Before I even begin my strange tale, I want to be sensitive to negative colloquialisms such as “‘Burying the hatchet’.
The use of this term trivializes the ancient peace-making ceremony in which two fighting nations symbolically buried or cached their weapons of war.
Offensive language like this is a result of centuries of violence and continues to perpetuate stereotypes that have real-life impacts on Native communities.
Indigenous Peoples and their cultural traditions are real and deserve respect. They are not historical artifacts, caricatures, or mascots. (radicalcopyeditor.com)
But I don’t know how else to describe what I just found in my garden…an actual buried hatchet.
Look at it!
It’s a joke from the Universe, right?
I have no idea how long it’s been there or how it became buried near a path that leads to some steps to the second level.
I can’t even figure out how, after all this time, it became UNburied enough for me to notice that bright blue handle.
So with deepest respect, I brushed away the dirt around the buried hatchet.
I’m not sure what to do next. Dig it up? Leave it there? Anyone care to hazard a guess about what it means?
One more story to share…
When I was little and I’m sure it’s because my mom was a nurse, but I experienced a significantly higher level of attention to hygiene in our day to day life than some. Our joke was that I had as much Lysol in my veins as red blood cells.
For example, WAY before there were seat covers, whenever we happened to visit a public restroom, my mom taught me how to place three long pieces of toilet paper to cover the seat before I sat down.
She said it was a sanitary barrier against germs. Germs were our nemesis–we must protect ourselves!
Even today, when I’m in a public restroom, whether there are no seat covers or the container is empty, I’ll still channel my mom and use her method to save myself from touching a seat countless others have used. #EWWWW
A while back, Angel Girl and I were at my local park and she needed to use the restroom. There was an empty container where the seat covers should have been, so it was the perfect opportunity to pass on the knowledge from her namesake, exactly the way I was taught,
Later that day while I was making dinner, Angel Girl was in the bathroom and she pulled three long strips of toilet paper and covered the toilet seat before using.
When mom asked her what she was doing, she said “That’s what Grandma does.”
Like a duckling, that angel imprints on all my behaviors, haha.
I heard the chat and rushed in to explain to this brilliant brilliant little human that this method was something we only needed to do for public toilets, the ones that are used by lots of other people, and we didn’t need to do that when we were here at home or at their house.
I’m absolutely sure that the toilet seats in MY home are pristine and reasonably sure that the toilet seats in THEIR home were clean (fingers crossed.)
A little research blew my mind. There seems to be no real scientific or medical reason for covering toilet seats. It was once believed that you could catch a gastrointestinal bug or sexually transmitted disease from a public toilet, but research has proved otherwise; that it’s a practically pointless exercise in sanitation.
Another alternative would be to use an alcohol or bleach wipe, but I don’t always have them with me.
Does anyone else but me (and Angel Girl) still do this? Do you hover or cover?
‘Cos I don’t really care, I still think it’s gross to have any direct contact on a toilet seat where a thousand strangers have been, so I’ll continue to cover.
Are you guilty of doing this, too?
The word of the day is lalochezia. It’s a noun formed from the Greek lalia (speech) and chezo (to relieve oneself).
Maybe that’s where the term “potty mouth” came from??
I have been known to unleash a hearty string of f-bombs and other expletives. To be completely honest, it is, usually, quite satisfying.
Lalochezia: The use of foul or abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain, emotional release through swearing.
Lalochezia describes that moment when you’re so stressed out and angry that you start spurting out the foulest language possible to relieve stress and pain.
Yup, been there, done that…
I’m sure that a few deep restorative yoga breaths — some vital prana — is probably way more soul healing, but in some cases the venting of specific profanity MIGHT be nearly as invigorating.
I guess I have a ways to go before I enter the transcendent state of nirvana, or as my dad would say, “that’s not very ladylike, Rosebud, and I’m sure you can think of more appropriate language.”
Not always.
(graphic from pinterest)
I’m known as the “fixer” because I have a certain amount of success in gluing together broken bits of china, repairing toys, and mending torn clothing…just call me the all around problem solver.
The original Angel Boy recently came to me with a few hand sewing tasks; a ripped seam in his windbreaker, tighten the upper arms of his gardening sleeves where the elastic stretched out so they won’t fall down, (which is super annoying), and sew or iron patches on AB2’s jeans, where he must slide on one knee A LOT,
After I completed my work under the watchful eye of my faithful sidekick, Angel Girl, she rummaged around in her room for something for me to repair (she doesn’t like to be left out of anything) and ran back with a dress that had short-ish butterfly sleeves that didn’t meet her high fashion standards.
“I don’t like this part, Grandma, so you can fix it.”
I took a look at it and figured it wouldn’t be a too difficult job to remove the flutter sleeves and resew the seams, which I did.
It made her very happy.
Later, while mom was giving her a bath, I could hear them chatting about her day. All of a sudden, she said, “I’ve got to give this to Grandma.”
She jumped out of the tub and came running into my room dripping wet, holding a raggedy torn and tattered washcloth full of holes.
“Here you go, Grandma, fix this.”
It must have been washed dozens of times and there really wasn’t any life left and sadly, that worn out fabric was far beyond my capabilities to magically repair, but I love the faith and confidence that angel has in me as the “fixer”, the one she can count on to make things right and restore everything back to the way they should be.
Yup, I’m a fixer, but not always.
Just a joke, but maybe also partly truthful, especially with all of these planetary energies creating havoc!
What do you think?
“A thing of beauty is a joy forever” — John Keats.
I used to love to walk through the downtown of my little city, until elected officials decided to call it a “village” but instead ruin it by filling it with boxes of ugly square buildings and a lot more places for people to get nasty drunk.
There’s no longer any charm; the atmosphere is entirely UNvillage-like, actually about as far away from being a “village” as you could possibly get.
I usually stay away but yesterday I found myself in the area and stopped at a little consignment shop, not the same one where I once scored AUTHENTIC Louis Vuitton and Dior scarves in the same day, but one with housewares and touristy stuff.
That’s where i fell in love with this beautiful work of art in the form of a pitcher and HAD to bring it home with me.
She needed a special photo shoot to properly reveal the iridescent green and gold, so I brought her out to the garden to soak up a few rays.
Have you ever seen anything more charming and ENCHANTED? I think not.
There’s no maker mark so it’s not valuable to anyone but me, but I love pretty things and this pitcher will definitely be on display in all of her glory. I’m burying the lede here, but in case you’re wondering, it cost $8.00.That’s it. EIGHT DOLLARS.
A thing of beauty is absolutely a joy forever.
I’m not talking about that song by the The Romantics, but a secret spot I discovered while out walking yesterday.
I can’t believe I’ve lived here for decades and never knew about this little beachy secret. One other person was there with their dogs and we vowed not to disclose this classified location…
Pretty cool, huh?
Looking to the east…
And to the west…
I MIGHT be persuaded to share the coordinates of this idyllic site, but you’d have to also be sworn to secrecy.
Can I trust you?
Happy Father’s Day!
I learned a lot from mine about a lot of things, and I think that’s also most likely where the ancestral sarcastic form of humor emanated from as I passed it on to my son, the master of snarky, biting, brilliantly accurate commentary,
DNA is strong here…always a daddy’s girl.
He’s the one who first started calling me “Rosebud”. The addition of “Princess” seemed to make a lot of sense, especially when he did things like giving me HIS birthday so I’d be able to have another day of celebration (and presents).
I’m sorry he never got to meet the original Angel Boy; they could have talked for hours about literature and life.
At the time my dad was college age, he was prohibited from pursuing a medical career all because of Jewish quotas, the barriers Ivy League universities erected to limit the number of Jewish students.
He would have been so proud of Angel Boy’s Yale doctorate. where they previously practiced overt and rampant anti-Semitic and racist policies.
According to Dan Oren’s book, Joining the Club — A History of Jews and Yale, Yale University’s informal admissions policy to restrict the school’s Jewish student body to around ten percent ended in the early 1960s.
That’s pretty disgusting part of America’s history, don’t you agree?
Anyway, after a little detour to protest racism, I hope everyone has a happy Sunday!
We’re drawing pictures at the dining room table. I’m not a very good artist and can really only draw butterflies and whales while my companion was creating something that could only be described as nothing I could identify (of course I’d never reveal that.)
She’s an extremely chatty and precociously verbal 3.5 year old, a nonstop talker from the moment she wakes up until the moment she closes her eyes, exactly like her big brother.
Honestly, they are both the most interesting people I know—of any age. I love to spend hours upon hours conversing with them about whatever is in their hearts and minds.
“Here you go. I drew this for you, Grandma!”
“Oh my, that is SO beautiful. Thank you!”
“Grandma, do you know what? I’m going to invite you to my birthday party.”
The way she said it was like a queen bestowing an honor upon one of her subjects. This upcoming birthday is the subject of many conversations. Turning four is a BIG deal.
“That’s awesome, Angel Girl! I accept your invitation. I will love to come to your party. Who else will you invite?”
“Some of my friends from preschool and my brother and that’s it.”
A couple minutes later…
“Can you make a unicorn cake, Grandma?”
“Hmmm, let me think. Yes, I believe I can, Are you sure that you’ll want a unicorn cake for your birthday?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“Well, you’re planning well in advance as your birthday isn’t for a few months. Do you think you might change your mind?”
“No, I won’t. I want a pink and purple unicorn cake.”
“You got it, a pink and purple unicorn, no problem. BUT if you change your mind, that’s OK, too.”
Why do I have a sneaking suspicion that my party invitation might somehow be connected to my ability to bake? Am I being cynical?
Upon reflection, if I could accomplish a decent job on her brother’s Pokemon Ball cake for his 7th birthday (and I did) I think I can attempt a unicorn cake for Angel Girl’s 4th year around the sun. It’s really just a horse shaped cake with an upside down ice cream cone in the center of its head, but don’t tell HER,
There’s nothing better than to be able to grant those kinds of wishes.
Enchanted Seashells | Princess Rosebud 