Tuesday, January 22, 2013

More random stuff about me...

I would love, love, love to go cage diving with sharks.  I'm not a thrill seeker, and generally really dislike anything that makes me feel frightened.  I have enough issues with anxiety as it is.  But I love creatures, and if cage diving is the only way I could get near a shark, I'd do it. And don't get me started on whale watching! How awesome would that be?!

This isn't Sir Loin, but it looks just like him. I found this @
On the critter note, a few years ago, I had a summer friendship with a two year old jersey bull that I named Sir Loin.  A neighboring farmer summered him at our place. He was adorable, and very friendly.  And a bit possessive.  He chased me a few times, when I tried to leave him after a visit. He was on a huge chain, and as I walked away from him, I heard him coming.  I took off, running, and as I got just out of range I turned to see him reach the end of his chain and whip around at the end of it.  After that, I tried to meet him at the end of the chain.  Still, I ended up with summer-long bruises on the outside of my thighs, from when he would lower his head to be rubbed and press up against my legs, rubbing his short but rock solid horns on my thighs.  Once, he pinned me to a wagon tire with his horns.  And when his chain allowed it, he used to meet me on the lane when I was in the van, and lick the bugs off of my headlights before allowing me to pass.  He was awesome.

Last winter, I made a sourdough starter and named it George.  Because a sourdough starter is simply a medium that houses lots and lots of living things.  Yeasts. Which makes it alive. And worthy of a name.  And Grace has banned all Lord of the Ring names. Although I'm pretty sure I used up all the LOTR names when we had chickens. But I digress.

George died a slow, lonely death in the darkest recesses of my fridge over the summer.  I threw him out recently, and made another one this week.  This one's name is Mortimer.  The whole "making Mortimer" thing makes me feel a bit evil-scientisty, kind of like Frankenstein.  But if making bread and bagels that taste this good is evil, I don't want to be good!


I'm not a clean freak.  Those of you who know me are most likely rolling your eyes and gasping.  "Quelle surprise!"  But seriously, I like things neat, but I also like having piles of books around, and I want my home to be somewhere that people can feel relaxed in.  Including myself and my family.  My bedroom is a refuge for me, and I like it to be warm and comfortable, and fairly tidy, but I do confess to the odd dust ball escapee. Okay, maybe more than that. I like the cat litters to be clean. I clean the main one probably a few times a day. And I like to wake up to a clean kitchen, because I am not a morning person and making tea in the midst of clutter is not my idea of fun.  Other than that, I'm pretty relaxed.

 The thing is, there are so many other things I'd rather be doing.  And although I've gotten better as I've gotten older, I also now have limited energy and strength due to some of the health issues.  So I do what I can, and if I have to leave stuff until later, I'm okay with that.

The upside is that I never notice anyone else's clutter, either.  I've had people get all anal and judgy about my housekeeping skills, and really, it's so ugly.  Who wants to be like that?  I want people to feel relaxed and welcome, loved and enjoyed in my home.  And when I visit people, I want them to know that I am there for them, because I care for them, and I really don't notice much else.  If my energy is limited, I'd rather use it cooking for you, listening to you, and sharing myself with you.  And if the dust bunnies are an issue to you, I can show you where the Swiffer is...

I enjoy candles. Scented candles. Dinner candles. Birthday candles. Of course, it may be fire that I like. I also love fireplaces.  The smell, the warmth, the crackling sound of wood burning.  There is something very calming and beautiful about sitting in front of a fireplace.

Every winter for the past several years, I have tried to get a rosemary plant through to Spring alive.  And I have always failed.  There is a large rosemary bush in a pot at school (HAECC - Huntingdon Adult Ed and Community Centre), outside one of the classrooms, that inspires me. The thing is gorgeous.  I haven't been able to walk by it once without running my hand through it's branches and breathing in the rich, woodsy smell.  I love, love, love it.  I have one here at home, but it's looking a bit dry and droopy, even though I water it faithfully.  Still, maybe this will be the year of rosemary success.  One can always hope, right?

Later, gators!

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