Random Thursday: Random Whoas*

Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s been sent by friends or has otherwise stumbled upon this week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as sitting down and creating actual content.

Because everyone needs a little whoa.

You knoa?

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©Andrew Hudson, All Rights Reserved

©Andrew Hudson, All Rights Reserved

Andrew Hudson made an origami banana,
the existence of which validates
my entire Weltanschauung
if only because
banana and Weltanschauung
are both fun to say
and difficult to stop spelling.

(hey, indy—is this a poem?)

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Gummi Bear Jam

Andromeda Turre’s voice + one of my favorite cartoon theme songs ever=

Whoa.

And there are more.

These guys make the theme to Chip ‘n Dale Rescue Rangers sound like “Harlem Nocturne”.

like that.

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Happy Anniversary

My husband and I have been married 21 years today.

I know.

Where did the time go?

Oh. Right.

The kids borrowed most it.

It’s probably in their rooms, somewhere—I assume we’ll be getting it all back when they leave home?

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The Purple Store Logo

The Purple Store‘s tagline is “Everything we sell is purple.”

They do not lie.

They sell purple spangled shower caps.

They sell purple pet bowls.

They sell Purple Psychic Rats.

It’s breathtaking.

And very, very, purple.

Have I mentioned, for absolutely no reason, that my birthday is the middle of next month?

Just saying.

(cheerfully stolen from Vicki, via Facebook)

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No, THIS is Freaking Awesome

Turns out that when you send a link to a Saturday Morning Slow Jam of  the Pokemon theme to my friend Kev, he immediately returns the favor by mentioning that Scott Bradlee (the pianist in the video above) also heads this group called Postmodern Jukebox.

Which proceeds to blow your mind.

Give yourself the gift of suggestive Yiddish and try their version of

Talk Dirty to Me

You’ll love it. My hand to Heifetz

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Thanks to everyone who sent best wishes and eCards to pass to my Mom.

They—and you—all all very much appreciated.

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*Your whoas may vary.  If they do, feel free to share ’em.

Blindsided

My mother has always had a special way of taking her children’s minds off their troubles.

Like the time I called to complain at length about how sleep deprived I was, and only after it dawned on me that I rarely managed to get in touch with her in the afternoon, did she mention that she was getting all the laundry done for the week because she’d spent the early morning—as in 4am early—at the animal shelter scooping cat boxes and running dogs and was scheduled to close at one of her Curves locations that night.

Or like the time she said, “Ow” over the phone in the middle of my rant about how stressed I was and then, when I asked if one of the cats had stepped on her, said that she’d pulled her biopsy scar—the one I didn’t know she had because I hadn’t known about the lump—while climbing a ladder to get a toy one of the neighbor kids had launched into a tree.

So I really should have known better when I called my folks yesterday to catch up on the news and to describe my latest migraine, which had just knocked me for a 36-hour loop of throbbing, nauseating pain.

“ . . . but it seems to be getting better,” I said.  “I can see without all the sparklies and my tunnel vision has nearly cleared up. And breakfast is staying down nicely, which is a big relief.

“I’ll bet,” Mom said.

“So, how are you two?”

“Fine,” Dad said. “Took some scouts out for an orientation, so I’m feeling that.”

“I have eye surgery scheduled for Thursday,” Mom said, like she might mention a routine, if inconvenient, dentist’s appointment.

“Eye surgery?” I asked, after a pause.

“Yeah. It’s my third, so I’d kind of  like it all to be over.”

“Third?” I said, my mouth going on by itself, as it tends to do when my brain stalls.  “You only have two eyes, Mom.  How can you have surgery on a third one?”

She snorted. “My third surgery.  I’ve already had one on each, but this is on the left one again.”

“Why?”  I asked. “For what?”

“Glaucoma.”

“Oh. Is that bad?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t. “Or is like Dad’s cataracts?  Or . . . ?”

“It’s not good,” she said.  “The first surgeries were to drain my eyes, and when I mentioned to the doctor that the drains must not have worked, he said, “Oh, yes, they did!” So it’s pretty bad.”

“So . . . if this surgery works . . . “

“Then I’ll be fine for a while.  If it doesn’t, I’ll be blind in my left eye.  And they’re watching my right one closely, because the same thing is going to happen. Just a matter of time.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”  She chuckled.  “If things don’t go as planned, I’ll just get a white cane and a cup—“

“No you won’t,” I said, my own coping mechanism snapping into place.  “You’ll get a service dog.  You know you want one. In fact, you probably signed up for one already.”

“Not quite,” she said, laughing.  “But you’re right.”

“Admit it—you’ll be disappointed if the surgery works and you can’t get a new dog out of it.”

“Well . .  .”

“I told her no more big dogs after Philander’s gone,” Dad said.  “But she found a way around it.”

The call ended with laughter and I love you’s and a promise that someone would call me on Friday.

And then I went into the bedroom and lay down in the cool dark and thought about my mother going blind.

I stayed up until 4:30am, thinking.

About my green-eyed mother who weaves beautiful art baskets and volunteers at the no-kill animal shelter, and travels, and teaches Zumba and takes metric tons of photos and reads serial romances by the double handful.

My mother, whose offer to take us on an Alaskan cruise this summer—one we’d had to pass up because of difficulties that seem like sheer laziness now—had, in retrospect, a more urgent ring to it than I’d noticed at the time.

My mother, who didn’t tell me a goddamn thing about glaucoma or surgeries or eyeballs  for months.

Not word one.

That doesn’t sit well.  I mean, maybe I couldn’t have done much, maybe but I could have listened to her fears or rage or rants.

But that’s about me.  This isn’t about me.

Maybe she wanted to get her feet under her first, scream and cry, where no one could hear—I can understand that.  I’m sure she didn’t want anyone to worry, and I can understand that, too.

And even though sparing one’s loved ones—traditional on both sides and by marriage—tends to backfire in a big, dramatic, guilt-ridden way, this time . . .

This time, I think it may have worked.

The guilt is still there—it may not be completely rational to think I should have known from two states away that something was wrong, but that’s never stopped me.

But I’m not worried.

Not really.

I don’t want Mom to be in pain of any kind, and I’m sorry this is happening to someone I love so, so much—and, to lapse into selfishness for a second, facing reminders of the mortality of one’s parents is never a walk in the psychological park—but again, this situation isn’t about me.

It’s about Mom.

And going blind—if it happens, when it happens, whatever happens—won’t be the end of her world.

That conversation up there?  That wasn’t just whistling, as they say, in the dark.

I’ve known the woman all my life, and if she wants to, she’ll learn to weave by touch.  She’ll take her future service dog—and Dad—and keep traveling all over the world, swimming with sea creatures and zip lining off mountains—with Dad, not the dog . . .  probably—and continuing eploring and enjoy different places by scent and taste and weather and people.

She’ll rope me into finding her audiobooks and risqué radio plays.  She’ll Zumba with that white cane sh mentioned and laugh when she smacks the sound system off the shelf and not give a good goddamn, except to say that she really wished she hadn’t, because Dad doesn’t know how to fix it.

And she can already scoop cat boxes blindfolded—how risky can the rest really be?

My brave, impossible, stubborn mother isn’t going to slow down one tiny bit.

She’ll just regroup and reroute, like she’s been doing all her life.

So as much as I wish this wasn’t happening and that I could make it all go away, and I really, really hope she won’t be in any pain at all and that everything will go perfectly on Thursday, I’m not worried.

Not for her—and not for me, either.

Because when I get to the point where I’m casually mentioning my major surgeries to my kids in the most infuriating way possible—and I will—Mom will already have shown me how to keep going.

Like she always has.

Weekend Writing Warriors: The Anti-Cupids (OMG)

We WriWa bannerHave a WIP, an EIP, an MS, or a published work you want to share on your blog, eight sentences at a time?

Want to sample other people’s WIPs, EIPs, MSs, or published works, eight sentences at a time?

Be a Weekend Writing Warrior!

Rules are here!

List of participants is here!

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This bit follows last week’s, with the omission of one linking sentence that expresses Ellie’s doubts that teenage bridesmaid Harper will come out of her room for anything:

Orange Highlighter

There was a pause, a knock, and the sound of muffled voices.

Viv tucked the receiver into the crook of her shoulder, found her place on the page, and marked phosphorylation.

“OH. EM. GEE!” a voice shrieked into her ear.

“Gah!” Viv hollered, clutching her highlighter to her heart.

“Viv?” Stan called.  “You okay?”

 “Fine, thanks,” she said, when she could.  “Should’ve seen that coming,” she muttered, pulling the still-squealing receiver up by its cord.

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 As of the early Saturday scheduling of this post, all signs are pointing to a major migraine, which tend to affect my sight.

It’s hard to see and type (and brain) through all the sparklies and the tunnel vision.  And, you know, the pain—so I’m sorry if I’m  late getting to everyone’s posts.  Or if I make no sense once I do.

Thank heavens Monday is a holiday here . . .

 

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Image © Justin Smith / Wikimedia Commons, CC-By-SA-3.0.  This image was cropped for use in this post.

Random Thursday: Random Stylings

Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s been sent by friends or has otherwise stumbled upon this week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as sitting down and creating actual content.

I’m gonna pop some tags
Only got twenty dollars in my pocket . . .

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Octodress: The Conversation

Octodress

Watson: Alas, it’s 20 years too late for your big day…‏

Me: For that dress, I’ll get remarried. Sheer, Ugly, AWESOME.

Watson: There’s always Jane and Sunny.

Me: Jane will want to dye it black and go as Ursula. Sunny will give me that Look and say, “Are you serious?”

Watson: Tint the whole picture pink—Sunny’ll at least give pause. And prom IS coming up,* an Ursula dress might fit the theme of “under the sea” or even “Bon voyage”.

Me: Yes. I will be buying my children $5,000 designer dresses for prom.

Watson: She’s crafty. She’ll make it herself .

Me: That’s not particularly comforting.

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Outclassed, Part One

Tom Hiddleston, on villiany.

Sorry—was there supposed to be a car or something in this?

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Flying Spiders

No kidding:

Maratus volans

This little jumping guy can’t help doing everything with style.

Still creepy as hell, though.

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Outclassed, Part Two

Sir Ben Kingsley’s presence.

Mark Strong’s voice.**

Tom Hiddleston’s expression.

Still not seeing a car . . .

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Suessdress

Prom Dress

The formal wear of choice for fathers who have daughters.

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The Ukeslayer

I’m not the biggest Slayer fan
(’cause my brother-in-law is about a foot taller than I am***)
but I think I might be a die hard Rob Scallon fan.

Who?
Why?
This:

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*In FIVE YEARS, Watson, at LEAST. And that’s if your brother allows them to date before they’re thirty.

**I’m actually a little embarrassed at my reaction to Mr. Strong’s timbre.  You’d think all my exposure (so to speak) to Benedict Cumberbatch’s vocal qualities would have given me immunity, but I’m sitting here blushing, for pity’s sake.

***Plus Metallica got there first and took up most of the room.