I think I'm turning into a "granola".

"What's a granola?" you ask.

A granola is what I started calling those strange northwesterners who wore earthy-toned clothes, toques (beanies, or knitted winter hats for my American friends) year round, they ride their bikes instead of taking a car, grow their own vegitation instead of buying from the local grocer, wash, sort, recycle and compost everything instead of smashing it all into a green trashbag, they eat granola... with soymilk for the sheer pleasure of it. They've been known to hug trees. And, they probably like tofu.

A granola.

So... I think I'm turning into a granola.

This morning, I woke up and peered out my bedroom window to see that we had been blessed nearly a foot of snow. Yes. In mid-April. It's a wonderland! But, my first thoughts went to my garden and my bushes. My rhodos (formerly known as "the big bush in the back with the huge pink flowers") were bent over under the strain of the heavy, wet snow. I grabbed my robe and shuffled to the den to see a big-picture window view of my neighbour's yard... snow EVERYWHERE. Thick, heavy, white and quiet. Beautiful. I looked down... my fluffy white "what's it called" bush was nearly flattened. My eyebrows krinkled together in concern.

I made my way to the studio and peered toward the mountain past my weeping willow tree. Covered. The mountain, every tree, every rooftop, the road... and... then I saw it.

My weeping willow tree lost a major limb and was laying half-in my driveway. I rushed downstairs to the living room for a better look... It's my favourite branch... the one we drive under and pretend it's a carwash... as it tickles our car when we pull in our out of our house. Gone. And I was... sad. I was sad for the tree. What the mess? What's happening to me?

I got dressed, put on layers of socks and headed outside. I grabbed a rake from the garden shed and went around the yard knocking the heavy snow from off of my bushes. It was so pretty to look at... the snow covered flowers and spring bushes... but I knew that while the young bushes would recover, the older bushes might just snap under the strain.

I was out in my yard... saving the trees.

When I returned to the house, I shook off the snow and put things away. And, I found myself going on and on about how sad I was to lose that limb. Derek seemed sympathetic to how I felt, but rather unconcerned for the tree. He was just trying to figure out how to get it out of the driveway.

I wondered what could be done with the wood... the long, willowy branches. Could I make something? Is weeping willow tree wood any good for anything? I was starting to sound like a granola. Recycle, reuse. What would the Indians have done?

I'm still rather upset about the tree. But, I've gathered my senses. A friend is going to bring his chainsaw and help us cut up the carcass...er... limb and haul it off.

So... I made my way to the kitchen and toasted some whole wheat toast and made a cup of organic tea for breakfast.

The teabag wrapper went into the recycle bin, the teabag went into my compost.

Granola anyone?

-Jennifer-

Being sick isn't even remotely cute.

A few days ago, I woke up with a "rattle" in my chest. Nothing big. Didn't stop me from going to work. Or to Seattle for that matter.

A few days later and I'm a coughing, wheezing, sneezing, ear-popping, red-nosed, feverish snot factory.

Take yesterday for example: My husband's been busy since I've been home, so he'd only popped in a few times to see me. And when he did I'd do my best to straighten up and be presentable.

But who am I kidding? There was nothing cute about sitting in pajamas among a foot-deep pile of used kleenexes. And, all the Menthol Halls candy in the world probably didn't do a thing for "sick breath". I'd taken showers to clear my head, but I hadn't done my hair... so frankly my reddish/brownish curly hair resembled that of an orangutan that lost a fight. But, I pulled it behind my ears and smiled sheepishly past my chapped nose and said something sweet to my husband who asked if I need anything.

When my nose wasn't runny, it decided it was done working all together and stopped up. The only relief in that is that the sneezing stopped. But I'd rather have sneezed than have breathed through my mouth with the wheeze that came from my chest... I'm afraid I'd started to sound like one of those walking trees in The Lord of The Rings.

So, I popped off the cap of my Drixoral nasal spray. I jammed the spray nozzle up my chapped nostril just in time to see my husband walk in. Nozzle in, I smiled sweetly and blasted two cold shots up that side, and quickly pinch my nose and put my head back. Other side. And, head back. Got it. Stuff worked in seconds. Amazing! But, man it was bitter as it slid down the back of my throat. I spit the goo into a tissue and began a coughing fit. I hacked and wheezed like I've been smoking non-filtered Camels my whole life. And it was done. Sweet husband took the dirty laundry downstairs without uttering a word.

I retreated to my den and tidied up. It's then I realized I should have taken stock in Kleenex brand. Wondered out loud if I should recycle them?

I wrapped myself in my red, sparkly blanket and set myself up for hours of channel flipping. There is nothing good on Saturday nights.

I went to bed only a few minutes before Derek. He was downstairs doing the dishes. When I crawled into bed, I could breathe, so I didn't think to check how long the Drixoral was going to last. It lasted up until about 2:30 or 3am. I coughed throughout the night. Knocked over a few things on my nightstand as I blindly reached for kleenex. When the coughing fit was over, I'd sit up and groan. Disoriented, I'd force myself to lay down again... only to repeat the ordeal every half hour or so.

I woke up this morning in a sweat. My fever had broken some time early in the morning. My pillow was wet, but my mouth was dry... the roof of it grainy and my tongue felt like leather. It took me a minute to realize that I had slept with my mouth open all night. THAT must have been delightful - sleeping next to Darth Vader-turned JAWS. I'm surprised Derek didn't pop in some winter-fresh gum and force my mouth closed!

I think it's days like these that my husband must really really love me. He must pull from this deep well of affection to put up with a drippy, red-nosed, green-eyed, orangutan-resembling shell of a wife. Because... there's nothing cute about being sick.

Now excuse my while I sneeze.

Thank you.

-Jennifer-

I've been a bit of a spaz today. Before I got to work, my boss called and let me know there was very little to do... so I could open shoppe myself and fire up the ovens. Only 11 pies this morning. Two Coconut Cream, 2 Banana Cream, 3 Strawberry Rhubarb and 2 Apple Crumble, 2 Lemon Mirangue. No problem. Bake the shells. Bake two extra. Set out the pastry. Got it. I was gonna get out early today!

So I promptly started the apples. Prepped the 8 pie shells I needed to bake... popped them into the oven. Opened a new box of frozen fresh apples. Things were moving fast! I was deep into it when I suddenly realized I was boiling apples to make THREE - not two apple pies! Ack! I moved forward hoping the extra pie would sell. Grabbed another pastry from the freezer to make up for it.

Moved along to the Strawberry Rhubarb. No problem. Three pies. Got it.

Moved along to make the cream pies. Two of each. Made the puddings and grabbed the bananas. And peeled enough for THREE banana cream pies before I had realized I was only supposed to peel enough for two! ACK! (Again!) Made two coconut cream and THREE! banana cream. Hoped the extra pie would sell. Grabbed yet another pastry from the freezer to make up for it.

Baked the two extra pastries.

Made the Lemon Mirange pies. No problem. Beautiful mounds of fluffy mirangue... and... what's that? I baked two extra pie shells for nothing. I had started out with the right number of shells in the first place. ACK! Hope we can use them for tomorrow.

I offered to buy one. Making a chocolate cream pie at home today. Just for the fun of it.

Starting to wonder if I have some kind of obsessive compulsive disorder with the number 3.

Starting to wonder if I have some kind of obsessive compulsive disorder with the number 3.

Starting to wonder if I have some kind of... oh. Hehe.

I have a hard time remembering words. Today in the middle of Costco with my son I found myself pointing and asking him to grab that "what's it called?" Lemonaide. ERGH.

I think my mind is on some kind of hiadas.

I think my son might have been "touched" by my... what's the word? I dunno.

Today after his very first Chiropractor appointment, he was telling me how amazing it was that the doctor would touch his neck (he gestures to his neck) and it would fix his elbow (he gestures to his ankle). Huh?! We both started laughing.

He said it was time to take analogy classes again.

"You mean anatomy?"

"Yeah!"

We started laughing all over again.

Yes. My son is touched too.

Good thing we're not rocket surgeons.

-Jennifer-