Friday, July 9, 2010


I got myself so confused on the previous post regarding butterflies and 'its' and 'iss'. By the time I'd finished proofreading it for about the third time, I was wondering not only about what I had already written about but I was wondering if I needed to know more about the 'it' or if I needed to concern myself with the 'is'. I mean, seriously, if I don't understand what the 'it' is, then how can it even be an 'is'? So, not to be struggling with just one confusing thing, Betty has to go and add a whole new depth and dimension to the problem. Not only am I unsure of what 'it' is and also what it 'is' and if it 'is', now I must be concerned about what I think it is and if what I think it is (and, therefore, what I see it as 'is'ing) but I now have to be confused about the fact that when I say, "It is what it is," you may not be seeing the same 'it' or the same 'is' as I am. That's where I lost it in geometry, too. I don't remember the chapter or the page but I remember lines being drawn on the chalkboard and the teacher teaching us that those two lines would never intersect no matter how long they went on for because they were in different planes. Holy Cow! I could not wrap my head around that concept. So, as I have done some more thinking on my quandary, I have come up with some more quandaries.


 


Snow in July? I specifically remember a 4th of July when Nellie was the baby when it snowed. Nothing major but still . . . snow in July is just wrong.






Well, this supports the part of the equation, "It isn't what it isn't". I couldn't believe my eyes, though. Kind of like popcorn popping on the apricot tree only this was cotton seed blowing all around the town. The white stuff collected in piles wherever it found a windbreak. It 'frosted' the grass just enough that it looked like when you first look out in the morning on those first winter days.









If it is what it is, cemented in, unchangeable, how come in the last two days the fifth floor has gotten farther away from the first floor? My distrust of alligators {elevators} is still deemed greater than the pain of the stairs. However, there have been moments when I've doubted the decision {tomorrow when I'm doing all the checking out by myself down those five flights of stairs will be a big one}. . . these stairwells are similar to parking garages and those of you who know me know parking garages are right up there with full swimming pools as far as places I like to be. The walls are all gray-painted cement with metal handrails and the entire chamber echoes something fierce. I tried to take a picture from the fifth floor looking down through the middle and again from the first floor looking up to the fifth floor but you can't really tell what it is a picture of, so, I suppose it is just how I think (and my body feels) it is, huh?



'It' is a bowl of lemon and mango sorbet . . . and . . . a bowl of strawberry ice cream.




How come therefore it is the same masculine hand holding the same spoon delving into both of them? Maybe someone else needed to see if 'it' is what it 'is', hmmmm?





As far as our concerns/doubts/questions about Alan's second family in Idaho . . . our family discussions have always ended with us coming to the same conclusion: Alan couldn't handle more than one wife at a time, let alone a whole other family. And it would be too complicated to keep them both straight and we aren't totally convinced Alan could handle that level of intricacy. However, I now have proof that is making me rethink the possibility that it is NOT necessarily what we are being told it is. Or perhaps it is and he's also got a family in Wyoming, too. At least we can no longer give him the benefit of the doubt based on his inability {or what we perceive to be his inability} to handle more than one woman at a time!





And, yes, folks, it is what it is . . . sort of Tom Selleck gone bad but, hey, you gotta love that fringe! I always thought it would be fun to write a romance novel and describe the uncontrollable attraction to my Man who comes home at the end of a hard day of working, smelling alluringly of sweat-soaked, newly tanned cowhide combined with the sun-baked residue from his day {birthing a calf or two; slaughtering a couple of chickens for the little woman to cook for his supper; and perhaps even a bit of worm guts left on his fingers from his fishing attempt earlier}. The sun would just be setting behind him as he opens the door, silhouetting every little strand of fringe on the jacket I made him from the hide of our favorite pet pig and in the warmth of the last rays of the sun, sparkling in his beard, a drop of chew that hadn't quite made it to the ground. I would stop what I was doing and run {slow motion, of course} to him, wiping the silver polish off my hands onto my apron {he's a rich calf and chicken farmer so I have lots of silver to be polishing and besides, he still has the two headless chickens in his hands so it's not like I've been able to get his supper ready or anything}. He's in the house, now, coming towards me as I'm running {slow motion, of course} towards him. Still - it's really S...L...O...W motion. And just as our bodies are about to embrace, he plops down in his chair, making it easier for me to pull off his poop-covered boots and all the while we've never broken eye contact. Cool, huh?





I'm definitely convincing myself it is what it is and, as definitive as it may sound, it is still all relative.





P.S. I almost forgot the most important thing I learned while here in Jackson Hole! And the best part about it is I learned it from the Bar J Wranglers! For those of you who have not been privileged to hear them perform, oh, let's say, six times over the last 14 years, they are sort of a western version of the Smothers Brothers. For those of you who don't know who the Smothers Brothers are . . . well, they are who they are. Anyway, what I learned was BINGO WINGS! Yup. Now they are not just bat wings or the Relief Society wave or sleeping muscles, they're my BINGO WINGS!

4 comments:

  1. Okay, you're freakin' me out with the whole polygamy concept and your affair with the cowboy, and the poop on the boots. The ice cream part I related to, however.

    Need I remind you once again that we're twins separated by 11 years? I so hate elevators. If I ever got stuck in one you would have to scrape me off the wall and administer aforementioned ice cream to revive me. However, I still make myself use them because I hate the stairs more.

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  2. I loved your description of your "dream man"! Maybe that will be me in a few years? :) Or this fall when we slaughter chickens... Glad you're having fun in Jackson!

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  3. I hate escalators. Well, my mind and your mind isn't connecting today, sorry. It is what it is, and that's all I have to say. The rest is too complicated for me. I have a friend in Jackson Hold. Her name is Leitha Harvey. She does massage therapy at one of the resorts. Look her up for me.

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  4. Amber: I hope not
    Sharon: We were already on our way home when I saw your post so I couldn't look up your friend.
    Betty: Allow me to settle down your little freaking out mind (I think you actually already know the gist of the story). A couple of years ago, Alan started getting picture messages on his phone with sentimental little text message attachments such as: "Love you Grampa", "Kutter loves the ______ you sent", and on and on. The messages don't come up with a name, just the number and it's an Idaho number. Supposedly, he has {in his very low-key way} sent messages back telling them they have the wrong number, but they haven't got the hint yet. He's even sent them pictures of his grandkids and still, come next holiday, he gets another message with a picture of cute little Kutter, who looks to be two or three years old. After two years, we just harrass him about his "Idaho Family" and how he finds the time to get up there. Joe is constantly asking when he gets to meet his other brothers and sisters. What I think is sad is, there's a Grampa somewhere who isn't getting the pictures or the 'thanks'. Must not be a really close family or you'd think Grampa would be saying, "Hey, why don't you send me a picture now and again?" or "Did you get the package I sent? I didn't hear from you and was just wondering." And you'd think the proud parents would be asking Grampa why he never acknowledges the pictures they're sending him. Odd, odd, odd.

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