Tales From the (Massage) Table: Afraid to Hurt Her Tattoos

I have no tattoos myself, nor do any of my family members, so basically, I have no idea how it feels to have one. I really have no desire for one due to my aversion to having stuff poked into my skin with needles, and because -- just nope. Don't want one.

This does not mean that I don't admire well-executed skin artwork on others, though.


 I have been caught inspecting the arms and shoulders of people ahead of
 me in the line at the grocery store, someone standing near me at a party, or sitting near me at a concert.  Some of the artistry and composition is remarkable.

There is a client who comes for near-weekly massages, and she has spectacular tattoos on her lower- and mid-back. It's an underwater scene with anemones, seaweed, and a few sea creatures.

Week after week, she has a super tense, spasming muscle on one certain spot on her back, and her turtle's head is right on it.  I have become fond of her turtle, because it's just gorgeous. I can't bring myself to really dig in to her poor turtle's head, so I find myself closing my eyes and working by feel so I don't worry that I'm hurting the little guy. Silly, no?

Also, I have named him Eduardo. Eduardo the Turtle.

When Llife Gives You LLamas, Make LLamanade

Did I tell you about my brother?  My oldest brother (I have two) has led a life of ... misadventure and adventure, and chaos and wonder.

When he was just a little sprout (waaay before I was born), apparently he was taken to the zoo (probably Brookfield Zoo) by my parents and my grandparents.  He was snacking on peanuts, as was the tradition before peanut allergies brought us to our societal knees.  He and Grampa were watching a hippopotamus in its enclosure, as it stood and walked about and did hippopotamusy things.

Brother reached into his bag of peanuts, pulled one out, regarded it thoughtfully, and then PLUNK threw it at the hippo.

Naturally, it went precisely into the hippopotamus's ear.  And at that exact moment, the hippo decided to lay down.  Now, when a hippo decides to recline, it's not a very graceful motion.  It's more of a "crash to the ground on its side" kind of thing.

Brother shrieked, "Oh, GRAMPA!  I KILLED IT! I THREW THE PEANUT INTO ITS EAR AND IT FELL OVER DEAD! I KILLED THE HIPPOPOTAMUS!"

Grampa nodded, "Yep.  You did. Let's go," and he took my brother by his chubby, sweaty hand and led him swiftly away.  

Allie & Friend's Kitchen: A Loose Transcript

Right this minute, my 11 y.o. daughter and her 10 y.o. across-the-street best friend are trying to make cupcakes or muffins or something.  I can hear them from the next room, but can't see them.  BTW: I have NO idea how any of this relates to VAMPIRES.  No idea.

Overheard:
BFF: How are we going to do this?  Can we just make it up?
A: Well, yeah.  But...
BFF: Maybe we can use a recipe?
A: But that's boring.
BFF:  Well, we could just ... let it guide us.
A:  YEAH!  WE can add stuff!

---
BFF: Let's divide it up.  It says "wet" and "dry" ingredients are separate.  You be wet, I'll be dry.
---

BFF:  Ok.  Um.  How much flour?
A: 2 cups?
BFF: You sure?
A.  Uh.  Let me check.  OH.  2 and a half.
BFF: Is that 'two AND a half' or 'two halves'?
A: I think two and a half.  It says .... "two, one slash two." That's two and a half.
BFF: OK

--
 BFF:  Now it says "baking powder." What's that?
A: It's up there.  The round one ... no.  Not that one.  The next one.  Right there... yup.
BFF: How much?
A: I think.... um.  A tablespoon.
BFF? Tablespoon?
A: The big one.
BFF: You sure?  Or is that 'teaspoon'?
A: "T B is tablespoon.  T S P is teaspoon."
BFF: ohhh
---

A: Ok. Butter.
BFF: How much?
A: It says a half stick.  How much is that?
BFF? Well, a half of a stick.
A: But our butter comes in a round thing.
BFF: Hm.  Let's see.  OH!  It says "4 TB" also.
A: Oh.  Ok. Then four tablespoons.
BFF: Just dump it in? OK
A: WAIIIIIT!  It's supposed to be melted!
BFF:  Whoops.  (clinking sound heard)  There.  Took it back out.
(microwave beeping)
A: Careful.  You never touch the bowl when you've heated something like butter.  It's really hot.
BFF: Ok.  (drawer opening heard) Can I use this?
A: Yes.
---
(Beeping of oven temperature being set)
-----
A:  LET'S ADD OUR STUFF TOGETHER!
BFF: YAAAAY!
(much clanging of spoon on bowl heard)
A: GO GO GO GO GO!
BFF: Stir hard to get ALL the lumps out!
(clangclang)
-----

A: what do you wanna add?
BFF: chocolate?
A:  YEAH!  And maybe ... strawberries?
BFF.  Oooh. yeah.
---
 BFF: I wanna use the big, BIG spoon.
A. Here.
---
 A: I, like, got this pan for CHRISTMAS.  It has an anti-stick thing on it so if you spill stuff on it, it just slides off.  It's so awesome.
BFF: (giggles)
---
BFF: (giggle) Allie! You're squeezing the strawberries.  Eeewwww.  Let ME do it now.
A:  HA!  Oh no! Teddy (the dog) is eating something!  NO, TEDDY! Oh dear.  He's eating the butter wrapper.
 ---
BFF: Ok.  I need to wash my hands now to make mine.
A: Ok. Good idea.
BFF: I'm going to add strawberries ON TOP.  To make them attractive.
A: Oh, they're SO ADORABLE!
---
BFF: (clanging of spoon) Oh.  That is SO chocolatey and gooood.
A: Mine don't taste too strawberryish now, but I think they will once they're cooked.
BFF: Oooh!  They're nice! I can taste the cinnamon.
---
A: Oops.  OhhhH!
BFF: How much did you ADD just now?  DON"T STIR IT IN? DON'T!
A: Well.... too late.
BFF: HAHAAAA! Oh, that is PINK! Get your mom to see. HA!
---
(concentrated quiet, with the occasional clang of a spoon on bowl, and the crunching of muffin papers being rearranged)
---
(Beeping of the oven timer being set)
---
BFF: I'm going to do the strawberry ones now.
A: I'll do the chocolate.
BFF: Ok.
---
BFF: We should probably do the dishes.
A:  Mmmmmmph.
---
BFF: I only did one major one.  I mean, one that's completely full.  I wonder how it'll turn out -- probably splat out all over the place.
A: mmHmmm
---
A:  I have an idea!  We'll each use a big big big big pan and use the rest of the batter.
BFF: What kind of pan? Can we use cooking spray?  Do you have spray?
A: MOM!  WHERE'S THE COOKING SPRAY?
---
(spraying sounds heard)
---
(giggling and clanking)
----
BFF: Here, put some of THESE over there.  What did YOU DO, Allie? ALLIE.
A: Ooops.
BFF: Oh, Allie.
---
(many more short sprays heard)
---
A: C'mon batter! Go faster! (tapping sounds heard)
BFF: Maybe we could just.... (clanging sounds)  Hmmm.
A: Oh, LOOK!
BFF: Both of 'em?
A: Yes.
---
(Oven door opening, cautious sliding sounds heard.  Beeping of timer being started)
---
And then?  CLEANING sounds begin. Rumbling of chairs being dragged around, cabinet doors opening and banging closed.
---
BFF: When these are done? You can like, put them on a special tray, but don't put them there yet.  Vampires. You know?
A: Mmmmhmmm.
----
A: WHOA!  Look at YOURS!
BFF: WHOA!  Look at YOURS!  Look at YOUR Neapolitan one!
A:  LOOK at YOUR Neapolitan one!
---
BFF:  ALLIE!  50 seconds left!
A: OH!  OK!
Together: 10! 9! 8! (giggles) 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2! 1!

Post Script: 
Muffins were good. A trifle tough, but quite good.  And there were two very proud little girls who made a nice memory of an afternoon off of school.  But I'm still wondering about the vampires.

Memories: How to Make Them

A few days ago, I reported to all 14 of my FB friends that, while in our local Aco Hardware (No, that's not a typo.  It's a cheap knockoff of Ace Hardware) in search of a drain snake (the metal kind, not the OMG THERE'S A SNAKE IN MY TOILET kind),

I was overcome by the piped-in atmospheric music, and had to STOP! Because, apparently, it was Hammertime.

Imagine this pose, but with a 41-year-old woman in a winter coat and a red handbag. In the plumbing aisle of a hardware store.

One of the best responses was from Rachel, a lady of impeccable maturity, who said, "HA! Kate, you make the world your amusement park!"

Yes. Yes I do.

And WHY, you might inquire?
Because if you do nothing noteworthy, you will FORGET things. 

Think back to 6th grade.  Remember the day before Christmas break?  No?  Well, if you had chosen that day to stand on your chair in Social Studies and start singing "The 12 Days of Post-Soviet Russian Christmas," you'd remember that day.  Precisely.  [Example only.  Did not happen.]

How about your birthday, 16 years ago.  No?  If you had pulled over while driving, and got out to pick some cotton in the field RIGHT THERE (while wearing cherry-red ballet flats, as I recall), and sang -- out loud -- "Nobody Knows the Trouble I Seeen.  Nobody Knows, but Jeeeesuuuuuuuussss," you'd be able to remember it down to the temperature, the shoes, and which side of the road you'd been on.  [Example that REALLY DID HAPPEN.  In Texas. It was the right side of the road, heading south.  It was balmy -- probably mid-70s in late March.]

Cotton is rather harder to pick than one might assume.

A Tuesday night, two years ago, mid-December.  Midnight.  SNOW DAY had just been declared for my kids.  I got them up, had them toss coats and snowpants and boots over their footie pajamas.  We went out and had a midnight snowball fight, then came in for hot chocolate.  They still remember that!

So, sometimes memories are thrust upon you (my daughter being born about 1.5 hours after arriving at the hospital), and sometimes?  You have got to make them yourself.

KateLibs: Harlequin Edition

For some reason, I've taken to writing mini-Harlequin romances about women I know, trying to incorporate lots of little details of their lives (facts AND fantasies).  Thought you'd like to read a few.

First is about a blogger, Mrs. G, who is a middle-aged author who entertains fantasies about Johnny Depp.  She accidentally posted just a title on her blog recently, with no text.  Here is what I imagined was the cause:

Mrs. G, wearing a seductive terrycloth dressing gown, made her way to the computer. She began to type; first quietly, gently, then with growing passion and abandon.
Johnny eyed her from the darkness of the sofa. He rose, earring glinting in the light of the monitor. Walking towards her, he was a graceful as a cat.
Mrs. G had gotten no further than the title of the post, when he could stand it no more, and whisked her into his arms with a hungry growl, and his elbow hit the "Publish" button.
Her bathrobe was tossed over the computer moments later, so the pair never knew.

Second, another blogger named Ashley gave me a set of details to choose from (fantasy boyfriends, occupations, cars, locations, and so on). Here's hers:

It was high noon as Ashley and her pea--green Nova pulled up in front of the county courthouse that day. Austin was hot, and so was she. “Today! Today I will get justice for MaryBeth and her family!” she repeated as she gathered her files, ready to assume her Advocate Ashley persona.
No sooner did she step into the searing Texas sun than did she raise her eyebrows at the vintage Mustang that screeched to a halt behind her car. “Ma’am?” a husky voice called. A voice weathered like a good pair of boots, with a faint hint of single-malt scotch in the rasp of it. “I do believe your car is on fire.”
She, horrified, gaped attractively at her now-engulfed-in-flames Nova. “Oh, fer Pete’s sake…” her accent intensified in her moment of shock.
The man unfolded his lanky frame from his seat, and leapt into action, rumbling past her like a tall, attractive tank. He reached his brawny arms into the conflagration and gathered her baskets of crafting supplies, and snagging her purse from the floor of the back seat. “I don’t figure y’all would want your gorgeous crafts to go up with this ol’ Nova.” He faced her, trying to free a sooty hand, “Adam, ma’am. Adam Levine. I think we’d better call the fire department. And in the meantime, why don’t you come on and sit with me in my car? I have some time before I have to catch my flight over to Kansas City for my VolunteerAmerica conference.”
The next thing she knew, she was being tucked into the black leather bucket seat of a Mustang that smelled like dust, band aids, and sexy man.