detonation, I vented at him for a few hours via telephone, text AND email. No method of communication went unused. I’m not a screamer, but I certainly beat the horse dead. In the end, I apologized but he told me not to worry. He was never engaged in the argument to begin with.

Although I’ve known this man for nearly 25 years, we’ve only been involved for the last two years. The relationship is a bit unconventional, but it works for both of us. I need space. Lots of it. I’m an only child and I’ve lived by myself for almost 30 years. The thought of being around another person full time makes my throat constrict. This matches perfectly with his needs. I know what you’re thinking, but I assure you he’s not married – remember, I’ve known him for decades.

I should also explain that I’m relationship impaired. I did my share of dating during my 20s, but the longest relationship I’d ever had during that time was only a year and a half. Then, when I turned 29, I met the man of my dreams. The only problem was, I wasn’t the woman of his dreams. He broke my heart and left me with an acute fear of commitment. All this means that I don’t know a whole lot about the male brain. I just don’t have a lot of experience with it.

While 2011 was pretty spectacular for me, 2012…not so much. You see, in addition to becoming involved with my long time friend in 2011, I also had a bit of a long distance involvement going on (don’t judge me, I was making up for a long time drought.) I wasn’t cheating on anyone though because my local guy knew about the long distance guy before we even got involved. But here’s where 2012 started to suck: in April, the long distance guy informed me that he was no longer interested in me. It wasn’t a shock. I’d seen the writing on the wall. And the year continued to go downhill after that.

I will be forever grateful to the long distance guy for finally bringing me out of my shell after so long. If it weren’t for him, I probably wouldn’t have had the courage to begin this local relationship. I really liked having the local/long distance guy thing going. The balance it provided was incredible. It kept me from getting too emotionally invested in either of them. While getting dumped by long distance guy didn’t turn me into a cling-on with local guy, it did give me more time to fret about certain aspects of the local guy relationship. But I managed to stay balanced and appreciate the relationship at face value. Until December.

It’s not an annual event until it happens a second time.

I’ve been pretty impressed by the fact that we’ve had only one disagreement in nearly two years of involvement. So of course I had to go and ruin it. I lobbed my first shot about two weeks ago. It didn’t even register with him. Which started my stew. Between the holidays and other personal matters, we just haven’t seen each other in person, but we’ve traded texts on a semi-regular basis.

Then, something happened in his life that I felt he should have told me about. Instead, I heard it from someone else. He didn’t feel it was a big deal. My fuse was lit and continued to burn through last night. He had no idea about the one-sided war waging in my head. I held my iPhone for a half hour, finger poised over his number. But I didn’t call. I composed a text…rewriting it several times and staring at it for ten minutes. Finally, I hit send. It was not brief. And it wasn’t even relevant to the issue that set me off. Apparently, he was bewildered because this is the reply I received:

And I was off and running.

With just over 24 hours left in 2012, I’d turned the psycho female hissy fit into an annual event.

Confusion here?!?! Of course I didn’t let it go at that. I continued to vent text and his responses refused to engage my ire. An hour later he arrived at my place to pick me up for a party. During the hour between our last text and his arrival, I realized how unreasonable I’d been. When he came in, I immediately apologized for my snap-out. He waved it off because he still wasn’t aware we were having a disagreement. We drove to the party and separated the minute we walked in the door. Over the next two-plus hours, I don’t think we were ever in the same room. At the designated time we had agreed to depart, I sought him out and simply said, “okay, ready to go?”

This kind and patient man smiled and proceeded to drive me home. There was no anger from him. In fact, he went above and beyond the call of duty because while at the party, I allowed a few people to force tequila shots down my throat. He insisted on walking me inside and when he got home shortly after that, he sent me a funny text typical to the usual evening texts we often exchange.

All was forgotten. Based on the way I acted, I certainly don’t deserve to have this wonderful man in my life. He had a significant family matter going on over the last week and certainly did not deserve my bad attitude. I’m still having flashes of fury over his lack of perception and reluctance to communicate, but a friend assures me that it’s just how the male brain works.

I wish you a very Happy New Year and all the best for 2013. I plan on spending tomorrow on the sofa watching the Snapped marathon on television. I’m not very regular about posting but if I happen to drop out for an extended period of time, look for the next Snapped marathon. You just might see me there next year!

As we chatted, I noticed one of the Bubble’s dumb white squirrels about 50 feet away. (I call it dumb because it waits until the dog is six inches away before running up the tree.) I pointed it out to Haddie.  She had never before seen a white squirrel in person.  We continued to shoot the breeze.  After less than five minutes, we noticed something move to the tree adjacent to the deck.  It was the white squirrel.

Haddie and I laughed a bit and made mildly aggressive gestures toward the squirrel figuring it would scurry away.  It did not.  Rather, it seemed encouraged by our movement and crawled closer.

This creature continued to approach us in a manner we soon deemed to be threatening.  The curious and formerly cute squirrel was firmly in the no-longer-funny zone.  At the corner of the deck, there was an empty planter leftover from summer habanero gardening that had about a half dozen wooden stakes leaning inside.  I grabbed a stake and started banging it between the slats of the deck hoping to startle it away.  No such luck.

The white rat got closer still.  Haddie and I nervously giggled, but it was apparent that we would not be surprised if this thing launched itself at our faces.  I threw the stake in my hand toward the squirrel.  It made contact.  Not a full clunking head hit, but it was definitely felt.  What did the *&$% do?  It came closer.

Haddie picked up a wooden stake and tossed it for a near hit.  The squirrel got even closer to the deck, preparing to jump.

We promptly ran inside and closed the deck slider door.

Normally the wiener dog turns into a whirling dervish when a rat b*stard squirrel lands on her deck.  For some reason, she never saw this exchange.  I was too horror-struck by the fearlessness of this demonic rodent to even think about Phoebe.

Minutes after Haddie and I escaped to indoor safety, Damien the Satanic Rat jumped onto the deck and began to approach the glass slider we secured ourselves behind.  He struck a pose in front of my grill.

By this time, I’ve started banging the glass with my forearm.  The rodent was no more than two feet from the glass and he didn’t even flinch.  He simply moved in for a close up.

After about 15 minutes, Damien appeared to have left.  We stepped back outside to the deck looking left, right and, more importantly, above.  Haddie and I were certain this thing would descend from a tree limb.  Thankfully, the area seemed to be clear.  Later, we did however see Damien sitting on a rock, staring in our direction.  We got the message and retreated indoors.  This thing was not to be messed with.

I’ve not seen the creeper since Haddie left on Thursday.  Tomorrow, however, she is scheduled to come over and help decorate my place for the holidays and bake some cookies.  I expect Damien, the Sequel.

Also, here is a recent addition to my glitter addiction as referenced in one of my comments on the post.  It’s temporary.  Lasts a good week, but then starts to look a bit like a skin disease as it flakes off.

If I wasn’t such a chicken, I’d be tempted to do the real thing. But at least this way, there are no regrets.

Almost four years ago, I had a hysterectomy (aka The Happiest Day of My Life).  My ovaries were left behind.  No big deal because it DID instantly cure a lifetime of monthly misery.  I was told that the dreaded beast called menopause would still pay me a visit because my ovaries were still there.  At that point, what did I care? It simply brought an end to six-to-eight ghastly days each month.

During this past month of July after turning in for the night, there were several occasions where I awoke with my torso drenched with sweat glistening with moisture. It began right around the time that the Connecticut summer finally kicked in with typical 90+ degree temperatures and 85+% humidity.  Even my keratin-treated hair began to frizz.

I simply attributed the multiple occurring moments of nightly discomfort to be a result of the weather.  But then I stopped and thought, “Well, Betty, your central air is set at 70˚ at night.  It canNOT be the weather.”

True That.

At my annual doctor visit last week, I told him of my night sweats (ugh, I’m sure you can tell I was trying everything possible to avoid owning that phrase.) He said, “On average, women begin menopause at age 51.4.”  I had just turned 51 three weeks prior.  There you go.  Average Betty.

At the same time, my first attempt at growing habanero peppers on a suburban deck began to pay off.  It started slowly.  A single habanero finely diced into chili.  Excellent heat and flavor.  A few days later, an attempt at jerk marinated chicken containing the four peppers that had ripened.  Even better.

hot hot hot

As the crop continues to ripen, I’m struggling to keep up with recipes utilizing these fierce chiles. Tonight I made a Thai Red Curry Chicken Pasta dish.  I have a high tolerance for culinary heat. Any time I go to a restaurant where the menu offers diners the opportunity to request a specific level of hotness, I always specify the maximum.  And I’m never fully satisfied. When home cooking, I ALWAYS go overboard on the quantity of chiles called for in a recipe.

But satisfaction has been realized in an entirely different way.  I’ve experienced a decrease in the occurrence of night sweats that has been in direct proportion to my increased habanero consumption.  The more heat I pump into my body via jerk marinade or pineapple habanero salsa, the less my internal middle-aged furnace tries to force heat to escape.

So, my advice to anyone dealing with the dreadful side effects of menopause: consume habanero chiles in any way, shape or form you can. Spread the word.  It works for me.

Growing Your Own is the Way to Go.

I’m now at the point where at least 5-7 habanero chiles fully ripen on my deck plants each day.  Please forward me any recipes you may have to make use of the bumper crop.  Or, if you live in CT, let me know and I’ll personally deliver a freshly-picked batch.

I plan to test every recipe for the preservation of habanero peppers that I can find. Tomorrow I will be threading a string through about 16 of them and hanging above an air vent in my office in attempt to dry/preserve these wonderful gems of my menopause relief. If you have any recipes to recommend, please share.

Special note to contact lens wearers: most recipes using habanero peppers recommend the use of rubber gloves while chopping and handling.  Feeling quite confident about my ability to handle the intensity of the habanero on my taste buds, I didn’t completely discount the handling cautions, but nor did I take it seriously.  Please be advised that up to six separate hand washings are insufficient to cleanse the fire from your fingers.  I could wash my hands over the course of six or seven hours and I still singe my eyeballs when trying to remove my contact lenses.  It wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t done it three times now.

The eyeball burn is still better than night sweats.

There are a few of you out there I’ve made connections with that make me feel as if we know each other personally, despite the fact we’ve never met in person.  I know if we lived nearby, we’d regularly get together and share a couple of drinks, some good food and good times. A couple of you make me feel as if we indeed did hang out together in the 70s or 80s.

Three years ago this month I entered the world of blogging. I don’t know what I expected from the experience…never really had a clear direction (and still don’t), and as I’ve collected readers – and yes, friends – along the way, I’ve struggled to fit in.

Struggling to fit in.

That’s the story of my life.  As a child, I was perpetually awkward.  In high school,  I was never one of the popular kids, but always wished I could fit in.  Out of control in my 20s, finding more comfort in my 30s, finally feeling like an adult in my 40s, and now entering my early 50s realizing that, to a certain extent, I need to live for myself and not worry about what other people think.

I’ve said before, I feel like a fraud playing in the blog pool with such talented writers. I often feel as if I’m back in high school.  I worry about what to write and what other people will think. I’m not a good writer – rarely grammatically correct. When I read blog posts that criticize bloggers who write about personal matters, I take it personally. When I try to write cleverly humorous posts, I feel like Andrew Dice Clay competing in a stand-up comedy venue with Jerry Seinfeld.

Because I’m a socially awkward person, I guess I use this forum to ponder and say things that I really don’t have anyone to discuss with in my day-to-day life. You all know me for what I have to say and won’t judge me by what I look like or wear or am not able to cleverly verbalize at the spur of the moment.  I can write and rewrite to fine-tune the delivery before you read it.

Last month I celebrated my 51^stbirthday. And one of my friends I’ve never met sent me a birthday gift I never thought I needed, but now find I can’t live without – a journal.

My therapist. And yes, that’s the wiener dog in the background wishing that I’d toss that stuffed toy around instead of write.

Coincidentally, on the day my package arrived, although I’m not a regular horoscope reader, I cruised by a horoscope website that said the following for my sign:

“When was the last time you used a pen and paper, Leo? The keyboard has all but replaced these wonderful tools. In the same way that walking provides more than fresh air, the kinesthetic value of writing’s rhythmic motion is far more soothing and healing than people realize. Moving your hand across the page can feel good. It unlocks places within that typing can’t access. Try it.”

 If that wasn’t cosmic direction, I don’t know what is.

I’ve been using the journal as a kind of therapy.  For the last 20 months, I’ve been in a somewhat unconventional relationship with a wonderful man, but it’s been a secret to most who know us mutually (for a variety of reasons.)  This means I can’t talk things out with those closest to me. So I tell my journal and it is truly therapeutic.  For the last 12 of the 20 months we’ve been involved, on a weekly basis I’ve conducted internal arguments with myself that it’s not a healthy relationship and I should end it.  The other side of myself says, what’s the harm?

Before I began journaling, the voices inside my head would prevent me from getting a good night’s sleep.  Now, at least a few times each week, I’ve been writing my thoughts in the journal and I find that it does, indeed, facilitate release.  Not completely….I do have the occasional sleepless night….but there is truly something to the theory of writing things down to get them off your mind.  Oddly, I don’t look back at what I’ve written – I simply let it go.

Thank you, dear friend I’ve never met, for giving me a gift that none of my friends who know me in real life would have thought to give.

Actually, even the nights when it doesn’t rain, the web seems to be gone in the morning.  Can anyone tell what type of spider it is from the photo? Should I be more frightened than I already am?

First, a little background

One of my favorite pieces of jewelry was a birthday gift I received last year: a thin silver bangle bracelet with diamonds embedded on one side. It’s a simple piece but it works well with anything from jeans to a little black dress.  I wear it three or four times a week and have a sentimental attachment to it.

My favorite bracelet

When it comes to storing my jewelry, if I’m near the jewelry cabinet in my bedroom when I remove anything from earrings to rings to my beloved bracelet, I’ll try to put it in the cabinet.  But I also may put it in the nightstand drawer if that’s closer.

If I’m downstairs in the living room, I might place the jewelry in the end table drawer.  If I’m in the home office/guest room? Put it on top of the desk or next to the computer desk. It sounds unorganized but it’s never failed me.

Until now.

Last Saturday night as I dressed to head out to a dinner party, I opened the jewelry cabinet to don my favorite bracelet.  I didn’t see it hanging in there, but there was no need to panic.  I had an immediate vision of it sitting in the end table drawer down in the living room.  I headed down the stairs, pulled open the drawer….not there.  No reason to panic.  I still had three more “usual” storage spots to check.

An hour later, and now a half hour late for the dinner party, I’ve checked and rechecked the five spots four times each.  Now I’m panicking (well, not so much panicking, but my heart is breaking just a little). I decide to put it out of my mind and concentrate on having a fun Saturday night.

On Sunday, I spent at least two hours not only checking the five spots, but also on my hands and knees with a flashlight looking under every piece of furniture in my condo and sticking my hand between cushions of my sofa and upholstered chairs, some I haven’t even sat in for weeks. I also went out and checked my car – the floor and between the seats.  Twice. Nothing. I really didn’t think I’d find it there or that it might be lost at the grocery store or the home of a friend I’d visited. I knew it wasn’t likely that it would simply fall off because of the type of clasp it has.

By now, I’ve whipped myself into quite a frenzy.  I decided to try and settle in to watch the NASCAR race, hoping to take my mind off it.  Since I wasn’t quite happy with how the race was going, I got restless and began searching again.  For the 17^th time.  What’s that quote about the definition of insanity?

And what’s this got to do with church?

I’d resigned myself to the fact that my bracelet was gone. But as a final effort, I decided to post an appeal on my Facebook page asking the dozen or so friends who are local to my neighborhood (and are also dog parents and, therefore, walking around the Bubble) to keep an eye open in case it fell from my wrist as I walked Phoebe.

I was not prepared for the commenting on the post that came from beyond my friends within the Bubble.   I was hit with friends encouraging me to pray to St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost and found.  Who? What?

image via ourcatholicprayers.com

Dear St. Anthony of Lost and Found, please make my bracelet come around

Considering my lack of religion, I was skeptical that St. Anthony would pay much attention to my plea.  However, throughout the day on Sunday, several more people jumped on my Facebook post saying they would pray on my behalf.

When I woke on Monday morning, I was absolutely possessed with the intention to go test drive a VW Tiguan immediately.  The lease on my current car wasn’t up until October.  I had been thinking about checking out the Tiguan, but really wasn’t going to start shopping around for a few weeks.  Nevertheless, I HAD TO GO THAT DAY.

By 12:30pm on Monday, I had put a deposit down on a new Tiguan and was scheduled to pick up the new vehicle on Tuesday. When I got home, I began to clean out the old car.  I lifted the lid of the console between the front seats and what did I see peeking out among the accumulated junk? The bracelet.

I have absolutely NO recollection of removing the bracelet while in the car last week. There’s no reason I would have.  It’s not as if it interferes with my driving. Furthermore, if I had removed the bracelet in the car, why wouldn’t I have simply dropped it in my handbag sitting right on the passenger seat instead of lifting the lid of the console that I open perhaps once a month? You’ve got to understand too, I work from home, so I’m not even necessarily in the car every day.

But, no time to puzzle over it.  I was overjoyed that my adored bracelet was back!  I decided to post the update on Facebook to let the neighborhood know the search was over. Did St. Anthony have a hand in this? I’m still getting friends commenting that it was indeed his work.  Dozens of comments and “likes” from friends who have known about this approach that I’d never heard before.  They swear it works.  Who am I to disagree? Apparently since St. Anthony couldn’t gain access to my condo to return the bracelet to me, he placed it in the console and orchestrated the scenario to quickly lead me to it.  I just wish he could have chosen a less expensive route.  But I guess that’s the payback for turning my back on the Catholic religion.  See?  That Catholic guilt never goes away.