Archives for posts with tag: Spring

Donna Louise here. I’m feeling better now after coming down with some nasal thing. My friends have diagnosed me with allergies which are now, and will continue to be, affected by the mold. Seems the winter was not cold enough to kill it all and now mold colonies threaten to take over the world.

Then there were the friends who told me that I brought this cold on myself as a way to stop and rest for a few weeks. “Donna Louise, you’ve had so much happen to you since the beginning of the year that, once your body relaxed, you could experience being sick to recover.” The logic of that argument escapes me.

My BBFF, Bob, told me he didn’t believe those people. “You just got sick. Who wouldn’t given the warm, sunny, 80 degrees days followed by the cold, gray 35 degree days.” That’s one reason I like Bob. He doesn’t lay a guilt trip on me…usually.

After the threat of snow, which did not happen, and a hard freeze, which also did not happen, and a forecast for the mid- to upper-50s today, I’m healed. I will leave the house soon for the closest branch of the public library to pick up my zombie detective mystery by Kevin J. Anderson. With book in hand I’ll go visit my friend at the tea shop and find out what’s been happening in her life lately, followed by lunch and then tea and cookies with friends at 4. Sounds like a wonderful day.

As my birthday anniversary approaches, I’m planning several events to celebrate another year completed. A dear friend and her husband have asked me to dinner on Saturday and the ballet. Normally I would not attend a ballet, who needs to see dancing anorexia, but my friends have scored tickets for Les Ballet Trockadero de Monte Carlo.

 When Daphne told me her plans for our evening, I must have sounded less than happy because she said, “They’re men in tutus doing ballet. What’s not to like about drag ballet?”

 I breathed a sigh of relief because I thought it was one of those state ballets, but Icouldn’t argue with her about fun of seeing me in pink (I hope they’re pink) tutus. If I understood correctly, the troupe will dance “Laurencia,” a Soviet-era ballet where the peasants rise up and kill the evil Commander who has taken Laurencia to “know” her (if you get my drift) and imprisons her husband, Frondoso. The proletariat won’t stand oppression of their kind and rise up…typical Soviet-era ballets from all that I’ve seen. All power to the people! Sounds perfectly dreadful, but with men in tutus going en pointe and whirling around the stage appeals to me. So I’m off to the ballet on Saturday night.

Speaking of power to the people, planning session will occupy a great deal of my time in the coming week or so. On May Day SIS (Sisters in Struggle) plans a big parade and demonstration in honor of women and their right to control their own bodies. The Penile Auxiliary will march in the parade. I never grow tired of seeing huge penises marching in precision drills.

One of the women’s groups has made a huge globe which they will carry in the parade with an equal number of men. At some point they will walk away leaving the guys to carry the burden of the world on their shoulders alone. It’s a visual aid.

Some of the women may go topless, but that depends on how warm it is on the day of the march. We’re sure to attract a crowd.

Spring is here…again…and a young woman’s thoughts turn to borrowing books from the public library. I’ve got to go before the homeless people take control of the first floor. Bless their hearts, some of them haven’t bathed for at least two years and the library is always too hot on days like today. At least the guys are polite. Ah, such is life in the early part of the 21st century.

Advertisements

Donna Louise here. A moment to clarify something I said yesterday—after checking my calendar I found that Spring arrives on March 20, thus making the official arrival of the season sooner than I expected. That was the good news I received at lunch. Eighteen days and Spring comes back to my part of the world. Hurrah!

We arrived at the Greek restaurant to find other friends waiting for us. The only thing better than lunch with a couple of friends is a lunch with six friends. We took our seats and ordered our meals.

Someone bought “flaming cheese” for an appetizer (flaming saganaki). If I’d ever had it, I didn’t remember why it was called “flaming.” The waiter arrived at the table with a slab of cheese in what looked like a black frying pan with two short handles. The cheese sizzled in the pan. He poured something on top and then took his cheap lighter and lit the dish. The flames shot up in the air about five feet and the waiter yelled something which sounded like “Oh, sh*t!” to me, but a friend told me it’s traditional to yell “Opa.” I know what I heard, but rather than cause an international incident, I played along.

“What’s it mean?”

He hemmed and hawed before he said, “It’s like Norwegians say, ‘Uff da.’” He must have thought that answered the question, but it didn’t.

“What does ‘uff da’ mean?”

 “Why don’t you have some of the cheese before it gets cold?”

 I know a put-off when I hear one. I pulled out my writer’s notebook and wrote down “Opa” and “Uff da” to research the meanings of.

When I expressed my concern that the server had burned his hand and most of his dark black facial hair, my friends poo-pooed my concerns. “It’s an occupational hazard. Most of the time they don’t get burned, but like to give that impression. It’s the theatrics of lighting cheese.”

I had my doubts, but kept them to myself. I felt vindicated when the waiter arrived with our salads on a huge tray. As he passed them out, the white gauze wrapped around his cheese-lighting hand posed no problem at all for him. Occupation hazard, my patootie.

Now there’s a word I haven’t used in a long time. Mama always said, “Donna Louise, if you don’t behave yourself, I’m gonna swat your little patootie.” I understood the word to be a euphemistic reference to one’s buttocks, or in crasser terms, ass.

I’d heard men say to their sweethearts, “You’re my sweet patootie.” The women would act all embarrassed. I didn’t wonder why. After all, why would you want anyone to say to you, in public anyway, “You’re my sweet ass.”

A quick look in the dictionary showed me two definitions:  a sweet young woman or your buttocks. I can see lots of people getting in trouble with that word which is perhaps why it’s dropped from common usage.

The food tasted fabulous. The conversation salved my home-bound soul and prepared me to return home to these four walls. Before I took my nap, I looked up “opa” and “uff da” to see what they meant.

Originally, “opa” meant “oops” or “whoops.” It has come to mean other things like, “Oh, crap this flaming cheese has burned off my facial hair.”

“Uff da” is used to express slight disgust at something, but only if you’re around people from Norway or their descendants. Otherwise, people might think you’re saying, “Up yours” or some other hostile remark. Be very careful using foreign words that you don’t know the meaning of.

Gotta go. I have committed myself to a full day away from the house. No more cabin fever for this woman. No, I’m out and about. You can bet your sweet patootie on that one (and I’m not talking about a sweet young woman…if you get my drift).