Intruder in the Night

1a.m.

I awake to my dog, 
     who is practically standing on my face.

     What the . . . ? ? ?

I pry him off of me and,
     like a leech (only, soft and fuzzy; not slimy and wet) . . . 

okay, more like a lint filled dryer sheet, 

                      he is now stuck to my face.

He won't budge.

     What the . . . ? ? ?

Then, I hear it.

Chirp . . .
                         
       chirp . . .

That sound that terrorizes my dog, filling him with fear,
     and sending him into a frenzy, as he frantically searches for a safe place to hide.

Dog:  WHERE CAN I HIDE ? ? ?

Me:  Why does this shit only happen at night ? ? ? 

Chirp . . .
       
       chirp . . .

                                                                  

I know that I will not get any sleep, until I take care of the problem.

I get out of bed, and try to locate the source. 

As I suspected, it is coming from downstairs, in the front hallway.

I can't reach it, so I grab a chair from the kitchen table.

In the meantime, Charlie is glued to my feet - tail, between his legs; ears, back, 

     looking as if our house is under attack.  

I stand on a chair and grab its hard surface with my hands.  

I turn it one way, I turn it the other - it won't budge.

Chirp . . .

       chirp . . . 

At this point, 

     I am so agitated that I just want to yank the f 'ing thing from the ceiling!

BUT, I keep (patiently) turning it one way, then the other, until FINALLY, 

     the thing comes loose from the ceiling. 

I yank the battery out, set it on the table, 

                                              and give it the old STARE-DOWN.   

At this point, my dog is nowhere to be seen.

I have to send out a search party (me).      

He finally comes crawling out from somewhere, 

     and I convince him (I think) that the coast is clear, the danger is gone, 

            the battle is over, the bad guys have been chased away . . . 

but, more importantly, 

THE MEAN OLD SMOKE DETECTOR BATTERY HAS BEEN REMOVED !    

Back to bed, now.  

Please don't stand on my face. 

 

Peace. Love. Zillie's.

If you know me by now,

      you know that I have a bit of a love affair with my coffee mugs.

The warmth, 

          the comfort,  

               the way that each one feels in my hands,  

     the stories they have to tell . . .    

 ( Yes, we are still talking about coffee mugs. )

This one reminds me of a beautiful day in Ocracoke:  

     Whiling away the hours on the front porch of Zillie's Pantry.    

     The warmth of a stone pit fireplace; 

the chill of an ice cold beer.  

     The comfort of passing the time with one who knows me;

          the thrill of making new friends who don't.     

   

   

Peace.    Love.    Zillie's. 

  

Companionship

He has gotten used to me being around.

On most mornings, during the week, he would watch as I would go about my routine -
      putting my clothes on, doing my hair, putting on my makeup . . . and,
when I would walk downstairs and grab my keys, my purse, and my coffee mug,
      he knew.

He would solemnly walk over to his chair -
      the one with the front seat view to the outside world,
(and the best angle for watching my car exit and enter the driveway). 

And, with ears and tail down, he would watch, as I would walk out the side door.   

But, this week has been different.

He has gotten used to me being around.

I have been getting up a little later and, in an effort to jump start my day,
     making daily trips to the nearby drive-thru Starbucks.
So, when I put my shoes on, instead of walking over to his chair,
     he runs over to the side door, hoping and expecting that I will say the magic words . . .
            "Charlie, come!"
And, as the door opens up, he leaps outside (before the opportunity is lost),
     and waits eagerly, yet patiently, for me to open the passenger side door.   

"YES!" he seems to say, as he positions himself in his seat.

Another day together.    

 



 

A Stranger Who Noticed

Standing in line at the grocery store one cold, misty,
     gray Saturday in February (no makeup on, and hair untouched) . . . 
your eyes caught mine (one register up), and you did not look away,
     but, instead, you smiled.
And, something about the way that you smiled,
     I could not help myself from smiling back.

It was a small, subtle, HINT of a smile, but enough for you to notice.  

And, suddenly, I felt like a shy school girl.

I blushed, in spite of myself, and turned away.

Seconds later, you passed me by with your cart full of groceries,
     and, through the corner of my eye,
I could feel your gaze and your warm smile.

But, I did not have the courage to take a second glance.

You were just a stranger who noticed . . .
               on a day when I did not know I needed noticing.  

 

The Cheerful Brit

I went to my local convenience store, today,
     to pick up some much needed body lotion and shaving cream.

When I walked up to the check-out counter (where I was pleasantly surprised to find no line),
     a tall, thin, mostly bald, and seemingly very approachable man stood at the cash register.

One would think one SHOULD seem approachable in such a circumstance, however,
     as we all know, that is very often NOT the case.

As I set my items on the counter, he spoke. 

     "And, what are YOU smiling about, lovely lady?"

I was not even aware that I was smiling. 

As a bright light came streaming through the window above,
     causing me to squint my eyes,
I replied, 

     "It must be the sunshine."

Winters in the Washington DC area usually consist of
                                                                 day after day (after day)
                                               of gray . . . gray . . . gray. 

I immediately noticed his accent, and asked where he was from. 

     "England," he replied.  "I am a Brit, as they say."

We exchanged a few pleasantries, as he rang up my items,
      and as he handed me my bag, he said, 

                         "You have a good day, my love."   

I smiled, as I thought of my girlfriend in England, and all of the conversations we have had. 

What would she say if I told her that a Brit made me smile today? 

"A Beautiful Day"

This morning, just moments before I pulled into the
     tree-lined driveway at work,
the sounds and lyrics of U-2's, A Beautiful Day, came across the radio. 

And, as I turned the corner, I was suddenly aware . . .   

Everything, as it had been before,
     only brighter, more vibrant - more alive.      
The parking lot, unspoiled, as no industrial plows
had found their way through.

And, as I walked across the new,
     unclaimed territory in my child-like feet, 
leaving fresh footprints behind me . . .
     narrowing my eyes from the bright, sparkling white . . .
the cold air - shocking, making me take notice of my every breath . . .   

          I did, indeed, feel brighter, more vibrant - more alive. 


"It's a beautiful day.
     Don't let it get away.
  It's a beautiful day . . . "

           . . . singing in my head.   

     

Boggle Not

One day, not so long ago . . .

   (or, as a friend of mine always says, "just the other day", which could mean "yesterday"
       or could mean "six moths ago")

                    I had a sick day.


I took full advantage of that sick day, nestled under my blankets, in bed
 (my dog and little heater, Charlie, curled up next to me),
          watching television.

I watched the entire first season of Downton Abbey,
     which I thoroughly enjoyed,
and am now anxiously awaiting the release of season 2 (on Netflix).

I, also, revisited an old television series from the nineties,
     that I absolutely LOVED back then,
and am enjoying just as much the second time around - Felicity.

Felicity ran for four LONG seasons (back when a season ran from September to May).
I am currently into the third season and, appropriately,
     the beginning of Felicity's junior year of college.

The show centers around a character (named Felicity Porter) who, at the last minute,
     decides to enroll at NYU (as a freshman) because of a high school crush.

Anyways . . .

      it was during season one, a few episodes in,
when Felicity, and a (very handsome) friend, Noel,  are sitting on the dorm room floor
     playing the game, Boggle.

BOGGLE! 

I LOVED the game Boggle.  

I used to HAVE it.  

What HAPPENED to it? 

In my mind, I tried to search for it: 

     Was it at my parents house?  Did it come with me after I got married? 

     Did I have it after the kids were born? Did I lose it in the divorce?

In my mind, I could not find it anywhere, and I decided I absolutely MUST have it.

So, I went where any smart person would go in such a situation - Target.

I walked straight to the game aisle without stopping,
     and perused the shelves for Boggle . . . Boggle . . . Boggle . . .Boggle . . . 

THERE it is. 

Of course!  Right next to Scrabble.     

But, WAIT.  

It doesn't look the same.

The box looks too small, and written in very small print on the front of the box
     are the words "battery included".

Boggle doesn't have a battery.  

Boggle doesn't NEED a battery. 

Boggle contains 16 wooden cubes with letters on each side, a tray for the blocks to sit,
     and a large plastic lid with plenty of room for the blocks to move about, when shaken up.

Boggle ALSO contains an hourglass sand timer.

                       LOVE those things.

When the sand runs out, your time is up.

                       Simple.

Boggle does NOT contain a BATTERY.

How did they change it, I ask in my mind (or maybe it was out loud), with suspicion.

I look at the picture on the box, and it looks completely different.
The game is smaller, and dome shaped, and flatter.
It can't possibly work the same.
But, there are no other choices.

THIS IS THE ONLY BOGGLE ON THE SHELF.

So, after staring it down (for what seemed like an hour),
     I pulled it off the shelf and carried it with me to the check-out counter.

When the check-out clerk asked me if I had found everything okay,
     it felt like de-ja-vu.

"Speak now or forever hold your peace"! 

( Tell her!  TELL HER! )

BUT, I didn't.

I held out hope that everything would be okay.

BUT, it wasn't.

I took the Boggle home, and pulled it out of the box.
I stared at the plastic cubes.
They appeared to be trapped inside this spaceship-shaped contraption.

How do I get them out?

I did what any smart person would do, and read the directions.
The directions said to turn the lid in one direction to shake the letters up,
     then turn the lid in the other to keep the letters still,
while simultaneously starting the "timer".

So, I tried it.

I turned the lid, shook up the letters, and turned the lid again.
A green light began to flash.
Then, the light turned into a rapidly flashing yellow,
     and then, to a red light with an audible sound announcing the END of the game.

I don't like it, I thought.

I don't like anything about it.

This is a FRAUD . . . an INTRUDER . . . a FAKE! 

But, I thought, before I make up my mind, let me try it again.

So, I did.

Only, THIS time, I could not get the lid to budge.

Not to the left.  Not to the right.   NOT AT ALL.

I asked my daughter, who has smaller hands than I, to try it.

Nothing.

I asked my man/boyfriend, who has much larger, stronger hands than I, to try it.

 Nothing.

The thing is busted, and I never even wrote down a word! 

So, I did what one must do in a situation like this.
I went to the computer and Googled "Original Boggle".
For about the same price that I purchased the "new" and "improved" Boggle,
     I can purchase a used original.
And, even though my 16 year old son was able to finally fix it,
     I will be returning my Boggle to Target tomorrow.

Boggle . . . HA!

They thought they could fool me.

Boggle . . .  NOT!

The REAL Boggle