Monday, February 8, 2010


The cold, dusty box-filled "new basement" (aka storage room)as it has been called since the mid-90s when my mom and dad built it, is our nest. The rat-chewed boxes of my preacher grandpa's commentaries have been discarded and their contents tucked on shelves. The forgotten antiques have seen the light of day are being prepared to be displayed. The 400 lb. capacity Toledo Ohio meat packing scale will be our baby changing table. It's free and we can't buy that type of changing table at Toys R' Us anyway.

So our nesting continues. A bit of paint on this tacky chest of drawers, a brass boat lamp hung on the support post, our basement home is becoming cozy. Next, I'll plant ferns outside our window and sew some matching curtains. Hmmm what next?

Monday, February 1, 2010


Since I have been sharing the very intimate personal space of my body with another being, albeit tiny, I have been less interested in socializing. A definition of introvert is someone who is rejuvenated through solitary activities and drained by social activities. Talking is harder work than ever before. Why this is, I don't know. Blame it on Baby Thom. Or me being awash with different chemicals in different combinations than ever before.
For some strange reason puttering around our little apartment or in the garden is much more appealing than in the past. Or maybe I just miss the rhythm and seclusion of our little home on the sea. It's simpler that way.

To top all of this off, I have always believed that people's belly's were part of their personal space. So, now my personal space is announcing itself to people in a very obvious fashion. Thereby inviting conversation about it, and PATTING of it. Maybe I should invest in a T-shirt that says, "Do not touch". Or maybe I should try to be less prickly. But, it is my body after all. I guess I could stay home for the next 4 months. That should cure my introversion and the belly patting. It would like when Frances the badger loves jam and so her mother only feeds her jam and toast. Frances starts not liking jam so much. hmmm.