Sugar Sugar Honey Honey

I'm not the sweet type. Sugar, that is.

I have fairly simple tastes: Black coffee, plain cake, plain vanilla ice cream, unsweetened tea. Don't get me wrong, I can devour a bag of Reese's peanut butter cups like the best of them. 

That's normal.

The irony of a Krispy Kreme cooking up gluten overload within five miles of my house is not lost on me. On the rare occasion I do eat there, and it is rare, I get the plain, non-glazed donuts. Mr Coffee, however, makes a concerted effort to consume four days of his sugar intake in one go. The man has been blessed with some inhumanly sick ability (read: enviable) to devour half a dozen double-frosted, sugar-bomb, raspberry-filled, double-chocolate something-or-others and not slip into a sugar coma.

Mr Coffee inherited my portion of the sweet tooth. Fortunately for him, he also got my portion of keeping it off the scale. 

The hot, brilliant, gorgeous, sugar-eating jerk.

After consuming trace amounts of sugar, I feel like my vital organs are shutting down and I'm fully cognizant of my body's equivalent of vibrating bubbles out of a concrete foundation. All this aversion to sugary sweetness has turned me into one of those label readers. 

Sodium content, high fructose corn syrup, and how many servings they sneak into a pint of Haagen Dazs. It's criminal that you can devour 220% of your daily fat intake in one of those little Tardis like "four servings but are really one serving" pints.

Who in their lactose-fueled mind can stop half way through one of those? Me, and that too is normal.

At a young age, and by young I mean still in diapers, society is indoctrinating and molding us into becoming label readers. Doctors, media, parents, school, government-subsidized farmers monetarily motivated by the US Department of Agriculture. The USDA paying off wheat farmers, who in turn, encourage us to eat 6 to 9 servings of bread.

If government tells us how to eat, it's only natural that movies and TV would follow. I remember those 1980s-era Skippy peanut butter commercials getting in on the action. Don't even start with TikToks about those peanut butters with pistachios and chocolate.

My 2nd grade sister holding up a jar of peanut butter at the grocery regurgitating through a Vanna White grin and modeling her best Annette Funicello, "Buy this, Linda! It has good nutrition!"  

 

On top of this, with my label reading and natural sugar avoidance, could someone please, then, explain to me why, oh why, my teeth are falling out? Do your teeth just start to revolt once you turn 18? Have a baby? Once you start paying your own bills? Or do they wait until you start getting crows feet and a mustache just to mix things up? And it's not just us girls.

It wasn't until I was 24 and knocked up with my first child that I began to have teeth issues. Forget the other dangers of unprotected sex. They never mention a tooth revolt with pregnancy. Not once. Nor do they explain when you are 10 years old that one slip of proper hygiene is akin to ping hammering your teeth once you turn 25.

Brushing away a few, slacking, bedtime habits the night before a dentist checkup doesn't count.

Fast forward to adulthood and compulsive flossing. I have flossing picks everywhere. I'm the OCD of the dental world. Little hand flossers packed in my purse, in the van, in a bag in front of my computer. My compulsion has paid off and my hygienist loves me. However, I still need root canal, crown, have a cracked filling, blah, blah, blah. My front teeth repair is another long story involving roller skates, a blanket, and ramming my 7 year-old face into a steel pole.

I've motivated my kids in the past, sporadically inspiring household hygiene with the Billy Bob teeth angle. I sputter out through fake plastic, black, misaligned teeth in my best redneckerson, "SMOOCH! Youse want some teeth like me?! Don'cha ever brush...hey, give yer mama some sugar."

Not that uneducated or poor means bad hygiene. Kids with parents with money to burn just have better dentists.

Armed with good dose of fear, my adult kids have good hygiene habits for life. I also have label readers that would make even Linda cry into her recommended servings of protein-filled TikTok peanut butter.

~Bee may or may not be approved by the American Dental Association
Listening to: Smile Like You Mean It by The Killers

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Oregon Is Pink and Florida Is Orange

How are you at puzzles? 

I remember growing up, we had a United States map puzzle. Every parent and grandparent in the world needs one of these. 

My sisters and I took turns putting each state carefully together. We'd spend hours doing our USA puzzle. Then we tried timing how fast we could go. We were competitive and home-schooled. It was bound to happen.

Without realizing, we learned all the states and capitols. Immersion teaching. Although, I think this was my kids version, I remember the colors. Somehow blue is missing. I have to ask my sisters.

The pieces were paper on cardboard. California and Washington were yellow, as was Texas. 

I forget the colors for Hawaii and Alaska.

Maine and Oregon were pink. 

Montana was a lovely purple. 

Florida was a garish orange. 

What baffles me is I can't remember where my coffee cup is, but Oregon is pink?

I think my parents had some realization of how I was wired. I did my puzzle by color and alphabetically. The orangey-brown color I solved these first because I disliked that color the most. After some time, I had to glue the pointy tip of Texas due to peeling cardboard paper. New Mexico squished it all the time. 

Of course, it did. New Mexico was pink, too. 

Puzzles have a way of calming me when I'm hamster-wheeling in my head. My kids are the same. I bought them the same map puzzle I had as a child. Now they are adults and that puzzle lost its life in a juice incident years ago. 

I use a website. Sheppard Software. I've mapped out their puzzles online for literally 20 years. I don't know if they offer software but their online world geography puzzles are amazing. Homeschool parents, take notes. 

It should be noted, I found this picture after I wrote this post. Not bad for someone who forgets where she left her glasses 2 minutes ago. On her head.

 

 -Bee knew the whole time they were on her head.

Listening to: Neighbors power washing their walkway.

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Shuck It Bucket

 Are you still here? I'm thankful for you.

I told myself, "Self, you need to get things out of your head. Why don't you write on your blog again? Not just the negative, but take a breath and clear the gray matter"

My self is so smart. To catch you up, things have changed over the last few
years.

My kids are grown. Like, grown-grown. Only two-left-on-my-insurance grown. One married off and the other three making their way.

I have a four year old grandson who loves cars and abandons all sense of self preservation when he can. I'm certain his goal in any given room, is to find the highest point and find a way to get there. 

I am starting a new job. One in HR/Benefits. My antiquing business has been reduced to hobbyist seller. I like that I can come back to it, giving as much time as I want to.

I'm hiking now. Doesn't everyone say they love hiking? Those trails would be so much fuller if everyone hiked that says they hike.

Hubs is still in construction. He's been working a few months at a house on a hill out in the boondocks. I've visited the homeowner and they have about 40 chickens and lots of eggs. Their place looks like a whimsical Swiss Chalet. I understand the homeowner has a saw mill. The property is idyllic, nestled into the hill on a long, long back road. I can only imagine the peace they experience being 10 miles out of town. Wind gently blowing in the breeze, the smell of sawdust, and birds crapping all over the porch. 

I'll take it. Crappy birds and all.

I've been watching more TV and learning to crochet. Tik Tok watching. Book reading. Doing adult things like jobbing and buying houseplants. Getting a job. Getting a different job. Finding a groove in life (not a rut).

You don't realize that how you spend your days is how you spend your life. I've reached a more peaceful place in my life. An OCD diagnosis in 2023 and year of messing with medication came to a head. More obsessive than compulsive, I've learned a lot about mindset. I never really gave it much thought but I'm training my brain. Recognizing more and more when something derails me. 

A beach whale parking job. A loud neighbor. Spices in the wrong cupboard. That one comment that had me gerbil-wheeling in my head. Kids leaving trash in my van. Still.

I recognize things better now and focus on the good stuff. The positivity. The resolution to the plan. This has made me an expert in how to find the most efficient way to do something. I regularly use this to my advantage.

Will I ever shake myself of overthinking, over analyzing? I can't go back on medication (it causes tremors and makes me feel crazy) I don't expect a cure but I can channel my cyclical thought to be someone who lives with OCD instead of someone who suffers from OCD. I know I see things others don't. Perhaps that is part of comedy. Relating to observations of others or yourself that others may not see at first. That's why I write and that's why I like to laugh. Relating is a big one.

It also helps to analyze perspective to put it on proverbial paper. Like yesterday at a drugstore, an employee told me, after nearly hitting me with the door, that the lab was closed for lunch. She was rude and loud, "Um, we are at lunch." 

No hello. No sorry. No apologies for the wait but we'll be back in an hour. I wasn't even looking at her. I was busy trying to read all three signs.

I half smiled and looked up. Signage was everywhere so I was quite aware. "I understand. I've just been given the runaround on your hours." I admit unnecessary information but an explanation of why I'm hanging out next to the lab door seeing when I can return.

I kid you not, the woman makes her eyes wide and rolls them with her entire head, grimacing like I'm ridiculous. "Awesome", with her sarcastic reply, she should be employee of the month by now.

"Not really," I stated quietly looking back at my phone. She kept walking.

I'm ridiculous? This coming from a lady "helping" without being asked or even given eye contact, irritated I'm bugging her lunch break, and sucking on a $50 sippy cup while wearing giant eyelashes like an awning is attached to her face.

I didn't say another word and getting mad wouldn't change my trajectory. Who knows. Maybe Starbucks gave her decaf coffee.  Maybe she was late that morning or her giant eyelashes made her 90% blind. 

Either way, I'm proud of myself for not ruminating for hours on end and writing it out makes it sound even more ridiculous and innocuous. Its also far less emotionally exhausting to let it go. My friend calls it throwing it in your "you-know-what bucket". I call it the Shuck It Bucket and so far so good.

~Bee's favorite place is not the lab

Listening to: The Joke by Brandi Carlile 

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Green Cube

Here we have a Cube in the wild. 

No Cubes were harmed in the making of this post.

Getting to know my neighbors is a habit from childhood. It seems to have fallen out of fashion with the younger generations. While it's important to know your community, you never know when a neighbor will need assistance. As a teenager, a former neighbor once suffered a stroke and yelled for help for two days. We played outside in those days. Kids on bikes or with jump ropes. Anytime when the sun came out. Our neighbor survived due to the keen ear of my sister.

Perhaps the idyllic neighborly "Howdy Ho Neighbor" can also be considered nosy. I get that. It is a comforting thought though, to know helping hands are close by. Lend or borrow an egg. Help get groceries for a flu stricken family. Watchful eyes aware when we are out of town. Community is a rare find, but the memory of block parties and a billion neighbor kids in your backyard seems to fade away with the years when bustling, hustling, and isolation appear to be more of the norm. Pandemics don't help either.

I like to sit outside and work online. Load up on vitamin D and pet the doggos of passersby. I used to sit on my back patio but a Y2K like freezer now resides in my porch haven and it appears my herb garden is rivaling a McCormick warehouse operation.

On a side note, even if you are a brown-thumbed individual, I recommend buying an herb plant for $2 to $3. This is fool-proof. Keep it alive, your brown thumb is officially green now and you have fresh herbs. Go you! However, if you kill it, you now have dried herbs and you still paid a fraction of what the supermarket offers. I don't see a downside to this.

I've gotten to know some neighbors by hanging out on my two story patio. Etta (not really her name) lived across the courtyard from us and would BBQ on her patio 3 to 4 times a week. The smell was heavenly and we talked about our kids. Her ex. My grades, when I was at a local college. Her very cool job tallying and reporting box office movie ticket sales. How living with lupus had its ups and downs. Most importantly, when I was coming over for dinner. 

Did I mention the BBQ smell?

Etta moved away and I met Vlad, the new tenant in her old place. Again, that is not his name, but he is from Very Cold Place, Russia. I only learned about him and his family after an icy snowfall where he appeared on his patio in a t-shirt and shorts asking about the pool. 

I lied. He had on PJ pants. 

He did tell me he was surprised at the snowfall and it reminded him of home. Then came the incident where he hit my parked car late one night and told me the next morning, not realizing he hit my van. He may or may not have been...imbibing. Judging from our neighborly patio convos, my conclusion appears to be the most likely. I had no proof. We were neighbors. He had insurance.

Once my patio was overtaken by my homesteading jungle, I found a new perch, a little green utility box. It appeared to be a safe perch. I christened this my Green Cube. I should probably name it something cooler. I'm up for suggestions. 

Situated near the sidewalk and down a bit on a hill to give a nice low view of the side street. It is also covered by trees and graffiti, so I found it appropriate to set my arse directly on the graffiti-ed side. Take that, gangsters. Middle aged lady sitting on your tag. The same one you read about in Argentina prisons. The tags, not middle aged ladies. 

My Cube also hums. I'm sure its fine.

Of note: I will not share this tag. What the heck. Now that I have camped out here for a few months, I'm going to be calling the utility company and request a new paint job.

I'm enjoying my time on my cube and have met some great people.

Rob and his wife, Lily. They've been married for 45 years. He fought in Korea. He has great stories and a fist-sized hiatal hernia. I have to make a concerted effort to not stare at the center of his stomach. Why don't people get these things taken care of. Doesn't that hurt?

Mr DJ walks his black fluffy doggo, Shadow. Shadow was attacked by a pittie when he was a young pup. As a result, Shadow doesn't like other doggos but loves people. Shadow is a King Cocker Spaniel and Chihuahua mix. Mr DJ has disc jockeyed for many different radio stations. He likes country. His wife is a retired nurse.

Karaoke Man is known around town. He lives nearby and bikes everywhere. He turns up the juice on the amp and sings to soft hits and Motown from the 70s. Everyone knows a city's celebrity busker.

Paul lives nearby. He drives a green Kia and his wife is a pack rat. He does have a WWI Russian helmet for the low price of $600. Paul reenacts Civil War battlefields. Full dress. He plays a Confederate but he said he's not racist. It was only because they needed more Confederates and the uniforms were a lot cheaper. He also has three ex wives but now he goes to church and is happily married. He is pretty funny and his dog is very sweet. Paul will be moving by the end of the month. He is happy his new townhouse has all new appliances. 

TDG, Tall Distinguished Gentleman, walks every evening. He struts on by in a walk-jog and says ritual hellos with a trademark smile, and "have a great evening" in passing. I love his accent. It sounds almost Afrikaans or Dutch to me. As it turns out, what do I know. He is from Zimbabwe. 

He waves from across the street, "Wenza kanjani!" (Zulu for "How are you")

The Lady with the Red hat. Immaculate nails, makeup, and red lipstick. Coiffed, platinum hair, and smile. She never walks with anyone else but has a great hat.

Teenage Hoodie. Shuffles by with his wiener dog. I've never seen his neck or his eyes. His face is perpetually in the phone. 

Janet wears nothing but athletic wear. Cool shoes. She also has a friendly hello. Her Siberian Husky, "Avalanche" has places to go, things to do. Byeeeee....

Lastly, there is Rob. Rob is outgoing, but gives me 'watch him close" vibes. Just something, but he's funny. He's never been forward usually stops at my green cube to show me the crowned jewels of dumpster diving expeditions. He has mad skills. Rob reminds me of a surfer dude, Keanu Reeves, or the Turtle Dad in Finding Nemo. A few snippets should tell you a lot about Rob.

"I live down the road..a have a totally nice house. My parents own a ton so they let me live in this one."

"I'm so off the grid. I hate cell phones. Haven't owned one in years."

"I only go to the clean dumpsters. No needles in this area. I quit that shit 20 years ago."

I asked what did he do for work and the drawl is out like January molasses, "I am a maaaan of leisure. My biggest decision is which of four bathroom I'm going to use in the morning." He nods, as if in agreement with himself.

Rob carefully opens the plastic bag to show me his newly acquired goods, "If its clothes in a garbage bag, its always clean."

Modeling a white table runner with blue stripes on the ends, "Look, I'm Jewish! I'm not really Jewish, but if I was I'd look bitchin." 

Pulls out one curtain panel, "ooh, a rug!" Rob proceeded to lay this out on the side walk, kneel, and face plant. "Like this?" 

I stifled a laugh.

"So Rob, did you grow up around here?"

"I graduated in Portland. '92. I've done okay with myself."

Switching gears, he makes this jerking movement, he is gloriously excited. "OOOH, I have a uniform now." He gently holds up full Subway uniform punctuated with a Cheshire smile. On the T-shirt, over his head and clothes. The hat is yanked on and suddenly, a fashion show was born. He's animated now. He grabs the jean jacket out of bag, "Duude. And a coat! I look rad, don't I?" 

Strutting ensues further. He is exhibiting something between drunken chicken and a Monty Python sketch.

"Oh, and these aren't used, but..." Mr Point Break looks dead serious and holds up a clear, industrial plastic bag of unused Depends, "You know of anyone who has a diaper fetish?"

"Nooo?" I say slowly with a grimaced smile, holding in a flash of second-hand embarrassment. "Can't say that I do."

His face relays all the seriousness of the meaning of life, "Well, these are going back." He bolts across the street to return the unwanted item back to the oversized, apartment dumpster.

People aren't always vulnerable, until they are. 

At times, not what they appear, until they tell you. 

Not loud about needing help, until they're overwhelmed. 

Sometimes they just need kindness, but there are also moments of mind your own business. 

You couldn't know moments you've thrown a lifeline, where you've positively impacted another human (or doggo).

Sometimes I used to see Rob and wave to him driving his beater Expedition haphazardly overfilled with cardboard, garbage sacks, and other questionable detritus. I haven't seen him in some time which may have something to do with him showing up in the paper with a mug shot for suspected nefarious deeds.

Should I have not been kind, or neighborly? I may have acted differently had I know better and done better (this is also why you should listen to your gut, ladies and gents).

Neighbors are an oddity. My connection to them may only be that I live closely. The rest is up to me to foster good relations, or mindful of not fostering anything at all. Being a good neighbor on my Green Cube but still minding my own business.

~Bee does her best work outside.
Listening to The Search by NF

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