Category Archives: humor

Giving Away Nieces’ Afghans

I had been noticing a flier posted at work about a Cabin Fever Party and Chinese Auction to benefit the Herkimer County Humane Society. I had recently donated an afghan and some scarves to H.A.L.O., the cat rescue organization, for a similar purpose, and thought to do the same for the Humane Society.

Regular readers know I love to donate my afghans. Anybody who was reading me in December (oh, I know, such a busy month; don’t worry about it) knows I owe three nieces afghans as Christmas presents, because I gave theirs (with their generous permission) to the Folts Home. I’ve been crocheting quite busily attempting to make up the lack but I’m not ahead of the game yet. I have not checked with the nieces, but I felt sure they would not mind waiting a little longer (in my defense, it’s not like I’ve never given them afghans).

So I went to the Humane Society’s Facebook page (I’m quite the Facebook aficionado) and asked would they like such a donation. They would indeed. I said I would drop it by their location soon.

Some years ago it was a thing to print out a circle with “TUIT” inside it. Then you said, “That thing you’re going to do when you get a round to it? Well, here’s a round tuit.” I need one of those. I let a week go by. I knew from somebody else asking on Facebook that the Humane Society was hoping to have all donations by the first week of March. I had a little leeway.

Steven and I rode over on Monday, our rare day off together. I picked out an afghan with Easter colors: turquoise blue and pink (it was the afghan previously destined for my niece Jenna — sorry, Jenna!). I also grabbed a few scarves. I think they are nice scarves.

We brought Tabby. We know they like dogs at the Humane Society. When we walked in, three dogs in cages immediately started barking at her. I think they were boy dogs and wanted her to be their girlfriend. Boy dogs usually do. They continued to bark as I dropped off my donation and wrote down my information. The lady asked me if we were together.

“Yes, we’re all together,” I said. “We like to bring our dog places.”

When we got back home I realized I did not have my purse. Rats! After first checking that I had not left it in the house to begin with (as I have been known to do), I drove back by myself. The three dogs in their cages did not bark. I told you they were barking at Tabby. It was really not too inconvenient; I just felt a little silly. I merely mention the event in case any readers have done something similar; now they can feel better that they’re not the only ones.

The Cabin Fever Party and Chinese Auction is Sunday, March 25 from two to five at the Frankfort VFW, 4274 Acme Rd. Steven and I intend to be there. Maybe I’ll even bid on the afghan. If I win it, I can give it to Jenna for Christmas.

Running on Sunshine

We are unable to present our regularly scheduled blog post…

I know, what a crock. I write what I can and post something every day. I usually write at work but today was unable to manage more than a paragraph. I’ll try that one again tomorrow. Today for your delectation I will write about the run I just now got back from. Um, I have showered, for those of you who are concerned about my husband’s olfactory nerves. Oh, and I stretched, for those of you concerned about my meager muscles. Now then, where was I?

Today was the warmest day since fall. What a relief! I drove home with the window down. I had the urge to stand on the porch drinking beer like a college student. Um, I resisted that one. I ran in shorts and a t-shirt. Bliss!

It was shortly after 4 p.m. when I started. An unfortunate time as far as traffic goes. I wanted to cross German Street and run up a hill I know out Main Street (I’m not ready for the hill to Herkimer County Community College yet). There is a four-way stop, so it should be doable. Well, traffic was backed up on both sides. I know how that goes. One nice person gives you the go-ahead wave, you go ahead and the bastard going in the other direction nails you. Or at least blasts his horn at you. There is little consideration shown by some. So I kept running down German.

I turned down Washington and finally found a place to cross that street in front of the County Courthouse. I mean the newer, taller one, not the one where we went to a Historical Society presentation recently. That was the older one that Roxalana Druse and Chester Gillette were tried in. I ran by the other one. Its parking lot is across the street, and there is a sign by the crosswalk saying to stop for pedestrians. So I made bold to cross there. I suppose it is for people with courthouse business to get to their cars, not random ladies running, but nobody seemed to mind. I ran through the parking lot, just for something different. I rarely run through parking lots. I find them dangerous at the best of times.

I ran around, turning here and there, going down different streets, and was surprised to find that the blissful feeling engendered by my light running clothes did not last. In fact, running became quite effortful (as usual, my computer is telling me that is not a word, but it is what I mean so it is what I say). I continued to make the effort. Eventually I returned to German and was able to cross. I saw a bit of a hill and thought to run up it. I ended up turning, though, as I saw the sidewalk ended. I don’t mind running on the road, but prefer to choose less trafficky times to do it (another non-word according to my computer. Tough). I crossed back to my side of German almost immediately as I had a good opportunity.

Eventually I looked at my watch and saw I had nine more minutes to go to reach my target time and feared I was more than nine minutes from my house. How to get back quickest? I turned here, then there. I had to cross Main Street. Tricky! Then I saw a lady with a baby carriage in a crosswalk. They were a little ways down from me, but I was able to make it across due to the stopped cars. It sounded like somebody beeped their horn at her. At least, somebody beeped their horn. Maybe it was at me, but I don’t think I was in anybody’s way. Like I said earlier, no consideration.

I made it back home in my allotted time. Tabby and I had a leisurely walk around the block for my cool down. I stretched. I showered. I wrote this blog post. Tune in tomorrow for what I had meant to write today.

Great Expectations and Moronic Musings

I thought today was going to be Middle-aged Musings Monday and I was going to have an easy post to write. Then Steven and I visited the Herkimer County Historical Society and I foolishly mentioned that I intended to write a blog post about it. One of the ladies even wrote it down.

So naturally I thought, “I’d better write about the Historical Society today, in case that lady wants to read it.” I mean, think about it, I brag about my blog about local attractions and businesses and she tunes into Middle-aged Musings? Face it, some of my musings are about as lame as Lame Post Fridays. I have my days.

We all know where this is going. Can I write a word? NOOOOOO! (OK, obviously I can write words, but are they words I like and don’t want to cross out? NOOOOOO!)

What a ridiculous situation. I don’t suffer from stage fright. I know I have readers, and the thought that somebody may want to read me does not usually result in an inability on my part to produce something for them to read. What gives, me? I’ve talked about Writer’s Block — or, more accurately Writer’s Blank. I’ve talked about writing things down and crossing them out (quite recently, in fact; sorry to repeat myself so soon).

Hey! Maybe this is all leading up to Musings about Expectations. I’m afraid the ladies at the Historical Society will expect me to write a blog post about them right away. I expect myself to be able to just sit down and write something brilliant (or at least postable). But I had previously expected to have an easy post today and to write about the Historical Society tomorrow. And I guess I also expect that lady is going to run right home to her computer and look for my blog (what an ego! You’d never think I suffer from low self-esteem).

Now I must come up with something profound to say about things not always being what we expect. Then again, the positive thinkers say if you expect great things or if you expect lousy things, you’ll probably get what you expect. Where does that leave me?

I expect that tomorrow I’ll be able to come up with a decent post on the Herkimer County Historical Society. It would be presumptuous to expect, but at least I can hope, that my readers will forgive me for a singularly foolish post today.

Running On

Saturday I ran after a few days not, and it was not easy. I kept myself going with the promise that I would blog about it. I really do enjoy running along and writing in my head, although the finished product is probably quite different from the mental draft.

A reader commented on a post about a couple of bad runs that completing a difficult run could be empowering. It’s true. It is often amazing to me how often that little voice in my head saying, “I can’t do this!” is wrong.

I remember once in the army a fellow soldier after falling out of a run said, “It was fall out or pass out.” I did not believe her but was tactful enough not to say so. Sometime later I sort of proved it to myself. I wanted to fall out of a run but said to myself, “Just run till you pass out.” I knew that if I passed out I would have an unassailable excuse for stopping (I just love that word, unassailable). Guess what? I didn’t pass out (I was sure you would guess). My vision didn’t even blur. I made some hideous noises breathing, but that was pretty normal for me for the time (I later found out it was Vocal Chord Dysfunction, but that’s a whole other blog post).

These memories and reflections kept me distracted and running for a good while. I enjoyed the (relatively) warm temperature and plowed through some puddles of melted snow. My feet got wet, but so what? They would dry.

I planned at least one good walk with my dog. I imagined how running would become easier and more fun, maybe even by tomorrow. I looked at my watch and tried not to be discouraged at how little time had passed. It was not until I started writing this that I realized I did not see the discarded underwear I’ve been noticing on Caroline Street. Too bad. That added a little interest to my day.

When I completed the run, I felt happy if not exactly empowered. Sunday’s run was much better. I look forward to finding out what Monday’s run will bring.

Back in the Lame

Lame Post Friday is back!

At least, I wish it were back. I sat in front of my notebook during three breaks at work and did not write a damn thing worth typing in here. Mostly I stared at a blank sheet of paper and said, “Oh dear” (a favorite saying of mine and my mother’s). I wrote a paragraph, then crossed it out with a giant X. Then a sentence. Same thing. The next break I turned the page, wrote a paragraph, then drew a careful line through it. Then a sentence. Same thing.

All day I had been alternately thinking of things I could write about and trying not to listen to the stupid voice in my head saying, “It’s too hard to post every day! Why did you say you’d post every day!” We’ve been through the post every day trauma. The bottom line is I said I’d do it for a year and I’m trying my best. I must say, it’s not usually too difficult to write SOMETHING, especially on a Lame Post Friday. And yet, today, thoughts eluded me.

In desperation I turned to a previous section of the notebook and continued writing notes on a murder mystery I’ve been moodling around with. I made a minor spectacle of myself in the break room by asking what digitalis is used for. I know it is a drug some people take for something and other people steal it and use it to poison people, but I can’t remember what it is prescribed for. Naturally I thought most people read Agatha Christie and might remember such a detail. I did not mention all that about poison and Agatha Christie, though; I just asked about digitalis.

One fellow said he thought it might make you fall asleep. “Anything with “alice” in it,” he said. “You know, like Alice in Wonderland.”

“It’s spelled differently,” I said, spelling it for him.

Somebody else suggested it was something to make your fingers fall asleep, a reasonable extrapolation, I thought. I said I’d look it up, and the subject was dropped. I have not looked it up yet, although that would probably be a good thing to include in this post. Ah, it is a cardiac stimulant made from foxglove (Steven keeps a dictionary by the computer).

I guess that is my story for Friday. Suitably lame, I suppose. So that makes my headline not a lie (I thought up the headline before I wrote the piece). I’ll write another post tomorrow, and I’ll try to have a Mohawk Valley adventure for the occasion.

Yummy End to the Evening

As Steven and I left the cultural, intellectual lecture (see previous post), I mentioned that there was very little to eat in the house.

“I saved you the last of the pastrami and provolone,” I offered. He knew as well as I did it would make a fairly small sandwich.

“I could always have a bowl of cereal,” he said.

“Of course, Carney’s Corners is right over there,” I mentioned casually.

I’ve blogged about Carney’s corners before. They are a convenience store and deli, offering subs, pizza, wings, and more. We usually order delivery, but they are quite handily located, especially if you are coming from the court house (um, not that we are frequently at the court house).

We ordered a chicken bacon ranch sub. I know, turkey breast or even roast beef might have been more conducive to my weight loss goals, but I can’t always do the sensible thing. While our sub was being made, Steven found an Oreo brownie he wanted for dessert. I looked longingly at some puddings and cheesecakes in a cooler but ultimately decided the sub was decadence enough for one night.

“I’ll only eat half of my half and save the rest for breakfast,” I said.

“After all, it has bacon on it,” Steven said.

Once I started eating it, I knew I would do know such thing. It was yummy! And, really, a hot sub is better when eaten hot. I had something sensible for breakfast.

The sub was the perfect ending to our evening. I highly recommend Carney’s Corners for those evenings when you’re headed for home and realize there’s nothing good to eat in the house. They are located at 222 N. Washington St., Herkimer, NY, phone number 315-866-7191. They are open Sunday through Thursday till 10 p.m. with orders taken till 9:30 p.m., Friday and Saturday till 11 p.m. with orders taken till 10:30 p.m. Delivery is available Sunday through Thursday from 11 a.m. to 9:30 p.m., Friday and Saturday 11 a.m. to 10 p.m.

Last Woman Hanged

Tuesday I attended a lecture sponsored by the Herkimer County Historical Society. Does that sound cultured and intellectual? It may have been. It was also a great deal of fun.

James M. Greiner, author of Last Woman Hanged: Roxalana Druse, was talking about the famous case. I have many times noticed the historic marker outside the 1834 Jail and wanted to learn more about the local murderess. Last December, Greiner was at the Historical Society signing his book, but I missed it, which was too bad, because I had previously told my entire family NOT to buy me Christmas presents, because I was buying myself the book (they got me presents anyways, but that’s a whole other blog post).

Tuesday’s talk took place at the Herkimer County Courthouse, at Herkimer’s Historic Four Corners, a favorite walking place of mine and Tabby’s. I walked over, because Steven planned to drive straight from work (always fun to have a rendezvous). The event drew a large crowd. I could have gotten there much earlier and saved us seats closer to the front. Then again, with such a large crowd, some people may have taken exception to my saving a really good seat for somebody who may not arrive on time. Our seats in the back turned out to be fine, however; we had no problems hearing.

Greiner’s book is all about the facts of the case. Apparently everybody who grew up around here “knows” that Roxalana Druse fed her husband’s dead body to the pigs and was hanged on the hook in back of the jail, neither of which, it turns out, was the case. I have to confess, I didn’t know (or “know”) any of that. You see how much I missed out on, growing up in Rome.

We heard a lot about the true case and about the research Greiner undertook to find out about it. He is an excellent speaker, very organized and articulate, and obviously passionately interested in his subject. He says he follows the rule “Write what you love.” I wrote that one down.

He had previously published two books on the Civil War and wanted to do something different. He said he called up the Historical Society and said, “I want to do a murder.” (I wrote that one down, too.) He said the historical society lady’s response was to the effect of, “Not Gillette, he’s been done to death!” I must confess that made me feel a little vulgar, because I can’t get enough of the Gillette case. I don’t think any disparagement was meant, only that Greiner wanted to explore uncharted territory. As pointed out on the back of Greiner’s book, the Gillette case has overshadowed the Druse case. This book helps to even up the score.

I was able to purchase the book Tuesday. Several people attending had already read it and told me it was an excellent read, impossible to put down. After the talk, I went to the front of the room to get the author to sign it.

“Oh, I signed all of them.” He showed me where he did.

“Oh, I’m silly.” I did feel silly, especially as I was debating in my head whether to say Cindy or Cynthia when he asked me who to make it out to. That’s what author’s at book signings in movies always do.

I was really happy I was able to attend the talk and to buy the book. I look forward to reading it. Copies are available at the Herkimer County Historical Society, 406 N. Main St., Herkimer, NY. For more information call 315-866-6413.

First Run after Registering

So I registered for the Boilermaker and proceeded not to run. In my defense, the weather was bad and I felt like crap (oh, don’t point me out folks who run in a blizzard with pneumonia; that is not me).

I was determined to run on Monday. The weather cooperated. My body cooperated. My dog didn’t act too bent out of shape. I was off.

Regarding my dog: I was not completely without exercise all weekend, because Tabby and I took a lengthy walk on Sunday. I had not intended to do such a thing. I had intended to sit with my feet up, possibly sipping hot tea, recruiting my energies for the week ahead. However, when I went upstairs (for a purpose I no longer remember), Tabby assumed it was preparatory to taking her for a walk. She started jumping and hopping and looking so happy and hopeful, I just couldn’t disappoint her.

And for the first five minutes of the walk, I thought that maybe fresh air and exercise were just what I needed. I spent the subsequent thirty minutes of the walk realizing that they were not. As we walked through the park, I envisioned myself sitting on a bench and falling asleep. I wondered if somebody would rescue me before hypothermia set in but decided not to risk it.

I was feeling better by Monday afternoon. I only wished I had laid out my running clothes before work, but, goodness, who thinks of such things at four in the morning? (Probably those same folks that run in a blizzard with pneumonia.)

So there I was, running down the sidewalks of Herkimer. I saw the discarded underwear I’ve noticed before. They were crumpled up just off the sidewalk this time. I noted a screened-in porch with a lot of junk piled up in it. What a waste of a screened-in porch! Perhaps the owners mean to clean it in the spring. An open porch had two lovely wooden rocking chairs. Oh, I’ll be so glad when porch sitting weather arrives! (I almost said “I can’t wait,” but in fact, I shall have to.)

My run was feeling pretty OK. I got to the “I can rock this” stage fairly early on. A few leg muscles expressed displeasure further into the run, but you’ll have that. I refuse to let a little muscular miftiness deter me.

I felt so happy at the end of my run, I wanted to walk around with my fists in the air while somebody sang the chorus of “We Are the Champions.” Quite a feeling of triumph for one little run. Well, I try to accept joy wherever I find it. Boilermaker, here I come!

But Blake Said to Punch the Guy!

Middle-aged Musings Monday is back!

OK, that was all I had written in my head so far. I thought that once I put the pen to the paper, words would magically come out. They sometimes do, you know. Oh well, somebody once said writing about not writing is still writing.

Speaking of not writing, since I was in search of inspiration I began re-reading the divine If You Want to Write by Brenda Ueland (Graywolf Press, St. Paul, 1987) (originally published in 1938). And I have been musing lately on a quote in that book from William Blake: “Sooner strangle an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.”

At first glance, it seems that Blake is giving us permission to do whatever the hell we want to do as soon as we feel like doing it. I have to say, that doesn’t really sit well with me. But on looking again, I see the word “nurse.” Maybe Blake meant you don’t have to act on any desire, but if you’re not going to act on it, don’t dwell on it. I like that better. (Just a side note: my computer keeps telling me “unacted” is not a word, and I don’t see it in the dictionary, but that is the quote.)

I’ll give an example. Suppose I want to punch some guy right in the face (I’ll use myself in the example, because I get the impression Blake was not the sort to go around punching people) (um, neither am I, of course) (you do believe me, don’t you?). My experience and common sense tells me that this is probably not a good idea. But the devil on my shoulder says, “Blake says to do it! Don’t nurse unacted desires!” The angel on the other shoulder (a much more soft-spoken creature) repeats, “Don’t nurse unacted desires,” putting a little more emphasis on “nurse.”

In other words, don’t sit there wishing and wanting to do something you don’t intend to do. Decide not to do it and move on.

I have to confess, I do not always heed this advice. I don’t usually punch sons of bitches in the face, however appropriate it may seen (OK, I’ve never punched a son of a bitch in the face). But I nurse the desire.

I think about the crunching sound as the cartilage in his nose crumbles under my fist (shut up, this is my fantasy). I picture the blood spurting, the startled look on his face. I anticipate the feeling of utter satisfaction.

Ahem. This is obviously not a very good thing to do. It will lead to utter dissatisfaction that I did not punch the guy, or I will punch the guy and no doubt find the satisfaction is short-lived, if at all.

Full disclosure: I have not read much Blake. And by not much, I mean I’ve read quotes by him in other books. Well, there are a lot of books in the world. If I’m going to have time for Regency romances and murder mysteries, I’m going to miss a few classics.

Be that as it may. I’ve covered one musing, ironically enough on a quote I found while searching for my muse. Is that an irony or merely a play on words? A musing for another day. Happy Monday.

Monster Movie Matinee

Does anybody remember last Saturday when I went adventuring and got a good three posts out of one afternoon? Well, that was then, this is now, as the man said (I think if was in some movie or other).

Saturday I did not feel well. The adventures I had planned, I put on hold. The most Mohawk Valley thing I did was to drink my morning coffee out of the Dyn’s Cider Mill mug. I love that mug.

Saturday afternoon I intended to take it easy, and my husband Steven graciously agreed to take it easy with me. I suggested we watch an old movie, King Kong from 1933 with Fay Wray. After all, Saturday afternoon, monster movie matinee, what could be more appropriate?

I made some popcorn. Alas, I’ve eaten all of the bag I bought at Dyn’s, so no local connection there. I pop my corn on the stove, in oil, and melt real butter to put on it. Yum. Then it lasts me a few days, because I eat some, then wash my hands so I can crochet. That’s how I roll.

Our video of King Kong was purchased by me a number of years ago (seeing that it is a video, some people already guessed that). I got it at a good price from Avon, of all places. A lady I work with sold it; this was later than my own ill-fated attempts to be an Avon Lady. We don’t pop it in very often. Steven is not usually anxious to watch King Kong. All of Fay Wray’s screaming gets on his nerves. I confess, I like her better in Mystery of the Wax Museum, where she has more character and more gumption, but you can’t have everything, after all.

For being all about beauty and the beast, the movie is fairly anti-woman. From the start, the movie producer is disgusted he has to hire a girl for his next picture. He can make a swell picture, he says, but the public wants a girl! OK, he’ll give them a girl. Enter Fay Wray. Cue the handsome first mate to tell her women are nothing but trouble, especially on board a ship. I have to wonder if there ever really was a superstition about women on a ship. Women used to sail on ships all the time, whenever they had to cross an ocean. But in old movies, you’ve always got some old salt saying women don’t belong on a ship.

The movie isn’t so hot from a race relations point of view, either. There are a lot of black actors in the picture, but they’re all savage natives. About all they get to do is beat drums and run away from the big gorilla.

But what do I want from a movie made in 1933? It was entertaining, I admit. Oh, one more beef: at the end (sorry to give away the ending, but you really should have seen this one or one of the remakes by now), the man says, “It was beauty that killed the beast.” No it wasn’t! It was getting shot by an airplane and falling off the Empire State Building! Hello! Sorry, just had to say it.