Pulling myself up by my piggy house slippers

piggy house slippers

Dear friends,
First of all, I wanted to apologize for my absence. For the past week and a half, I’ve been battling bronchitis. Many sleepless nights have ensued and I’m afraid it’s time to admit that it has whipped my derriere. Breathing has become so difficult, I’m using an asthma inhaler even though I’m not asthmatic.

But not to fear, friends.
I’m beat but not broken.

(Although something tells me that the surgical mask wearers the Son and the Significant Other would say otherwise.)

Tonight, feeling like I can finally breathe a little better, I decided it was time to pull myself up by the bootstraps, actually, by my piggy house slippers, and tell all of you how much I’ve missed you.

Please forgive my absence to your blogs.
I hope to be get better soon and look forward to reading all your posts.

I also want to express my gratitude to all who have emailed and sent Twitter messages asking how I am. Please know that you are lovely, lovely, lovely and I am very appreciative for your concern.

And now I want to leave you with a post I wrote before bronchitis snared me in its clutches.

It’s been two weeks since then but I think you will still enjoy it.

I’ll be back as soon as I can take a full breath.
Until then, enjoy!


I find it ironic that someone who loves technology and gadgets as much as I do, can’t afford to have any.

I feel cheated.


And let’s face it, in a time where people can instantly post from their cell phones to the net and post photos using cutesy apps like Instagram, I feel deprived.

Yet, not one to cry over what I don’t have (though I find complaining to be the perfect way to channel my frustration), I decided to take matters into my own hands.

The photos you are about to peruse are not “sent from my iPhone.”

Heck, they’re not even sent.
I had to upload them with a USB cable.

Nevertheless, when life gives you lemons, you make a lemon pound cake.

Or a lemon meringue pie.

Or a lemon granita.

You get the picture.

Speaking of pictures…

These sightings took place in the spell of four days.

During this time, we went from cold, to colder, to snow.

All photos taken with my barely alive but still kicking Nokia.



I love the charm of this cafe.

I love the charm of this cafe.


Yes, yes I do!

Yes, yes I do!

Stunning Roxy!

Stunning Roxy!

Wild parrots

Wild parrots

Why yes, there's a swan in the canal, Roxy!

Why yes, there’s a swan in the canal, Roxy!

Thoughts, anyone?

Because this is the only place Barbie needs to be!

Snow day!

Snow day!

European snowmen. You gotta love them!

European snowmen. You gotta love them!

Which is your favorite?


Peekaboo. Do I see you?

cc licensed ( BY NC ND ) flickr photo shared by Crazy George

The aging process.

Some of us dread it.
Some of us embrace it.
And some of us are unsure if it’s a good thing or not.

Nevertheless, it’s like death–there’s no avoiding it.

The aging process.

We want to believe that when it arrives, we’ll be ready.

Until the day we spot it.
Laying there.
Trying to camouflage itself, yet failing miserably.

One gray hair.

Not an army, mind you.
Just one.
That’s all it takes before we go into full panic mode.

We start to question where time has gone.
We calculate how many days before our next birthday.
We pull out a magnifying glass and search every square inch of our face.

One gray hair.

Its discovery unleashes the monster.
Opens Pandora’s box.
Sends us on a downward spiral.

We look up “old” friends on Facebook to see if they look younger.
We cross our fingers, say a prayer, and try to strike a deal with the powers that be so they may look older.
A lot older.

We buy expensive face creams.
Hoping they’ll do away with the effects of time.
That they’ll do away with the crow’s feet.

We question whose idea it was to call them crow’s feet.
We curse whoever it was and wish we could turn back the clock.

To reverse the all-nighters.
The late night partying.
The one drink too many the night we celebrated whatever it was we were celebrating.

We look in the mirror.
We realize that while we’re losing the hair on our head, we’ve started to grow a mustache.

We place a pencil under a breast to see if it’s still perky.
We realize we can easily fit a box of twelve.

We become aware that our gums are receding.
That our joints hurt.
That our ass is sagging.
That it’s only a matter of time before someone tell us we’re more wrinkled than an elephant’s scrotum.

We notice our fingernails have stopped growing but our toenails keep growing.
That we can’t bend down to trim.
Or shave our legs.
We find it easier to let everything below our waist grow until it can grow no more.

We realize that movie stars our age are cast in the role of grandmothers.
Or great-grandmothers.
Or great-great-grandmothers.

We wake up to the fact that we have trouble getting up after sitting for too long.
That we can’t cross our legs without a muscle spasm.
That we easily lose our balance.

We forget the neighbor’s name
We confuse our children’s names.
We realize there are days we can’t remember our own names.

We realize that if we were to answer people truthfully when they asked how we are, we’d have to utter the word “constipated.”

We lose the ability to lose weight.
We’re too tired to exercise.
We become indifferent to the state the house is in.
We stop buying lingerie and start to think granny panties have gotten a bad rap.

One gray hair.

That’s all it takes before our world falls apart.
Before we realize that youth is slipping from our fingers.
Never to be recovered.
CPR’d back to life.
No need to get the paddles and shout, “Clear!”

Middle age has found us.
There’s nowhere to hide.

Do we embrace it or pretend we don’t see it?

One gray hair.

For today, I’ll color it and happily stay in a state of denial.
I never saw it.
It was never there.

Are you ready to embrace middle age?

Is elegance innate?

cc licensed ( BY ND ) flickr photo shared by Helga Weber

From across the street, I watched her.

Her red pashmina had caught my attention the moment she had stepped out of the car.

I looked on as she expertly drew the pashmina around her shoulders, transforming it into a stole.

She looked so elegant.
So sophisticated.

Just then, almost as if the universe took delight in mocking me, another beautiful woman waited for a car to pass before swiftly crossing the street.

Dressed in a beautiful black knee-length coat, with a pearl-colored scarf delicately wrapped around her neck, she resembled a graceful gazelle.

I couldn’t help noticing how the ends of her scarf floated behind her like wings.

As I slowly made my way home, I wondered how some women have the ability of making elegance seem so effortless.

Convinced that they were born with a special gene, I sought comfort in the fact they were but a lucky few.

Nevertheless, I sighed as I thought how wonderful it would be to have that look.

That look of “je ne se quois.”

That look of sophistication that says, I am beautiful and I know it.

These thoughts put me at war with my belief that all women are beautiful.

Yet a part of me conceded that while it was true that we were all beautiful, this didn’t necessarily mean that we all had the ability to exude elegance.

Determined to put this theory to the test, I called out to the Significant Other to bring down the basket where I store my scarves.

Bewildered, he looked on as I hurriedly threw scarf after scarf on the sofa until I found the one I was looking for.

Holding it up, I noticed how it sparkled against the beam of light that emanated from the reading lamp.

I smiled as I remembered my mother’s words the day she gave it to me.

“Here you go, Bella. So you can feel pretty and warm.”

I carefully wrapped it around my shoulders, trying to mimic the movements of the woman I had seen on the street earlier.

My breath caught as I spied my reflection in the glass.

There, standing in front of the Significant Other and Roxy I stood– looking like a badly wrapped burrito.

“Dare I ask what you’re doing?” I heard the Significant Other ask.

My sharp look and pursed lips indicated that this was not a good time.

Convinced it was my lack of expertise in arranging the pashmina just so, I pulled out another scarf.

This time, a luxurious cashmere little number I had bought back in the day when I didn’t have to worry about college tuitions bleeding me dry.

Twice around the neck, and voila!

I turned once again to look at my reflection.

This time it looked like I was wearing a high end neck brace.

At that point, I jammed all the scarves in the basket and instructed the Significant Other to take them away, no questions asked.

As I poured myself a cup of coffee, I thought that perhaps the look of sophistication was learned and not innate.

Perhaps these women attended a special “elegance learning” school where they were instructed in the fine art of tying scarves, faking the look of a stole, and walking in a way that prompted their scarves to come to life.

Or perhaps they all looked like badly wrapped burritos and it was my ID who was romanticizing their appearance and making them appear like unstoppable goddesses.

Calling out to the Significant Other, I stopped him midway up the stairs.

Reaching into the basket, I pulled out the pashmina.

“Don’t ask,” I hissed as I walked back to my room.

Opening the small cabinet door, I carefully placed it on top of the clothes already stored there.

It was irresponsible of me to conclude that my theory was right or wrong.

I would have to put it to the test once more.


I would try again tomorrow.

Do you think elegance is learned or something a person is born with?

Who wants a helping of Arrow with a side of Diggle?

cc licensed ( BY NC SD ) flickr photo shared by NiteLynx

I wanted to start off this post expressing my gratitude to all of you for asking me how my knee is doing.

I also wanted to give you an update.

After four months of being diagnosed with a tear in the meniscus, I seem to be improving slowly.

Very slowly.

There are days I think my knee is never going to produce scar tissue and I’m going to be left hobbling like a hobbit forever.

Nevertheless, I continue to wear my brace, elevate my leg, and sleep.

I find myself sleeping a lot.

Which is funny, given I’ve suffered from insomnia for most of my life.

And because I find myself dozing off during the day, I’m awake at odd hours of the night.

So, much like a vampire, I find myself limping meandering through the house, looking for something to nibble on, donning my blanket as a cape.

Sadly, little Roxy has also adopted this sleeping/non-sleeping pattern and seems to be eating round the clock.

We’ve come to embrace this way of life.

So much in fact, that we’re ready to audition as extras in the next Twilight sequel.

But I digress.

Last night, as I tossed and turned on the uncomfortable little couch in the family room, I thought it best to get up and find a way to induce sleep.

As I browsed the list of the many TV episodes I haven’t watched, I came across one of the last episodes of Arrow.

I don’t know what made me think watching this show was going to make me sleepy.


Because one minute into the episode, watching the protagonist train bare-chested and glistening with sweat, I was salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

And no, on this occasion I will not apologize for objectifying this amazing specimen.

Glued to my computer screen, hot tea dribbling onto my pajama shirt, I sat mesmerized looking at the most sculpted abs I have ever seen.

Roxy, aware of my drooling, jumped on the couch to see what was causing my hypnotic state.

Halfway through the episode, the desire to sleep long forgotten, Diggle, another male character, appeared shirtless.

At this point, I frantically looked around the room searching for anything that could substitute for a paper bag.

You know, in case I started hyperventilating.

Yet, it seems unfair to objectify discuss these characters without giving a synopsis of the show.

The show Arrow, a modern depiction of the DC Comic character Green Arrow, features billionaire playboy Oliver Queen, who after being shipwrecked on an island for five years, returns home to Sterling City. His family soon comes to realize that Oliver is a changed man. However, Oliver is not the only one who has changed. His beloved city has taken a turn for the worse–overwrought with crime and corruption, it is now at the hands of criminals who exploit the innocent. With the help of his bodyguard John Diggle, Oliver will assume the identity of Arrow, a vigilante whose mission is clean up the city and right the wrongs committed by his father. The show airs on the CW on Wednesday at 8pm, eastern standard time.

And there you have it.

If you haven’t seen this show, I highly recommend it.

It is action packed, the acting passes muster, and it features men who are more than willing to whip off their shirts.

Nevertheless, because the show doesn’t feature a warning, I feel it my sisterly duty to provide one.

Not recommended to those battling insomnia. Viewing the male characters may cause heart palpitations, impair your ability to speak, and produce sweaty palms. Use care until you become familiar with the plot and the protagonist’s insistence to bare his chest and perform the “salmon ladder” stunt, in which he hoists himself up a series of metal rungs whilst only holding a long, metal bar. Other symptoms might include vertigo, excessive salivation,and biting of the lips. Proceed to watch only after you have passed a physical exam and/or your physician has given you green light. Repeated viewing may cause addiction and drooling. It is recommended you have a paper towel with you at all times. Interrupted viewing may result in withdrawal symptoms.

Watch at your own risk!

Have you watched the show Arrow?

Disclaimer: The following post is written for entertainment purposes only and does not offer real psychiatric or medical advice. Information provided in the post should not be construed as professional advice. In addition, while I don’t support the objectification of men or women, comments provided in the post serve to confirm that the CW has been successful in targeting a female demographic.