Happy Feet

It was a weeknight in October 1998. The evening was clear with a definite chill in the air. Weather perfection. I had a date, a cliched meeting for coffee. At Starbucks even. Decaf for me. I didn't know her well enough to know what choice she may make.

My hair was freshly coiffed and cooperating. I wasn't smoking at the time, so I smelled like a girl is supposed to smell. I chose seasonal clothes for versatile comfort: bluejeans and a black turtleneck topped with a black wool blazer. I wore at least two gold bangle bracelets on my left wrist, a watch on my right. No earrings. My shoes were boots, my black cowboy boots, with a fresh shine. Cash in pocket, $10.

I set forth that evening of my first date with Wendy unaware I was about to be handily conquered, smitten even, by a deer-in-the-headlights look and an eyebrow waggle. Had I even suspected, I may have stayed home. Wendy doesn't believe. She claims I made her work much, much harder and made her wait much, much longer. The truth is somewhere in between. Or perhaps it is as I say? (The best of times, my dear. From then til now and onward.)

But back to my boots. I adored those boots. The miles eventually wore them out beyond repair and I bid them farewell. Wendy enlightened me to the joys of being a shoe whore. (An afternoon spent together at DSW is a hot date. We need bigger closets.)

I ain't no cowboy, but I did miss them boots and kept a casual lookout for replacements. It took me a while to pull the trigger, but last year I acquired a new pair. Via the internetz. Point and shoot. From Made in Mexico to my feet in a mere two days. Free postage. Tony Lama's. Size 10. Just in time for autumn.

This fall is even better: them boots already be broken in.

I still get a thrill every time Wendy waggles her eyebrows in my direction. You should be so lucky.

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Remember These?

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

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Renewal

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The Postman Always Rings Twice

I subscribe to Sports Illustrated magazine.
I have for years.
I enjoy the magazine.
A lot.

I like sports.
Baseball and football primarily, but others too.
I like them a lot.
I like to watch them, read about them, discuss them.

Imagine my heart filling with joy.
That's how much I adore sports.

Recently I answered the phone. The caller ID screamed UNKNOWN but I picked it up it anyway, not my traditional modus operandi. I don't know what got into me.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hello, is Mr. or Mrs. my-butchered-last-name available?" asked a young man's polite voice.

"No." I said automatically and mechanically while regretting my uncharacteristic compulsion to answer a mystery call. Nothing good ever comes from such behavior. I considered just hanging up, but instead foolishly blurted "Who's calling please?" while wondering why I asked and why I was still on the phone.

"This is Robert from Sports Illustrated. Do you know when they will be available? I'd prefer to speak to the man of the house."

My jaw dropped.
I gaped.
Really.
I was speechless.
Momentarily.

"Man of the house? Are you serious? It's 2009 for Pete's sake, not 1954. Dude." This I said in the treacliest of voices, soft and kind, oozing patience.

There's a reason I don't answer UNKNOWN calls.
My impulse control needs work.

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Figs Again

This past week has been all about figs here in the 'burbs.

Fresh figs have a very short shelf life. Once plucked from the tree, they cease ripening; daily harvesting is desirable to capture them at prime goodness. The luscious fruits maintain freshness for but a few days, even refrigerated. Timing is everything with fresh figs.

My mind always turns to my grandparents during fig season. From my grandfather, I learned how to determine ripeness, pick them gently, and appreciate the delight of eating them right off the tree. And while I never saw my grandmother "put up" figs, I devoured my fair share of her output. My sister preferred the squished variety while I was drawn to the whole fig preserves.

Whole figs. Preserved in sweet, sweet syrup. Smashed on buttered toast. Or, omg, on a soft biscuit! Or gripped by the hint of stem and dangled right from the jar over my mouth, the sweet syrup dripping on my tongue (and sometimes my chin and, yeah okay, my shirt) just before my teeth sank into the plump rich figgy goodness.

Such are my thoughts during fig season. This year, however, those thoughts were accompanied by an irresistible wild hair to "put up" some figs of my own, Grandmommy style.

Yeah, I know. WTF?

A problem immediately arose. I had never "put up" anything. Sure I understand the basic premise, but canning is serious business. Do it wrong and people get sick. Plus it requires implements. I didn't know exactly what implements, but I was pretty sure I didn't own them. More urgently, it requires knowledge and experience. Knowledge I can get from the OGAPI but experience requires doing. I needed a teacher!

Fortunately I knew just the person. An old friend, a woman who knows about many things I don't, such as the ins and outs of the art of canning. An email exchange later, enthusiasm abounded. While having never canned figs, plenty of other fruits and vegetables met their fate in jars by her hand. She was willing to try something new and had the tools. A date was made, details discussed, duties assigned. Bonus? Canning takes time. Extended boiling is involved, followed by more boiling. We would be hanging out for hours. The perfect script wrote itself. The performance brought a standing ovation.
























I did it just now. Dangled a juicy, dripping preserved fig over my mouth and devoured it. Memory Lane is an awesome road to wander.

Thanks, Kerry!

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My Afternoon Snack

My grandfather on my mother's side introduced me on to eating fresh figs this way. They had several trees in their yard and I used to help him pick the fruit. Breakfast during those visits often included this very dish in this very dish. Yup, we still use my grandparent's everyday dishes.

In a rare stroke of good fortune, we learned after buying this house that our neighbor has a large fig tree. We neighbors step up each year to help her devour the bountiful crop. Such a sacrifice. Today she even hooked me up with some half-n-half. Hence my trip down memory lane. Good times. Great neighbor.

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30-20-10-0

Am I the only blogger with draft posts that never see the light of day? I was rummaging thru my 287 unposted drafts and came across this oldie written in October 2007. Was this a meme? I don't remember.

30: 1977

• I was 14.
• A freshman in high school, academic success easy.
• I lived with my mother, my step-father and my sister in the suburban house where I grew up, in Alexandria, Virginia.
• We had Mutt, the family dog, and two white cats, Angel (mine) and Mush (my sister's).
• My father and stepmother lived in southern California.
• I knew every inch of my neighborhood and beyond.
• I rode my bicycle everywhere.
• Except to school. There I walked, carrying my clarinet.
• I was in the symphonic and marching bands.
• I adored band.
• I had yet to become a rebellious teenager.

20: 1987

• I was 24.
• The Boy was two.
• I drove a cherry red 1983 Mustang GT.
• I had what could, still to this day, be called my favorite job as the office manager for a 32-person architectural firm.
• The Boy's father and I had been married for five years.
• We had a husky mix named Paisan.
• My sister lived nearby.
• My mother and stepfather lived in Norfolk, Virginia.
• My father and stepmother lived in Portland, Oregon.
• We purchased our first house in the suburbs.
• The shit, it hit the fan in 1987.

10: 1997

• I was 34.
• Divorced, out lesbian. Alrighty then.
  
• The Boy was 12, attending his eighth year of Montessori school.
• There were seven kids in his class. Ten years ago, it was all about those kids.
• We lived in Woodbridge, Virginia and commuted 12 miles north to his school in Mount Vernon.
• We had three pets: Cosine, Detail and Figero.
• I drove a 1992 Toyota Corolla wagon.
• My sister lived in Sedona, Arizona.
• My mother and stepfather lived just south in rural-ish Virginia.
• My father and stepmother lived in Portland, Oregon.
• I was self-employed as a bookkeeper.
• I had yet to meet Wendy, but I knew Tina.
• I was dating someone but in hindsight, seriously, wtf what I thinking?
  

0: 2007

• I am 44.
• The Boy, 21, is a working actor and college student.
  
• I live with Wendy, my partner of eight years, about five miles from where I grew up in Alexandria, Virginia and over a thousand from where she grew up in small town southeast Texas.
• We have two dogs, Dudley and Pixie.
• I drive a 1999 Toyota Camry.
• My sister lives in Sedona, Arizona.
• My mother, a widow, lives in semi-rural Virginia.
• My father and stepmother live in semi-rural Washington State.
• I appreciate my employer and strive to give my best.
• I am a peri-menopausal woman recovering from empty nest syndrome.
• Expect the unexpected. Life is gentler that way.

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Time. Marching On.

My first post in nine months will be about my hair, which seems appropriate after all the whining I've done here on the subject.

I had it all cut off a couple weeks ago. That's right, it's back to the same short style I've worn most of my life. Did you know me then? I feel free.

There is tree stump a few yards from our screened porch door. The tree that once grew there has been gone for years. A proud holly she was, quite beautiful, with the unfortunate habit of blanketing her surrounds with sharp prickly leaves. A minefield 10 yards in circumference brought woe to the careless person who dared draw near with bare feet. Even the squirrels kept their distance.

The stump doesn't drop prickly leaves. It's a low and flat, not too troublesome while mowing. What passes for grass snuggles up to the edge. We call it Hal's Stump. Felling that tree was the last home project he helped us with before he died. Just a month or so before, actually. I hate surprises.

I began growing my hair out after his death. In hindsight I believe it was part of my grieving process, something I could pretend to control during a time when so much was spinning beyond me. I will say the pony tail was kinda fun. But as I sat in the salon chair, my long-time stylist Katie snipping off my long crazy curly gray locks, an almost physical sensation of lightness washed over me.

Hal will always be in my heart, but the ache has finally dissipated. I am giddy.

Goodbye 2008, Hello 2009

Happy New Year!
As usual, I'll be celebrating with sand betwixt my toes.
Wish you were here!

I Broke a Tooth Today

That is never a good thing.

It began as a delightful outing with Lunch Friend Lisa on Thursday instead of our usual Monday. I chomped, in a most lady-like fashion, a moderate bite of a roast beef sandwich. The beef, ever so tender, was sliced paper thin on a soft onion roll, its flavor enhanced by a layer of red onion marmalade and almost-but-not-quite-enough horseradish mayo. Tasty.

The sandwich is not to blame. But it set off a miserable chain reaction of events. As the headline announces, a tooth broke. In my mouth.

When I break something, I don't do it halfway. Oh no. This is not a simple break. This break is complex. This break had the dentist saying, "Oh why did you have to do this on a Thursday?!"

Restoration of my tooth will require three separate phases, the first of which will begin tomorrow. My gum line will be reshaped. Doesn't that sound pleasant? This break is going to cost us a small fortune. Yes, this tooth is that important.

The incident inspired dialogue with friends about why dental work is so damned expensive. We debated. We did not resolve. We did, however, commiserate.

Before this broken tooth debacle a friend recently queried, "I love living in a modern world, don't you?" I agreed with her then and it applies here too. Imagine being a pioneer and breaking a tooth? Let's not even go there.

Oh yeah, I'm digging.
Digging deep to find the bright side for my current condition.
I think I'm doing a damned fine job.

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Time. It Marches On.

I am 46 years old. My birthday was on Election Day this year. I gave myself the day off work, despite knowing I'd have to scramble to make up the time later. The Boy was home to vote and spend the day with me, a holiday made to order! (May I say for the record how much I adore that he is currently only a $20 bus ride away?)

Our family, the three of us, watched the election returns together, feasting on chicken and dumplings, a fire dancing in the fireplace, our spirits high as the numbers rolled in. Nice day. Great night. Good times.

But then I awoke Wednesday and read how the vote on Proposition 8 in California and the exclusionary "marriage" measures in other states turned out. My stomach turned sour.

We attended the rally in DC last Saturday, one of many held in cities around our nation protesting the outcome of Prop 8. It did not uplift my spirits as expected but I'm glad we went. The Boy attended the march in NYC---that makes me proud.

Where does the rest of my family stand on the issue of same-sex marriage? My co-workers? Neighbors? Friends? The supportive ones make themselves clear, some leave me guessing, and others I'm not sure I want to know. Do they even think about it? I feel naked. It is just that personal.

Wendy and I marked our tenth anniversary last month. I'm going to marry her someday and it's not going to matter where others stand. We will get there. I believe.

I also feel terribly dramatic.
I'm grateful it doesn't always show.

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I'm a Political News Junkie

It's an especially odious pastime for a resident of the DC area during the run-up to yet another contentious Presidential election.

We traveled a bit this October. I managed to avoid news on those amazing excursions, but then eagerly and hungrily re-immersed myself upon returning home. It's a hard habit to break.

Politicians are spending large amounts for TV commercials in this area. I hate them all. Sports broadcasts are heavily peppered and, frankly, they intrude on my enjoyment of the games. How rude. Yet I'm not-so-secretly excited that Virginia is leaning blue. Could it be?

My chest is heavy with anticipation. Not-news-junkie friends of mine feel it too. That's the sense I get anyway. One discusses politics with delicacy in my world. But oh, it's in the air.

I just hope we get it right this time.

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One Day Last Summer

I greet her saying, "Sherab Khandro, you look fabulous!" She smiles and strikes a pose which only enhances her fabulousness.

"And you, sister!" she croons as we embrace. "You are three times as beautiful as I remember!"

I smile and try to believe. She makes it easy.

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What Are the Odds?

Now that's sticking the landing.

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Have You Heard This One?

A princess is walking in the desert and sees an injured snake on the ground, very close to death. She carefully picks it up, puts it in her basket and takes it home.

She nurses the snake back to health, giving it the best food, spending money on the best doctors, tending to it for hours every day.

One day she opens the snake's basket to give it some food and it bites her on the hand. As she lay dying from the poison, she cries out, "My beloved snake! I have fed and nursed you, brought you back to health from certain death in the desert! Why have you stricken me so?!"

And the snake replies, "Bitch you knew I was a snake."

The moral of the story?
What do you think?

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It's That Time of Year Again

Yay!



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Uprooting

My parents are from Alabama. Their parents are from Alabama too, except for my mother's mother who somehow transplanted to Alabama from upstate New York. I never asked her how or why and it's way too late to ask her now. That makes me one quarter Yankee, yet my heart belongs to the South.

My sister and I were both born in San Diego. I don't know what my sister answers when someone inquires where she is from, but I claim Alexandria, Virginia as my hometown. My nuclear family migrated here when I was four. They have long since moved elsewhere. But me, well, I have spent the bulk of the ensuing decades living within a twelve-mile geographic radius. Yes. It's my hometown.

Home for my family spans the USA. I have siblings in California, Oregon, Florida, New Jersey and Arizona. I have a set of parents in Washington state and my mom here in Virginia, a few hours southeast. Wendy's siblings and parents all live within spitting distance of each other in southeast Texas. Our son lives in New York. Our nuclear families are split like an atom.

Why do some families stay close and others scatter? I envy people with family in close geographic proximity. I completely understand Wendy's mother's pique at her beautiful daughter settling in a distant land. Perhaps I relate because I didn't move away from my family, they moved away from me. Yet I take no issue with The Boy's transiency. It's whacky. My emotional double standards run rampant.

Still. To be able to just drop in to my sister's house on a Saturday afternoon. To bump into my father at the grocery store. To attend my niece's ballet recital without packing a suitcase. To babysit for my sisters' children or grab a beer with my brothers. To make a monthly run to the library with my mom. I'd like to do those things, among others. It would be such a delight to take a vacation to get away from our families rather than taking one to see them. Or not seeing them at all.

This rattles in my mind of late as Wendy and I plan a future move of our own. No matter where we choose to relocate, we'll always be distant from large branches of our family. The only one our plan brings us geographically closer to is The Boy. If he stays put. Which he may well not.

And therein lies both the beauty and the beast. The move will be for us, me and my girl. Just us. That kind of thinking takes some getting used to.

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I'm Back and You Know What That Means

It means hair talk. See, I got a really bad haircut last week. I mean a Really Bad Haircut. This RBH ruined my luscious pony tail. I am bitter.

I bumped into my neighbor that afternoon. We pulled into our parallel driveways at the exact same time. She was backing in, her truck loaded with tree rounds scavenged from two streets over where a large oak had recently been felled. As I oogled her bounty and exclaimed over her good fortune, she glanced at me and did a double take.

I caught the question in her eyes, "What the hell did you do to your hair?!" Louder than words, I tell you, louder than words. She quickly looked away.

There is a two block walk between the parking lot and my office. A scruffy gaggle of Brothers frequently hangs out near an alleyway I pass on the way. Typically I'm greeted with a friendly "hey baaaaab-beee, looking good!" or some other such brotherly babble. I respond with a polite nod, a smile and/or a perky "good morning!"

The morning after my haircut? Yeah. I heard, "WHOA girl! What happened to your hair!?" Awkward.

Wendy insists I look fine. While I value her opinion, she's almost required to reassure me. It's a relationship law or something.

Meanwhile, I had lunch today with my Lunch Friend Lisa. LFL has gorgeous hair. She has, on occasion, offered a merciless opinion of my hairstyle, or lack thereof as the case may be. Friends are called on to play that role at times. At least with someone as hair insecure as yours truly they are. I was sure to get an honest assessment from her.

And what did she have to say? Nothing. Not one goddamned thing. The silence. Oh how it burns. I kept it to myself.

I've discovered a Trader Joe's bag fits me quite nicely. It has a style, a panache, a certain je ne sais quoi all its own. Trust me. It's a vast improvement.


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I Like Music Theatre

And I adore this video.



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I'm 45 Years Old

I thought I knew myself. I thought I had an understanding of, and yes, even an appreciation for, my body and its womanly ways. It's been a pretty good body as bodies go, serving me well without demanding an extravagant price.

But I'm aging. Strange and bizarre things happen to women as they age. Strange and bizarre things are happening to ME. Oh the ignominy, the horror, the downright inconvenience of it all. (My mother never warned me. Did yours?)

Who hasn't laughed at a joke about women having hot flashes? I have, heartily. I'm not having hot flashes (yet), but I am no longer laughing. Recently I began recognizing manifestations of perimenopause, the precursor to menopause, in myself. A woman needs to know these years can be fraught with symptoms even more odious than hot flashes.

My memory, never stellar, balks. My ability to concentrate, really focus, is questionable and at times non-existent. Attention to detail? Forget it. Multi-tasking? Not today! All that effort I made to get through the empty nest trauma phase? At times it feels like The Boy departed yesterday rather than six years ago. And all I want to do is sleep, even if it is a sweat-soaked sleep. Am I depressed? Am I losing my mind? Why no, I'm perimenopausal! So nice to meet you.

A new pattern has emerged. No longer is my cycle as regular as clockwork, oh no no no. Now it turns in some twisted dysfunction of its former self, crippling me with inventive hormonal agony until my body decides to give me a break.

A friend nods and says with a caring tone in her voice, "Oh dear, someone needs to bleed."

Yes. Please?

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