Suburban Lesbian

Happy Feet

2009-10-02T08:00:00.002-04:00

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?

2009-09-30T17:15:00.002-04:00

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

Renewal

2009-09-22T20:00:00.003-04:00

The Postman Always Rings Twice

2009-09-15T21:30:00.001-04:00

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

2009-09-13T20:15:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-08T19:00:00.003-04:00

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.

30-20-10-0

2009-09-07T19:00:00.002-04:00

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.

Time. Marching On.

2009-09-05T18:00:00.001-04:00

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

2008-12-26T12:00:00.001-05:00

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

I Broke a Tooth Today

2008-12-04T23:30:00.008-05:00

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.

2008-11-18T00:30:00.001-05:00

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

2008-10-29T23:30:00.001-04:00

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

2008-10-08T23:00:00.002-04:00

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.

What Are the Odds?

2008-09-30T21:30:00.003-04:00

Now that's sticking the landing.

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Have You Heard This One?

2008-09-25T21:15:00.000-04:00

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?

It's That Time of Year Again

2008-09-22T22:30:00.001-04:00

Yay!

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Uprooting

2008-09-17T22:30:00.002-04:00

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

2008-09-15T23:00:00.007-04:00

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

2008-09-13T13:00:00.000-04:00

And I adore this video.

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I'm 45 Years Old

2008-07-07T22:00:00.008-04:00

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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We've Grown Something Wild and Unruly

2008-06-29T22:00:00.003-04:00

Friends visited in early May. As we communed on our screened porch, Lee opined, "Ah think that would be a good place for a butterfly garden." She pointed.

My previous gardening efforts were uninventive: soldierly rows of matching plants, geometrically arranged, evenly spaced, frequently pruned. I sensed a butterfly garden might be different. Before our friends departed, I knew it was different. Under their tutelage, we visited local nurseries and selected from the abundance of spring offerings.

Planting ensued. Hands were dirtied, tools employed, sweat exuded, soil turned, roots lovingly set in their new environs. It merited the name "Garden of Forgiveness" for reasons unrelated to its creation.

Pixie approves. Most evenings find the two of us meeting at the garden to investigate what changes the day brought. As we oogle the new growth, a lovefest invariably ensues.

There was no predicting the continuing joy this garden would bring. Perhaps surprising only to me, it flourishes. It's wild. It grows willy-nilly. Stems stretch up and over and out all in all directions. Others hug the ground popping out brilliant multi-colored blossoms. They bloom! Repeatedly! With vibrant colors and varied shapes. It's unlike any other garden I have ever called mine.

I absolutely adore it.

I Made a New Friend This Weekend

2008-06-15T23:30:00.002-04:00

Eye Candy

2008-06-09T20:30:00.000-04:00

A recent Tuesday found me heading into DC on the Metro. The day was beautiful, a hint of summer in the air, blue sky, sunshine, warm breeze, the works. Everything felt crisp, clean and fresh. I arrived at my client's office in good spirits.

I queried my co-worker, "You know what I adore the most about springtime in the city?"

He looked up from the stack of papers he was sorting, his eyebrows raised inquiringly.

"Sundresses!" I announced happily.

He chuckled and said, "Why they're a favorite of mine, too!"

We grinned and exchanged a high-five.

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Continuing Education

2008-06-05T23:00:00.005-04:00

I've often felt less than adequately prepared to advise my son in how to best pursue his career of choice. What I know about his field would barely fill a thimble; I learn as he goes.

It is a recurring jest for him to inquire why, when he was obviously such an adorable and precocious child, I did not whore him out for commercials or appearances in other media where adorable and even not-so-adorable children can accumulate a resume and financial portfolio before they can even count.

Alas I did not know then where his heart would lead, not that it would have made a difference. I ~~was~~ am merely a parent trying to not screw my kid up too badly. We laugh every time.

He really was a cute youngster. Maybe I should have whored him out.

This Asian tour has been an education for me. Lesson 1,340,223: Everything is subject to change. The schedule is not firm until it is. Lesson 1,340,223A: This may result in downtime, perhaps lengthy. Lesson 1,340,233B: If the employer is reputable, they will: 1) Fly you home then back when the tour resumes, or 2) Give you cash instead of airfare so you can do something else until the tour resumes. Your choice.

So it is that The Boy spent the month of May free-form in a foreign land, exploring and experiencing a part of the world in a manner I cannot even begin to imagine. He's still there. And he's doing it on someone else's dime.

When I shared his situation with a dear friend, she replied, "Your son officially sucks." I totally knew what she meant. Who couldn't use a month on the beach? As it turned out, the break in the tour couldn't have happened at a better time: the earthquakes hit China ten days after he left.

Lesson 654,503, courtesy of Sir Elton John: Just allow a fragment of your life to wander free.

I gotta get around to that myself someday.

Who Goes There?

2008-05-08T23:30:00.002-04:00

First it was a lone voice I heard in the storm. Then it mingled with another.

Neighbors congregate with binoculars in hand, clamoring for a glimpse of our newest suburban wildlife. Our yard is in the center of the action.

The neighbor behind us revealed he had seen a trio. I asked where and he said, "On the tall tree in the crack house yard." We laughed. The crack house is another neighbor. It's not really a crack house but it does a fair impression.

We ourselves have ~~wasted~~ spent a fair amount of time gazing into the trees. Owl watching. We've learned to recognize their hunched sleeping posture as they doze among the leaves. They swoop. They perch. They stare. Their heads swivel. Their voices carry. Their cries end with a purr as the volume fades.

The other local birds vigorously defend their territory when an owl nears their nests. What a ruckus those smaller birds make, chirping wildly and dive bombing the intruder. The little birds recognize him for the predator he is.

Our neighbor came over holding out her hand, "Look at this!" she offered. I looked. It was a blob of dry stringy gray matter entwined around small bones. I donned my glasses for closer scrutiny. "It's an owl pellet!" she exclaimed. She pointed out a tiny claw in the mass. Together we marveled.

Curious, I consulted the internet and found an excellent quick primer on owl digestion, including this explanation of owl pellets:

"Several hours after eating, the indigestible parts (fur, bones, teeth & feathers that are still in the gizzard) are compressed into a pellet the same shape as the gizzard. This pellet travels up from the gizzard back to the proventriculus. It will remain there for up to 10 hours before being regurgitated. Because the stored pellet partially blocks the Owl's digestive system, new prey cannot be swallowed until the pellet is ejected. Regurgitation often signifies that an Owl is ready to eat again. When the Owl eats more than one prey item within several hours, the various remains are consolidated into one pellet."

Huh. Now there's something I didn't know.

Later, Wendy found one in our yard too. Have a look-see.

Part of me hopes that was one of the mice who commandeered our shed this past winter and feasted on a stored sack of grass seed while leaving mouse shit everywhere.

The circle of life. It turns.

Wish You Were Here

2008-05-04T22:00:00.004-04:00

When we visited North Carolina recently, azaleas were in full bloom. Now it's our turn! Vibrant colors are bursting forth from the legions of azaleas that grace our landscapes here in Northern Virginia.

Some folks manicure their azaleas into boring bush blobs or awkward hedge-like formations. What is up with that? Personally I think they look best when left to their own devices, to grow as nature intended. Azaleas aren't meant to be controlled!

Last spring, we began working in earnest on our landscape. One project was to relocate several mature azalea bushes whose existing locations did not fit in with Our Grand Plan. We did, however, have a barren corner of the backyard screaming for embellishment.

Digging up a mature bush is no small feat, but my woman is nothing if not determined. An afternoon's labor resulted in the first subject out of the ground, into the wheelbarrow and gently replanted in its new home. Love love love that pink, I do.

A few weeks later, The Boy tackled one from the front yard. It blooms white. A smaller pink one from the backyard and a fourth procured from a local nursery (vibrant red blossoms), supplemented our new azalea garden.

Perhaps you remember last summer and the drought parts of the East Coast experienced. We babied those transplants, watering them lovingly throughout the long, dry, hot summer. We endured an outbreak of lace bugs, which Wendy diagnosed and eradicated. Those bushes stayed alive... somehow (which is more than I can say for the rhododendron we also planted that spring. I've got shitty rhododendron karma).

Throughout the winter, I daydreamed about the coming spring and those azaleas, imagining the beautiful blooms set against the backdrop of the fence, contrasting with the greens of spring above and below, the flowers mingling in and around each other to present a blast of color perfect for enjoying while relaxing on our screened porch. My mind's eye, she is active.

As spring arrived, I inspected our azalea garden periodically, watching for new growth and being rewarded by delicate new leaves sprouting energetically. Soon, I thrilled! Soon they will bud then bloom into the riot of color I have anticipated!

In my fantasy, all the bushes bloom at the same time. Riot of color and all. Seems our corner azaleas have a different plan. It troubles me not. They are pleasing all the same.

I've Got a Food Theme Going On

2008-04-28T23:30:00.002-04:00

Who: Me. Wendy. Jackie. Emily. Pixie. Dudley. Oliver.
What: hanging out
When: a recent rainy and cool Saturday evening
Where: our screened porch
Why: because we can

When it rains, as it was that evening, suburban slugs occasionally slip in for a visit. Emily joyously appointed herself chief-in-charge of porch slug removal. Seems she has a karmic debt to repay due to slug abuse as a youngster. We are happy to indulge her. She busily relocated the few who popped by that evening.

I don't understand why someone who casually picks up slugs with her fingers and gently carries them in the palm of her hand while singing happily can turn into a quivering mass of fear when it comes to other icky buggy things. Like spiders.

See all hell broke loose when, while on slug patrol, Emily spied The Spider. I slouched in my chair and acted disinterested. Soon Jackie and Wendy had joined her in prancing anxiously around the general vicinity of the The Spider, who by then was defiantly crouched in the corner under the bright beam of a flashlight. They all called for me to GET UP! and LOOK! at the SIZE! of this SPIDER!!!

Nope, no way. I wasn't going to get dragged into that spider adventure. He was all the way across the porch from where I sat. I had no interest whatsoever in that spider.

Cameras appeared. Pictures were taken. Oh wait! Something for scale! A Bic was tossed into the corner amid renewed girlie screeches and prancing. More pictures were taken. Still I sat relaxed in my chair. That spider had nothing to do with me. I was Zen.

My eyebrow quirked when Oliver got involved. As the weather has warmed, Oliver has become a regular occupant of our porch. He likes it out there. I've seen him chase crawling things. He eats them.

Oh what a deadly game was set into motion that night. The Spider was doomed to be an Ollie snack. I leaped out of my chair in horror as the others cringed and groaned and cheered. Oliver batted, snatched, crunched, swallowed then licked his lips as he sauntered away.

I looked at the pictures later.
It really was a big spider.

He Did Eat It

2008-04-24T18:30:00.001-04:00

The food pictured in the previous post was my very first attempt at making chicken and dumplings. We ate it, a bit hesitantly at first then with greater gusto. Kudos to those who guessed correctly! The mushrooms were an afterthought and I'll probably leave them out next time. Yes, there will be a next time. The dumplings were just as delicious as the ones my mother used to make. Yummy.

The Boy is having decidedly different culinary experiences on his travels:

This proves to me once again that The Boy will try anything. Even the foot of a chicken.

I think I'll stick with my ugly dumplings.

Did We Eat It?

2008-04-13T21:00:00.003-04:00

I spent some creative time in the kitchen this afternoon. Imagine my ~~dismay~~ ~~alarm~~ ~~horror~~ surprise when it manifested this way:

So give me your best guess, folks.
What is it?

.

Time Passages

2008-04-02T20:45:00.004-04:00

I've only attended one RenFaire and it was when The Boy was this size:

Recognize him? Of course you do. Yes, it's been awhile. Wendy and I are going to another one this weekend. In North Carolina. With people we've not yet met but already know. Sans youngsters, it's bound to be a different experience on a number of levels. I shall swill beer and call it mead. I shall resist the temptation of cheesecake-on-a-stick. There will be jousting. And cleavage. Huzzah? Huzzah!

Carolina is gorgeous this time of year. I sort-of-but-not- really-because-time-passes-for-a-reason miss our periodic travels there while The Boy was in college. This trip is something else altogether.

But some things shouldn't change.
Here's to North Carolina barbeque.
And getting while the getting's good.

Break's Over

2008-03-26T09:00:00.001-04:00

They say the way to get something done is to ask a busy person to do it. It's so true, yet irrelevant to this post. I just find it a fascinating truth in human behavior.

We gave ourselves the winter off from house projects. A small kindness, a personal gift perhaps? I like to think of it as such. It beats thinking of ourselves as slothful. More than likely it's a combination. I'm okay with that.

But now it's Spring. Days are longer, things are blooming, an urge to "do" buds within us.

I wasn't feeling particularly inspired when we awoke Friday morning. A three day weekend stretched out before us, filled with possibility. I contemplated rolling back over and taking a nap. But that urge nagged. That urge to "do".

I was laying there teetering on the edge of whatever when the Tornado hit, the Tornado I affectionately call "Wendy".

This is where good couples dynamics pays off. Knowing when to lead, when to follow, when to step in and when to stand back. I have learned when the Tornado hits to just ride it. She's a purposeful whirlwind, my Wendy.

Over the next several months, we'll be creating useful, hopefully beautiful, living space in the lower level of our house. (Yes, there will be pictures.)

First up, whole house (re)organization. Our home is not large. Renovating an entire level requires optimal organization elsewhere. In our case it took on the added benefit of spring cleansing.

Before I had even downed my second cup of coffee, Wendy had three closets emptied and had started on a fourth. Then she disappeared into the attic. Piles of "stuff" appeared everywhere. (Where did it all come from?! ) I sorted, purged and neatly repacked as assigned.

She blew by me at intervals, here there and everywhere, pointing, soliciting opinions, answering questions, solving problems. By Saturday evening, the work was almost complete. We retired to the fort for s'mores.

See, not only did Wendy re-organize our closets, basement and attic, she found time to set up a firepit in the fort. I heart my Tornado.

Next up, a laundry list of projects and events-to-come: plumbers with jackhammers, shower layout and construction, floor coverings, lighting design, power tools, problem-solving, electricians, Kerdi and tile, drywall dust, fresh paint, trim work, and a budget we'll try not to blow too badly.

Yes indeed, our break is over. The game is afoot!

Spring Fever. We Have It.

2008-03-17T23:00:00.003-04:00

We've got a cat. He's not our cat, but he comes to visit often enough that we keep a bag of his food in the cabinet. I haven't slipped and called him Figero yet, but I'm certain I will eventually, much in the same way I occasionally slip and refer to Pixie as Cosine.

Oliver is an indoor cat. He thinks he is an outdoor cat, consequently one must be very careful when opening exterior doors. Oliver is quite skilled at slipping by those not paying close attention. His quick escapes are followed by wild chases through the neighborhood. I'm not sure what he thinks he's running from or where he thinks he's running to, but he's definitely in a hurry.

I'm of the opinion that a cat who wants out that badly should go on out. Maybe he needs to get his ass kicked by the neighborhood menagerie in order to develop an appreciation for the safety of an interior perch on a windowsill. Maybe he'd kick their asses. Maybe he just wants some fresh air or has a hankering for some fresh squirrel meat. But his mother knows him better than I do and she makes the rules. An indoor cat he is.

As has become a loose routine, Oliver arrived this weekend in company of the Next Generation, Emily and Jackie. Emily bubbled over with enthusiasm born of Spring. She twisted her sneakered toe into the ground and blurted, "Can we build a fort in the backyard this weekend?!"

I will leave to you to decide what it says of us that we hesitated not at all to undertake such an endeavor. And so it was we enjoyed the Spring weekend somewhat frivolously yet with great purpose. Tools and imaginations were employed, good humor abounded. Evening found us, all of us, Oliver included (secure on a leash to his mild disdain that in no apparent way diminished his obvious delight at being outdoors), grouped together in our newly constructed fort, ~~swilling~~ sipping beers and swapping tales while reveling in the suburban delights of Spring.

Forts. I highly recommend them.

"Don't You Fret"

2008-03-12T21:00:00.002-04:00

I stared blankly at my computer screen as my mind wandered off as my mind tends to do. Worrying I was, as wont I am, this time contemplating whether The Boy will pack enough Immodium AD to last his entire trip. It's the one medication everyone agrees is essential for traveling in Asia. But how much is enough? I repeatedly attempted to devise a reasonable equation. The variables are too many and I obsessed with no success.

I thought of my sister. She offers a strategy for anxiety management I call the bubble technique. When something is worrying me, I imagine it tucked comfy-cozy inside a buoyant bubble. My bubbles are translucent with shimmery changing colors, prismatic soap bubbles on steroids. Often the size of my fist and never smaller than the average green grape, the bubble, once burdened with my worries, is imagined floating off into the netherland. I wave farewell. The worries, along with the bubble, disappear in the distance.

I've sent a lot of worries floating off via bubbles this week. The title of the post is advice from my son. I'm working on taking it.

A Dark and Stormy Night

2008-03-06T23:00:00.000-05:00

Tuesday evening I retired to our bedroom early after a particularly trying day of work. One window was wide open, the temperature moderate. Wearing only my Longhorn t-shirt I stood in the dark leaning on the sill, enthralled by the action in the backyard.

The tops of the tall trees swayed and bowed their heads, the branches creaking loudly in response to the howling gusts of wind. Soon torrents of rain cascaded through the trees and drubbed on the roof. The tensions of the day washed away in the resultant cacophony.

For the past few weeks, an owl has serenaded us intermittantly from somewhere way up high in the treetops, his rich voice echoing eerily. In the midst of last night's storm, his voice again rang out crisp and clear. Do owls not seek shelter in a storm?

I slept like a rock that night.
I wonder how the owl fared.

BlogFriends '08

2008-02-29T00:50:00.003-05:00

Oh yes. We were there.
If you weren't, we may have talked about you.
You're just that special.

A series of photos is omitted from this collection. A baby is involved, one who prefers to remain incognito. His agents demand it. We cooperate without question because we're not like "Alice" on the L Word who signs a non-disclosure agreement and then outs a minor sports figure when it suits her. (Alice, what were you thinking?!)

Imagine, if you will, a large room containing a dozen or so convivial women, when in, astride one of his mothers' hips, struts an adorable six-month-old beautiful bouncing baby boy with a wide toothless grin. The delight was palpable, the infant amazingly compliant and seemingly equally as enamored of being passed from arm to arm and cooed over incessantly. Good times.

On to the photos then. Enjoy?

I Ate My Weight in Asparagus

2008-02-19T22:00:00.002-05:00

It all started with a note left on our door last Thursday. A bright yellow 3x3 Post-It at eye-level on the carport door greeted me when I arrived home: "Would you like some fresh asparagus?"

I perked. Why yes, yes I would love some fresh asparagus! I did a little happy dance right there in the carport. Our benefactor arrived with the bounty, at least as excited as I was. I perked again. She gently handed over a large bundle; the stalks firm and fresh and thin, just the way we like them. She had found a great sale and purchased a ton (her unit of measure). I understood the impulse.

My mind immediately began listing things to make with that asparagus. Shall I just steam them? I pondered. Asparagus quiche is delicious. How about a bisque, a la that zucchini soup Wendy adored? Or maybe an asparagus and feta frittata for Sunday brunch! Or my grandmother's asparagus and cheddar casserole.... oh nom nom nom!

Friday afternoon I tripped down to Sam's Club to stock up on a few staples. I pushed my cart past the produce section and lo! There I came upon large quantities of asparagus bundled into humongous Sam's Club-sized portions! Oh yes, they were as lovely and fresh and thin as the stalks our neighbor had gifted us! And cheap! Resistance was futile and a mega-bundle soon topped my cart, my culinary imagination joyously on overload.

It became our asparagus challenge. Fortunately I had hungry stomachs to help me out. It took company over the three-day weekend and leftovers for dinner tonight, but every stalk has been devoured.

Asparagus.
It's the reason for the season.

♪♫ Ground Control to Major Tom.... ♫♪

2008-02-11T20:00:00.000-05:00

Travel preparation has long inspired anxiety in me. Precious routines are interrupted and timeliness looms even larger than usual. It's serious business. At least that's how I see it, even when I'm not the one traveling.

Inefficient packing makes me crazy, but if it's not my suitcase, why do I care? Forgetting to pack stuff doesn't have to be a big deal, yet for some reason I anticipate the potential act of forgetting something as a horror to be avoided at all costs (perhaps an explanation for why I consistently over-pack). My anxiety immediately dissipates once travel has begun.

Friday evening The Boy prepared for an o'dark thirty flight out of town. Rarely have I felt as blessed as when Wendy said, "I'll take him to the airport." Which explains why she was already asleep beside me and I was wide awake. Listening to him pack.

Into the kitchen, then out to the carport. Up the stairs to his room. The dryer buzzed. Down to the basement. Back up to the landing and into the bathroom. Footsteps, doors, cabinets, stairs, floors, drawers: each sound distinct, repetitive and comforting in their familiarity. Packing progress.

It's easier now that he's grown. Through the years I've gone from packing for him to helping him pack to trying to mind my own business and let him mind his. He'll let me know if he needs me. He's independent with proven competence; I don't need to worry. But I do it anyway. Old habits and such.

I lay there under the covers, Pixie stretched along the length of my left leg, Wendy cuddling my right side, Dudley curled along her back. The house got very quiet and I drifted off to sleep.

The Boy will be home again in two weeks. Three weeks later he'll board another plane, off to Asia for nine months touring as "Rolf" in The Sound of Music.

China. Thailand. The Philippines. Holy shit. I don't even want to consider the anxiety I'll be squashing while he's packing for that trip.

Meanwhile, my heart swells with pride at his accomplishments as my head tries to tell me it's just another job (albeit a really cool one!). Still. He's come a long way since playing "Romeo" in elementary school.

Caturday & Coffee

2008-01-26T08:00:00.000-05:00

Many who know me are painfully aware I thrive on silliness. Be that a blessing or curse (and let me assure you it can be both), I am compelled to jump on the silly train more often than not. It is a force not to be denied.

It has become a routine, a favorite habit, a Saturday morning coffee ritual: Caturday! Perusing cat pictures. Cat pictures with captions: lolcats, internet silliness at its finest. My current favorites, let me show you them.

Enjoyment of cat-speak can require putting aside one's grammar-nazi ways. I've learned to roll with it on Caturday.

Let's try some kitten-speak:

Did you giggle? Say "awwwwww"? The cute factor gets me every time. I'm a sucker for cute. (My girlfriend, have you met her?)

Some kitties are more literate.

This next photo has made the rounds with many different captions, but this one, well, I consider it near lolcat perfection:

So what's the point? They make me laugh. Felines exude personality and are endlessly photogenic. The folks who caption them add icing to cake. Kudos to the creators! The sheer silliness pleases me greatly.

Last Caturday, fresh off a dose of lolcats with the chuckles still reverberating, I chanced to peruse a set of childhood pictures a friend posted online. I came across a photo that instantly reminded me of this:

I was compelled to create this.

It just couldn't be helped.
I'm certain the featured child will understand.

.

Hair Today

2008-01-19T20:45:00.000-05:00

Every Day is Christmas

2008-01-09T22:00:00.000-05:00

We've been away. We're back now. I hope I didn't completely miss Teresa's White Elephant Party.

How excited I was when she proposed a blogging White Elephant exchange! How many different items I considered! How many mental blog posts I wrote and dismissed!

A whole herd of them, that's how many.

Then we got a box in the mail. It was a cool box with interesting things inside. I am fascinated by one item in particular. Fascinated and repulsed at the same time. It's an interesting sensation.

It's an ashtray. Normally I don't take issue (outside of guilt for smoking to begin with) with using an ashtray for its intended purpose. But this ashtray is different. Take a look:

One may think a woman such as myself with seemingly slight potential of being non-atheist, decidedly undecided yet somewhat superstitious, could get a kick out of that ashtray and indeed I have. I have laughed, paused, laughed again, pondered, shared with others, and done it all over again.

Still. It kinda creeps me out. There is no way in hell I can ever put a cigarette out on Jesus' face. In fact I can't even bring myself to use it as a change holder or a place to store my paper clips or any number of other things an ashtray can be used for besides stubbing out a cigarette. I can't explain why. I just can't do it.

So, gentle readers, the line forms to the left. Be the first to call dibs on this uniquely spiritual and practical item. Perhaps you have a collection of Jesus memorabilia. Perhaps you need something on your dresser to corral pennies. Maybe you just need an ashtray. (Can a smoker have too many? I think not.)

Postage is on me. Privately send me your address, which I will use once then shred in my brand new Holiday Shredder. It cross-cuts even.

Please. Somebody. Anybody.
Consider taking custody of this item.

Jesus saves, or so I've heard.

What Happened to December?

2007-12-26T21:00:00.000-05:00

Serious question: If someone sends you a Christmas present in the mail, do you unwrap it upon receipt or do you put it under your tree and open it on Christmas Day?

I bombed out in fantasy football this year. Kudos to Chapin, who won the Blogger Fantasy League by taking down weese's adorable MAW in a ~~rollover~~ brutal finale. Add a rousing hand of applause for our amazing Commissioner, sporks. Girl, you rock. I'm already looking forward to next season.

My office relocated last week. In our previous building, we were on the first floor. We are now ensconced on the seventh floor of a building ten blocks north and three blocks east. We have a panoramic view of Old Town Alexandria and the Potomac River.

There are 120 stairs from the lobby to the seventh floor. The stairwells are clean, bright and well-marked. Going up, I am slightly winded by the fifth floor, the eighty-eighth step if one happens to count. Pathetic? Maybe. I prefer to think of it as having room for improvement.

There are elevators, of course. But I'd rather walk. Because I can. It's good for me. Obviously I need it.

Christmas offered a nice dose of family bonding, and oh my, what a diverse family we have. Soldier Boy dressed up for the occasion. This marked my fortieth or so Christmas in the DC area. None of them have been white. Weather wishes notwithstanding, the holiday was nice. What comes next will be nice too. My slippers are, of course, joining us for the next leg of our traditional year end festivities.

2008.
Ready or not.
Here we come!

An(other) Impromptu Poll

2007-12-15T23:00:00.000-05:00

Location: Snazzy waterfront restaurant in Old Town, Alexandria

Occasion: A festive office gathering, shamelessly called the Christmas Party by everyone but me. I refer to it as the Holiday Party because I strive to exude political correctness in the office environment. Someday I may work somewhere it matters.

Attendees: The three owners of the company, a recently retired ex-owner, and three employees. Two female, five male. Age range mid-thirties to early sixties, three of us in our forties.

The conversation turned to massages. It wafted down and came to rest near my plate, which, until that point, had captured my attention ever since the discreet and ever-so-proper server seamlessly slipped it in front of me while refilling my wine glass with a very nice pinot. Pan-seared scallops in a light ginger sauce artistically surrounded an interesting layered mound of white rice, bok choy and spinach. I was a bit distracted, obviously.

I looked up when I heard my name. "Suzanne," a co-worker queried, "Have you ever had a professional massage?"

"Sure," I replied. "You?"

To my amazement, none of my other dinner companions has ever known the sheer pleasure, the delightful indulgence, of a professional massage.

Frankly I was a bit surprised. It left me wondering. So I ask you, gentle readers of the blogosphere, have you ever had a professional massage? If no, why not?

.

I Have a Long Neck

2007-12-07T08:00:00.000-05:00

The average temperature here is in the 20s this week. We have snow on the ground. And in the trees and bushes and all other things outdoors. It's not melting. I'm okay with that. The scenery is glorious.

My turtlenecks, the staple of my winter wardrobe, all of them, are still in storage in our attic. I'm not okay with that.

I cannot be the only one who feels it: truly, is there anything more comforting as one dresses on a frigid winter morn than pulling on a fresh-smelling turtleneck as the base for what will layer into pleasing and seasonally-appropriate attire? My turtlenecks. I wear them everywhere. My winter foundation.

Yet now, when I need them most, they languish in the attic.

See, it's rather a production to retrieve them. My winter clothes are heavy; the container, loving packed last spring, is unwieldy. The attic stairs, while expertly installed, are more like a ladder and, as such, are fraught with peril should one attempt to navigate them bearing heavy loads. It's a job for Two and I never seem to think about it when Two are home.

Our storage systems are less than perfect.
We make do.
Or do without, as the case may be.

Note to self: Next house, bigger closets.

.

It's Not the Strangest Thing I've Ever Done

2007-11-29T23:00:00.000-05:00

It was Tuesday afternoon. I finished work early.

"Score!" I thought. "Whatever shall I do with this unexpected free time?"

My mind immediately turned to beads.
Yes. You read that right. I said beads.

A long and winding road with twists and turns that overlap and intersect beyond even the most imaginative of imaginations yet with a very practical purpose, found me standing (for the second time in as many days) in one of the many aisles at Michael's, completely absorbed in the rapture of columns and rows of beads and bead accessories.

The first time, my sister had been with me. That Tuesday afternoon, I was on my own.

Another woman entered my aisle. I looked up when she spoke.

"Do you know much about this stuff?" she queried, brandishing her handfuls of beads and bead accessories.

"Well. No, not too much," I replied, "Just enough to be dangerous." I smiled.

She tripped my gaydar bigtime. I don't know if I tripped hers. I considered the odds of two dykes ending up in the same Michael's bead aisle at 2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon.

Turns out we were both looking at the same thing, contemplating the same question, puzzling over crimp rings and appropriate sizes. WTF? Again with the odds! She set off to consult a saleswoman and shortly returned to share the answer that was not really an answer at all. Crimp rings sizes remained shrouded in mystery for us both.

Left alone again in my aisle, I shopped on. Movement caught my eye and I glanced up. It wasn't the dyke this time. It was my dear friend Tina, Mistress of All Things Crafty.

I think I blushed. I don't know if she noticed. I felt like a little kid caught with my hand in the cookie jar. I have no idea why. The moment passed. We chatted. She headed off to shop for whatever it was she was shopping for that day and I returned to my scrutiny of beads and bead accessories.

On the way home, I stopped at Starbucks for a venti eggnog latte and spent the rest of the afternoon playing with my beads. Crafting.

What the hell has gotten into me, anyway?

.

Youthful Photography

2007-11-27T11:45:00.000-05:00

One of our nieces, four-year-old Alice, came to visit over the Thanksgiving holiday. She entertained herself with our digital camera while the adults chatted.

"Excuse me," I heard her softly say, "May I take a picture of your face, please?"

Dudley was happy to oblige.

.

Does Anyone...

2007-11-18T22:00:00.000-05:00

.... ever like being told they are acting like their mother?

.

I Turned 40 and Lived to Tell the Tale

2007-11-15T08:00:00.000-05:00

People do it every day, right? I don't get why women freak about turning 40; I consider them late to the party I guess. My own "crisis" birthday was when I turned 30.

The year was 1992. My best friend Kerry baked me a cake. It was in the shape of a coffin, the icing gray, the perky sentiment "Happy 30th Birthday Suzanne!" whimsically lettered in black. So very festive! So apropos. The cake inside was bright white, moist and delicious.

As much as turning 30 seemed a death of sorts, turning 40 felt more like coming into my own. What a difference a decade makes.

I had cake that year too, the year I turned 40. It was a surprise. I thought Wendy and I were going out for a romantic dinner. Turns out she had arranged a party at a local restaurant with friends from all corners of our life. A surprise party. Wendy. That Wendy. My shy, quiet, quasi-anti-social girlfriend. I never suspected a thing. Why would I? I loved it even more because she strayed so far out of her comfort zone. For me.

The allure of age 40 sparkled early in my life: "40," I planned, "I want my kid(s) to be grown by the time I'm 40." And so it was The Boy graduated high school and headed off to college when I was 40. By then I knew 18 years did not a grown man make but he was well on his way.

I hadn't thought much about what my own life would look like at 40. Just that the kid(s) would be grown. Thinking back, I marvel at my lack of concern. And at the fortunes that landed me where they did.

I am now halfway through my fourth decade. The slopes of my life have taken on more definition, my vision is clearer. Could be my eyesight is going bad, but some lessons are plain. I've learned the best laid plans can go awry and that can be a good thing. I've learned to trust my heart. I've learned being kind is always worth the effort.

My friend Teresa turns 40 today.
I hope she eats cake.

.

That's the Sound of My Brain Cracking

2007-11-13T20:00:00.000-05:00

According to some who know me, I am the ultimate hypocrite. In this case, I can't help but agree as they make a good point.

Here's a story. Well. Sort of a story. My hypocrisy will be highlighted while other emotional investments that may or may not be swirling like mad whirlpools threatening to drown us all will be omitted. Right here it's all about me. Being a hypocrite.

On occasion, The Boy hosts overnight visits with his girlfriend at our home. Wendy and I revel in such events; we truly enjoy having young people around. Young voices, young appetites, young muscles, young spirits. Oh, and young love. Good energy, that.

It's never been up for discussion. It matters not what I may or may not know about their sleeping arrangements when they sleep elsewhere: The Boy and his girl are assigned separate bedrooms. For now it remains that simple.

We have friends, peers with children, young adults rather, friends in their own right, around and about the age of The Boy. Family friends. Friends who have become family. One of the daughters is a lesbian.

**carefully skirt the enormous deep hole where all the gory details that comprise the understory are crouched attempting to remain unnoticed and unaddressed. do not look down as you pass, I beg you.**

On occasion, said lesbian daughter spends the night at our home with her significant other. Here's where my hypocrisy, like cream, rises to the surface: I've got no problem with them sharing a bed under our roof.

To recap:

The Boy + his girlfriend + visit = separate bedrooms
Good friend's daughter + her girlfriend + visit = pillow talk

Is anything ever simple?
Of course not.

.

The Number One...

2007-11-12T21:00:00.000-05:00

.... thing I don't want to hear my girlfriend say while she's waxing my eyebrows: "Whoops!"

There will be no pictures.

100 Things 2007

2007-11-09T22:00:00.000-05:00

I re-read my 100 Things.
Circa 2004, it's grown stale.
Imagine that.

So here ya go.
Fresh.
100 Things 2007
Just in time for 2008.

Children go off to college.
They come back different.
That's a good thing.
Our nest is officially empty.
I survived the transition.
Who knew it would be so hard?
My money still comes from the same people for doing the same jobs.
Eh, it's a living.
Family can die.
Suddenly.
Death really sucks.
I only know from the perspective of the ones left behind.
So far, anyway.
That's humor folks.
Go with it.
We're still working on our house.
The end, believe it or not, is in sight.
I can see for miles and miles.
We've learned a lot.
About a lot of things.
Sometimes we remember it when we need it.
I've often said that being a parent just gets more satisfying as each year passes.
That still holds true.
Being a daughter has become challenging.
I'm still in training.
Who knew?
Watch your back.
You could be next.
We have a five year plan.
It began on January 1, 2007.
It's a good plan.
More on that later.
Maybe.
I now own a hairbrush.
And other hair management tools.
I have bands and bows and clips and ties.
My hair is longer than it has ever been before.
It has become a fashion statement.
I have no idea what it says.
I'm okay with that.
George Bush is still POTUS.
Yeah, I can't believe it either.
Soon, my friends.
But not soon enough.
My son urges me to take calcium.
Sometimes I actually remember to take it.
Not as often as I should.
I like it when he nags me.
I've quit smoking three times since 2004.
I need to do it again.
Yeah, I know. WTF?
I recently turned 45.
A friend told me I was acute.
Then she gave me a lesson on angles.
Good stuff, angles.
Beer is the nectar of the Gods.
Gods with a capital G.
Bless their little Godly hearts.
All of them.
Who sings that song "Harden My Heart"?
Wait. I'll go look it up.
Oh nevermind.
I asked Wendy.
It's Quarterflash.
She knows things like that.
It seems like something to avoid.
That heart hardening stuff.
It's a good song though.
I'd like to learn how to make pupusas from scratch.
Plus the spicy cabbage stuff to accompany.
Plus the salsa.
Gotta have the salsa.
The Boy is now a working actor.
He is the most beautiful person I have ever known.
Warts and all.
Eh, we all have 'em.
May as well give 'em a nod every once in a while.
I have a collection of lolcats.
I may share them with you some day.
Maybe I already have.
Need a smile?
Look at lolcats.
I dare you to resist smiling.
I'm a simple woman.
For that, I am grateful.
Wendy and I still can't agree on what date our anniversary is.
We know we have one.
We just don't know when.
We'll figure it out someday.
Meanwhile, we're in love.
Maybe you knew that.
I drive a boring car.
I'd like to drive a hybrid.
It'll still be a boring car.
But a healthier one.
I just am not that excited by cars.
They are merely a means to an end.
It's football season.
And fire-in-the-fireplace season.
Life is good.

One Fine Morning

2007-11-07T23:00:00.000-05:00

I woke up cranky. I don't much like being cranky. It's far too much work.

My face assumed a thoughtful yet cranky expression. My brain mulled a mix of Get Happy Behaviors.

The question was posed: "Self, what's the best way to relieve this crankiness?"

My Brain: Let's don our favorite pajamas and get back in bed.
The Rest of Me: Not an option today. Try again.

MB: How about we don our favorite pajamas and get back in bed?
TRoM: Can we please move on!?

MB: More coffee.
TRoM: That's better. A good start.

MB (with a flash of clarity): I've got it! Dress fabulous!
TRoM: Brilliant!

And so the crankiness was banished.

Sometimes it's just that simple.
Caffeine and the right outfit.

She Must Love Me

2007-11-05T21:00:00.000-05:00

I am joyful. Fall has arrived, bringing with it, among other things, cool temperatures and close-toed shoes.

It began on a Wednesday. Opening my sock drawer, I dug through the neat rows of socks in various colors looking for something in basic black. I'd already worn black socks both Monday and Tuesday. My sock drawer contains a third and a fourth and a fifth pair of black socks, but one has a hole in the left toe, another is just too short, and yet another not what my feet had in mind.

My brow furrowed. I briefly considered, then rejected, alternate colors.

The little angel on my shoulder encouraged me to settle for the pair with the hole in the toe. "Just wear those and keep your shoes on all day," she counseled.

My little angel is ever the practical one.

The little devil on my other shoulder whispered urgently, "Yo Suzanne. There's another whole drawer full of socks in that other dresser!"

I perked. My little devil can be practical too.

My angel gasped. "But Suzanne! Those are Wendy's socks!"

My devil smirked. "Oh come on now. She won't even notice."

I inched closer to the other dresser, intending just to take a quick peek. My angel tsk-tsked.

The drawer slid silently open revealing a wealth of soft, dark socks nestled inside. My hand slid into the mix, my fingers automatically reaching for the blackest pair. I caressed the soft marino wool from which they were crafted.

"Oh my," I sighed. Extracting them from the drawer, I took note of their composition. Knee socks! Divinely soft and not too thick. Blacker than coal. My heart pitter-pattered in response as I rubbed them against my cheek, breathing in their fresh clean scent. Perfect. That pair of socks was exquisite!

My angel tsk-tsked again. "Put those back before you do something you'll regret!"

I ignored her. My decision had been made. I sat on the corner of the bed and pulled on the first sock. (My left foot. I always sock my left foot first.) A shiver went up my spine. That soft marino wool snuggled my skin from the tips of my toes all the way up my calf. I wriggled my toes joyfully before slipping on my shoes.

The devil stuck her tongue out at the angel, who fluttered her wings in dismay. All day long my feet were cozy, there was an extra lightness in my step.

And so it was that, come Sunday, my efficient and adorable Queen of All Things Laundry questioned how so many of her black socks ended up in the basket when she had worn none that week.

Oops. She noticed. How could she help but? You see, I hadn't stopped with one pair. The next day and the next after that my feet had been clad in black socks purloined from my lover's stash.

Sometimes it's good to listen to my devil.
Sure, Wendy noticed.
But she didn't seem to mind.

.

2007-11-02T12:30:00.000-04:00

There's a bunch of lunatic lesbians out there who are responsible for a silly grin I can't seem to wipe off my face.

Y'all rock.

The Sound of One Pin Dropping?

2007-11-01T23:00:00.000-04:00

When a blogger takes an extended break, characteristic or not, do blog readers like to hear about why said extended break occurred when said blogger finally does return? Or would they just prefer to jump back into the routine of regular posts?

More importantly, perhaps, are they thankful when a blogger who took an extended break finally does re-grace them with her presence? Is anyone still out there? (Yes, of course I know. That's a flagrant request to hear that someone missed me. I can be a whore that way. But not a cheap whore. Be kind. Don't forget I bake a mean pan of brownies. I may bake some for you one day.)

It's been a frenzy here in suburbia. A frenzy of family. The Boy came home. Then the in-laws arrived.

Our home. It has been full.
In all the right ways.

Now it's kinda quiet again.
In all the right ways.

(btw, how do you people with resident families ever find time to blog?!)

.

Impromptu Poll

2007-10-15T20:00:00.000-04:00

Say you stumble across a pan of brownies.
Which do you covet more: a center cut or an edge piece?

Mmmmmmmm. Brownies.

.

It Always Rings in the Evening

2007-10-09T21:30:00.000-04:00

Sometimes we answer it.

Yesterday, it was my mother. "Suzanne, do you know much about Lotus spreadsheets?"

The last time I touched Lotus was in the 1990s. But one spreadsheet program is much like any other and I use Excel daily. My spreadsheet confidence knows no bounds. "Sure, what's up?"

If you've ever tried to walk ~~my mother~~ anyone through using a software program over the phone, you'll relate to how challenging it can be. If you've ever tried to walk ~~my mother~~ anyone through using a software program you haven't touched in over a decade, you'll relate to how EXTRA challenging it can be.

Success came after a few fumbles.

We chatted.
Call waiting beeped in.
I peeked.
It was The Boy.

"I'll call you right back, Mom."

"Hi!" I said.
"Hi!" The Boy said. "Did you get the message I left on your cell this morning?"

"No, I forgot to charge it. What's up?"

"I lost my driver's license yesterday."

That's the second time I've received a call like that from him. The first was years ago and I can't recall the circumstance. This time it had something to do with his wallet, a toilet, and a two-mile walk with his cast mates to get ice cream in Janesville, Wisconsin.

At times it is best not to ask for too many details.
This is one of those times.

The efficiency of the Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles will now be tested. Will the replacement arrive in time to be forwarded to Nashville by October 21 when he will need it to board the plane home?

Your guess is as good as mine.

Function Follows Form

2007-09-25T08:00:00.000-04:00

I didn't notice right away. When I did I was shocked. My paper clips were loose! The problem was obvious. My lower lip reflexively assumed the position. My forehead wrinkled in consternation.

Wendy mislikes when I pout, so I've tried to break the habit, at least to omit outward manifestations such as sticking out my lower lip. It's not easy. Growing up, I was known far and wide as the Princess of Pout. "An elephant could ride to town on that lip!" I got pretty damned sick of hearing that as a child. (I was too ~~shy~~ polite back then to tell anyone who said it to bugger off, but now I'm not. You've been warned.)

Children's art projects are often gifted to their parents. Our little darlings are presented with a lump of clay or fingerfuls of paint and told, "Go crazy! Create something! Make something for your mother!"

The Boy brought this particular something home from kindergarten. I adore it. To this day.

There I was and here I am, in possession of the Great Art my son crafted with his own two hands. Hanging it on the refrigerator is obviously out of the question. Since I work in an office, I opted to find a function for it there. While away from my little darling, I have a reminder of how creative he is and how much he loves me because, really, he must love me in a HUGE way to have gifted me with this Great Art made with his VERY OWN HANDS.

(Yes. I really believe that. I am not the only mother who thinks this way, am I? We all know better and just don't care. At least I don't.)

Perhaps you realize where this is going. That's right. This Great Art serves as my paper clip holder and had been broken by some unknown person in some unknown manner between the time I left the office Thursday and returned on Monday.

The Boy's work of Great Art! Broken! I felt justified pouting for a moment. Fortunately the damage was easily repaired with a touch of glue. Soon it will be back in action corralling my clips and keeping them within easy reach.

Practical, durable art. My favorite kind.

"You Were Right!"

2007-09-24T08:00:00.000-04:00

Last week, I received an email from Wendy with that title and smiled. It's usually nice to be right. The optimist in me automatically assumed it to be one of those usual times.

I was wrong. It was not nice to be right. The email reported the untimely death of an author, Robert Jordan, the man behind The Wheel of Time series. Perhaps you know of it. Perhaps you, like me, have spent great huge honking chunks of your always-limited and ever-so-valuable leisure time through the years absorbed in Mr. Jordan's character and stories.

Not that it wasn't time well spent. On the contrary. I don't regret a minute. What I do regret is how many times I predicted he would die before The Wheel of Time finished turning. Eleven books, people. Plus a prequel. A tale more than seventeen years in the telling. Still the story spun on. The question often arose: "Is he is ever going to wrap up this series?"

So here I am much as I ever was, wondering not only if the story will be finished but now more if, by whom? Seems his wife was his editor and there are rumors of outlines... is there enough material left behind to wrap his series up and tie it with a pretty bow? Or is it better to let the series die where he left it? I am torn.

R.I.P, Robert Jordan.
Thanks for sharing your imagination.

Moving Right Along

2007-09-21T12:00:00.000-04:00

I spoke to The Boy Wednesday. He was in North Carolina, near where he used to belong but now just passing through.

Is it the change of seasons? Is it the new routine being anything but routine? Is it PMS? Am I losing my mind? I have a little ache in my heart. I have a lingering rash on my face. I am unmotivated. I am feeling anxious. Those things may or may not relate to each other or anything else.

He sent us a book, the schedule for the tour he is on. I am so simple. I consult it daily, saying, "Good morning! Stay safe! I love you!"

The Boy has traveled quite a bit in his 22 years, but not often to what I will call Small Town America. I am curious as to the impressions he is absorbing.

I decided it would be fun, and indeed it has been, to plot his stops on a map. This is the southeastern leg, the first third of his adventure. He's been on the road since September 11, covering 2,600 miles equating to over 43 travel hours and as many towns in as many days.

Calculations and visual aids bring me comfort for some odd reason, much the same as sending good morning wishes his way.

Getting by. At times it's the object of the game.

My Fine Feathered Friend

2007-09-18T17:00:00.000-04:00

I freely admit to having an abiding crush on Vanessa Williams. She's a long-standing member in the top ten of my Who-Would-You-Do list. I've adored her since she first came to national attention as Miss America in 1984.

This dress she wore to the recent Emmy Awards, this lovely feathered frock, this whimsical garment in the most delightful shade of sea green, worn with impeccable posture topped with a radiant smile and perfectly coiffed hair, her fine form wondrously svelte and curvy in all the right places, has been roundly criticized in the press as a fashion faux pas!

I so beg to differ.
She can feather my nest any day.

Vain Hypochondriacal Moment

2007-09-16T22:30:00.000-04:00

I've got a rash. On my face.

It's not pretty.

I look like Fred-fucking-Flintstone. Imagine it. You know what I mean. I know you do. There will be no pictures.

It itches. I'm complaining. Right here. Right here, right now, I'm complaining. I may even be whining. You decide.

This goddamn rash itches. WTF caused it? Why now? Why me? Why on my face?!

It's official. I am whining.

But it's on my face.

How rude.

Hair Today

2007-09-05T21:00:00.000-04:00

When my hair is short, it's the anti-style. I don't have to think, it always looks the same, there are no choices to make. It just is. Long hair is more interesting. But it takes effort. One must think. One must choose. One must act.

Before this current growth experiment, I wore the same basic hair length for at least 25 years. Well. Except for an unfortunate early-90s foray into... well... I'd like to just call it a youthful hair indiscretion. In reality it was a mullet and I did it on purpose. Please, let's all pause for a laugh at my expense.

My hair is now long enough to form a respectable ponytail. A milestone of great import, I became aware of it the moment the necessary stars aligned. Something shook. My inner hair diva has always yearned for a ponytail. The excitement remains palpable.

I find to my mild chagrin wearing a ponytail leads to moderate self-consciousness. Seems my ponytail is an attention whore. Surely I'm not imagining it. She perkily sprouts from the back of my head and announces her presence, singing, "I'm a ponytail! Yes! Yes! Here I am! Look at me! Look at ME!" Bounce. Swing. Bounce! Bounce!

My ponytail may resemble other ponytails, but she has a life all her own. I never felt that way about that other style. Yet I wonder, if like now, I'll look back fifteen years hence and wonder what the fuck I was thinking.

Yard Art. It May Involve Eggs.

2007-09-03T22:30:00.000-04:00

This is an interesting article about yard art.

It tells of one homeowner in litigation after his yard art was deemed litter, another who moved across country after his art was decried by unappreciative co-citizenry, and a third who survived neighbors' complaints about sanitation when they got a gander at her version of yard art.

Many neighborhoods have an eccentric homeowner with non-traditional yard stylings. Some are seasonal, others permanent installations. We all know where they live, those Yard Artists. One may be glad, understandably, to not live next door.

Let's talk about the female Yard Artist, Rebecca Pickens. Here's a clip of her 30 seconds, quoted from the above-linked article:

When Rebecca Pickens moved into her Olivette house a few years ago, she said she despaired that her small backyard looked like everyone else's. "It just wasn't my style," she said. "It just wasn't me."

So she built a human-sized bird's nest, complete with ceramic eggs. A post next to the nest reads "2014," the year Pickens' son will leave for college.

"This is my empty nest," she said.

That's when the beer snorted out my nose. (Having survived my own empty nest debacle, I've earned the right to snort when I see any bizarre behavior relating to nests, particularly empty ones. I'm certain others have snorted at me.)

This woman, this artist, Rebecca, built a nest in her backyard... to human scale... put some eggs in it... but calls it empty. Huh. I want to know how large the eggs are and the square footage of the nest. Is it up in a tree? There is no mention of comfortable seating or nesting functionality or structural integrity. The article is woefully lacking photos.

The pièce de resistancé, the icing on the cake, froth on the latte: a post to represent a point SEVEN years in the future when she assumes she will be graced with empty nest status! Pffft. She's an empty nest amateur.

Part of me wishes someone had warned me to get busy planning so far in advance for that delicate time when the fledgling flew and life irrevocably changed whether I was ready or not.

Another part of me thinks she's just batshit crazy.

.

Hindsight

2007-08-28T19:00:00.000-04:00

I'm here to whine about my eyes again.

Why is it, ever since I succumbed to the inevitability of non-optional appliance-enhanced eyesight, I am painfully aware of the need to read in many places I had not before even realized I was reading? (That is a horrible sentence. I think I will leave it and dedicate it to my dear friend eb. She collects such things.)

Take the kitchen, for example. I didn't think about needing eyeglasses there. But I do. Recipe ingredients, measures and instructions are a blur without them. If I squint, I can still set the oven temperature accurately but forget about reading a thermometer. Are you aware that standing near a pot of boiling pasta will make your glasses fog up? When will the humiliation end?

Shopping has also become a "glasses required" activity. Supermarket, drug store, office supplies, even shoe shopping! Anything I pick up, there it is. Tiny little print I cannot read despite squinting until my face resembles a prune. Don't even get me started on restaurants! Freaking menus are all printed with blurry typefaces. Hardware stores are another place where the fine print matters.

Of course it would be no problem if my glasses were always handy. Shopping now includes a routine, which, when prepared for and performed properly, ends happily with glasses perched helpfully on my nose when I need them. Unfortunately my preparation lacks consistency.

This is payback for all those years I mocked my sister, my dear sweet sister who has worn glasses since age two. She had to put up with me, all cute with my blond Shirley Temple curls and dimpled smile, always flaunting my better-than-perfect 20/15 eyesight. There she was in her awkward light blue cat-eye frames or, worse yet, those enormous frames from the 70's with the thick lenses, totally tauntworthy by no fault of her own.

So, dear sister. Please accept my apology. I take back all the eyeglass-related jokes and insults I've thrown at you over the years. My imagined superiority, by now well bruised and battered into proper proportion, has taken its final death tumble.

Karma's a bitch.

.

I'm No Poet

2007-08-20T23:00:00.000-04:00

Just days after demo
And all through the house
Not a creature is stirring
(Of course there's no mouse!)

Come on down the stairs
See what we've done
Many things we are changing
The fun's just begun!

Look all around you
What's there to be seen?
To me, a blank canvas
Awaiting a theme

There's a door over there
Can you guess where it goes?
There's nothing much left
Just a whole bunch of holes

A pipe drips a little
A pail catches the spill
Yet standing there gawking
Is oh such a thrill

The dumpster is full
The Boy has checked out
Extra muscle is handy
Yes, without a doubt

The next phase will rock
(Expense not withstanding)
Rebuilding feels good
Imaginations expanding!

Baking with The Boy

2007-08-14T21:00:00.000-04:00

Guess what? It's peach season again!

The church in our neighborhood holds an annual Peach Festival. We've never attended because, frankly, ~~church people can be scary~~ we are homebodies. Saturday morning as I sipped coffee on the porch, I could hear the strains of musical entertainment waft through our suburban neighborhood. It was the festival! I started thinking about peaches and couldn't stop.

My mother periodically shares with me her copies of Cook's Illustrated magazine. I adore that magazine. Not only does it offer tantalizing recipes, but in the process of crafting the recipes, the writers document the methods they tried that didn't work and why they didn't work. The most recent issue contains an article entitled "Improving Peach Crumble."

Peach Crumble? I'd never made it before, had never even heard of it. Yet the thought of delicious warm Peach Crumble topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream haunted me throughout the day. After dinner, I could no longer restrain myself. A late evening trip to the grocery yielded a sack of ripe peaches and a carton of vanilla ice cream. "Peach Crumble, you will be mine!" I chuckled madly as I drove home.

Often the joy of preparing a dish is equal to the joy of eating it. Such was the case with our Improved Peach Crumble. The Boy, no slouch in the kitchen, joined me in this culinary endeavor. The sheer delight of working with him lightened my heart and brought a silly smile to my face. Soon the house was filled with rich scents as the topping baked while the peaches macerated. The finished creation exceeded my expectations.

Tomorrow we'll celebrate The Boy's 22nd birthday. Sunday he'll be leaving on a jet plane and we don't know when he'll be back again. Instead of getting all maudlin, however, I will choose to focus on the sweetness of the times we do have together. And just like peach season, I know he'll be back.

Suburban Mystery

2007-08-06T22:00:00.000-04:00

Dudley started scratching in earnest late last week in a manner unmistakable to any dog owner. Pixie followed suit, albeit in a more dainty and lady-like manner.

Evidently it's flea season.
Color me flummoxed.

Back in the day, fleas were an integral part of the rites of summer. They were a seasonal certainty, much like stifling humidity yet infinitely more unpleasant. Fleas just were. They appeared, they reproduced, they drove dogs and humans alike mad with their presence.

Sure, I did what I could to keep them at bay. My efforts weren't always successful despite using every tool at my disposal. I'd spray the yard, bathe the dogs, bomb the house, over and over and on and on. I had a special line item in my household budget for flea combat. From July until the first hard frost, serious battle was waged. (Is it any wonder winter is my favorite season?)

Advances in science brought us wonderous veterinary products like Frontline and Advantix. Fighting fleas became as simple as applying a few drops between each dog's shoulder blades. Summer life was revolutionized.

Then one year, spring became summer became fall with nary a sign of those nasty little biting buggers. The next summer came and went and, again, no fleas. I began to believe the little bastards had all moved out of state, or better yet, disappeared altogether off the face of the earth. It's been at least five years since I've seen even a vague sign of a flea.

So, yes, now I'm flummoxed. Why after years of absence have they returned?

A Hypothetical Question

2007-07-25T20:00:00.000-04:00

Let's say you have a child.

Let's say said child is all grown up.

Let's say circumstances dictate said grown-up child appear fully naked within your field of vision.

Do you:

Not notice?
Pretend to not notice?
Intently scrutinize an imagined scuff on the toe of your shoe?
Cover your eyes and squeeze them tightly shut?
Cover your eyes but peek between your fingers?
Openly and objectively inspect how your sweet adorable widdle baby turned out as an adult?
Some combination of the above?
Other? (Please be specific.)

Thank you for your time and have a nice day.

Something About Turtles

2007-07-17T22:30:00.000-04:00

A vacation looms, albeit a short one. I'm in charge of basic planning.

I've previously planned plenty of pleasing pirts*. I'm usually on top of such things, all over it even. But we depart in two days. Until yesterday, no firm arrangements had been made. How have I been sleeping at night!?

Yet things are falling into place even more tidily than I ever envisioned. Have I been needlessly sweating the details, planning vacations ever-so-carefully without real need? Or is the good luck with which this trip is evolving merely... well... lucky?

Perhaps this episode of vacation planning apathy is indicative of me relaxing and going with the flow instead of attempting to strong-arm the current. I've been working on that. From a distance. Turns out it added a twist to our trip. Like lemon-lime, only more interesting.

We'll head north with my mother in her Crown Vic, freshly serviced, Garmin-equipped, replete with snacks and beverages. Ah yes, the Classic American Family Road Trip! There's nothing quite like it and no one way to describe it. (Do tell, when was the last time you roadtripped with your mother, or both parents for that matter?)

We're going see The Boy perform in Hair, of course. Enhancing the flavor of the trip, the retro-hippie theme if you will, we're staying at "a way cool family-friendly earthy groovy place" where we'll be sleeping in a tipi. I kid you not. A tipi.

My mother, as befits her stature, will sleep in the Big House in a real bed with a private bath. Wendy and I will sleep in a tipi. We'll breath fresh air. We'll see stars. We'll hang by the campfire. We'll all vibe the sixties.

I can hardly wait.

* This made me crazy. I was on a "p" roll, I was rolling with the "p", yo! But I couldn't pull a "p" to plug for the word "trip," so I just spelled it backward. Peace, man.

Stealing Hearts

2007-07-15T23:30:00.000-04:00

We have a houseguest this week. Meet Bandit, an eleven-year-old Yorkie. He has no teeth. He's pretty much blind, but his other senses are sharp. He pees and poops only in designated outdoor areas. Much to Pixie's dismay, Bandit is not a squirrel despite being of similar stature. He also disdains her entreaties to play. Dudley is indifferent, except, of course, at dinnertime.

It took less than a day for him to carve a niche into the patterns of our household. Here he is keeping track of the Orioles game for Wendy while she takes a nap. Ayup, he fits right in.

Our Yard, It's Calling for One

2007-07-11T21:00:00.000-04:00

I've been plotting where to put it.

Plotting is hard work. My best yard scheming is done while seated in the lawn chair in Wendy's favorite spot (which has by now become my favorite spot too). My mind's eye plots it placed in potential positions. The superiority of one placement over another will make itself known. Perhaps a rare moment of spirituality will guide me or, more likely, some practical condition will intervene.

When in use, a pleasant cacophony will abound: the clink, the groans, the laughter, the cheers. That appeals. Plus it is a warm weather, beer drinking, suburban thing to do. I've never been particularly good at it, but I know the basics.

It almost counts as exercise, a bit yoga-esque. I was outdoors, on the prowl, scoping, stepping off distances, verifying requirements. One area seemed, and is, particularly well-suited. I paused and assumed the position, following through with a graceful swing of my arm timed with a step forward. My muscles stretched with a rousing cheer, "Hey Suzanne! Damn that feels good!" So I did it again. Nice.

My desire grows stronger daily.
My research led me to this link and I almost swooned.

How sexy is that?
Am I the only one who feels it?

Channeling SK

2007-07-08T18:30:00.000-04:00

We've lived in our house now for almost four years. Every time my sister visits, she says the same thing at one point or another during her stay: "You need art on the walls." Sometimes she says it with an exclamation point, other times introspectively as she gazes at one blank space or another.

Okay, so we're artistically challenged. That's no secret. I prefer to imply we enjoy a stark decor. But we don't actually prefer it stark. We just need guidance. (We also need curtains, but that's a subject for a different post.) Much of what we do have adorning our walls is my sister's work. She generously provides assistance in many ways.

Following her visit last Thanksgiving, a suggestion, complete with diagram and descriptive narrative concept, appeared in my inbox. My sister, my dear sweet sister. From that seed bloomed the project that came to fruition just this past Saturday. I'd share the story but it's a long and twisted tale, the telling of which is better suited to porch-sitting with cocktails than blogging. Art evidently can be that way.

Plus I'm too tired to tell it anyway. See, one thing led to another. After we hung our new art, I looked around at the rest of the living room. My sister's voice niggled at the back of my mind. Next thing I know, we're moving furniture and I'm scrubbing walls. My caulk gun is locked and loaded. Then the paint can is open, I'm dipping my brush, and boom! There is no looking back.

Art makes me dangerous.
I'm certain my sister will approve.

.

"Makes Me Wanna See The Exorcist"

2007-07-02T23:15:00.000-04:00

Before time and events get completely away from me, moreso than they already may have, let me wrap up the office soiree.

I am the most fortunate woman in the world. You may already realize that. I was again reminded of it as Wendy and I dressed for the party. She had demanded to "do" my hair for the event. I gave no argument, having no clue what to do with it anyway.

I was ordered to the guest room, a space that doubles as the place hair gets done when we don't have guests. There, I perched on the edge of the bed clad only in my silkies as Wendy fluttered about wearing only her birthday suit. Girlfriends rock. My woman wields a mean blow dryer and incorporates "product" in ways I would never have dared. (I took notes but have yet to successfully replicate her results.)

The party was a delight. Later that evening, Wendy and I rehashed events. Conversation touched briefly on one of the guests, a catholic monsignor.

Wendy's comment became the title of this post.

I can honestly say that thought would have never entered my mind.

Overheard on the Metro

2007-06-26T09:00:00.000-04:00

I was sitting in my usual seat on the Metro heading downtown. My usual seat is faces forward with nothing between it and the exit but legroom. It's the best seat on the train, bar none. I choose sides based on the time of day and which direction I am riding. I prefer not to sit in the sun because I can't wear my shades and my reading glasses at the same time. The Yellow Line runs from Huntington Station in Virginia past Mount Vernon Square in the District and is above ground almost as much as below.

Anyway. I was plugged into my iPod and reading a book. It was a hot day, a very hot day. The humidity made walking outdoors akin to breaststroking through a vat of the thick, rich shrimp & jalepeño bisque we adore from Roseina's. (Yes, I'm hungry right now. And they make a kick-ass bisque at Roseina's.) The cool interior of the train was a pleasantly stark contrast to the swampy outdoors.

Bing bong, doors closing, yada yada.

They got on a few stops down. I didn't see them, but I instantly became aware of the two women newly seated directly behind me. They conversed loud enough for me to hear them clearly despite my iPod. Of course I had to listen.

Woman1: Hey, I've been on this train before!

Woman2: Oh?

Woman1: Yeah, when the kids were in town I wanted to take them to see George Washington's house.

Me to Myself: Huh?

Woman1: When we got off the train at Mount Vernon Square, we found out it wasn't there.

Me to Myself: Did she really just say what I think she really just said?

Woman2: Isn't George Washington's house in the country?

Woman1: Yeah, it's somewhere out in the country.

Me to Myself: It's not in the country, you dumbasses, it's in the suburbs. The SUBURBS! About 20 miles from where you are right this minute and two miles from my home in guess where? That's right! THE SUBURBS. Yeesh. Doesn't everyone know where George Washington's estate is? Or at least in what state? It's in Virginia, not the District. Crack a history book once in a while or even just a newspaper, there's good shit inside!

I'm usually not that harsh with strangers, even in my head. Apparently I am a little sensitive about our local historical sites. This is not news to me.

The two got off at the next stop. I glanced up to see what they looked like. They were both brunettes with long silky hair, wearing flip flops, shorts and tank tops. Woman1 had a rack and a half. Nice. Very nice. I didn't get to their faces.

Yes, evidently I am that shallow. That's not news to me either.

Ever Owned a Teen?

2007-06-24T20:00:00.000-04:00

We have, but we don't any longer.

See, he's grown up. Adult-style, albeit with glimmers of the teenager he used to be. Much like the rest of us.

Sometimes one must dig deep to find the good parts of teenagers. But those not-so-surface parts are the ones I hold most dear and, delightfully, are the pieces that tend to stick around as they mature. To preserve perspective, the memory retains some less-positive parts too. It's much like fondly remembering the delightful scent of a cuddly infant fresh out of the bathtub instead of focusing on that leaky diaper and the subsequent artistic use of diarrhea.

It is not uncommon for newly-minted adults to take charge of old furnishings and such from their parent's home to outfit their own residences. The Boy did that for us two years ago when he got his first apartment. But now he doesn't have an apartment and he most likely won't for a while. There's travel in his future. So where do the fairly minimal possessions he retained get stored? Why, our house of course. Hey, at least we get to use his spiffy blender until he settles down. I've had worse trade-offs.

We put The Boy on a bus yesterday, off to his summer job at the Hangar Theatre in Ithaca, New York. The musical is Hair, his role is "Claude," and yes, he, along with the rest of the cast, will be naked on stage at one point or another. The last show we saw him in was The Full Monty. I'm sensing a dangerous trend.

The past four weeks were the largest chunk of time he'd spent at home since leaving for college in August 2003. I didn't really know what to expect and, due to a certain circumstance, was slightly apprehensive. Turns out it was the most comfortable we've all been with each other since his journey to adulthood began in earnest as a teen. Not that we were uncomfortable before, it's more like we've reached a new plateau. Something has shifted in the family dynamic. It feels good.

So should you find yourself near Ithaca in July, go see the show! Afterward, buy "Claude" a sandwich or something. The Boy may be a man, but he still eats like a teenager!

Help Mel Win Money

2007-06-13T20:30:00.000-04:00

There's $500 on the line.

Hop on over to this site and click on the picture of the skinny lady and her adorable smiling daughter holding bowl of Fruity Cheerios (aka the photo labeled Melodee H.). Each click brings her closer to the $500 prize. Honestly, their photo is the most adorable and deserving of your vote. Go. See for yourself.

$500!
Come on now, get busy.
Vote early. Vote often.
The contest ends this Saturday.
There's no time to waste!

Thank you and have a nice day.

PS: Mel didn't ask me to whore her out. I figure it's the least a fellow blogger can do. There's $500 to be won!

UPDATE: She won! Thanks for helping out, y'all!

Other Duties as Assigned

2007-06-11T21:30:00.000-04:00

Did you know I am a professional party planner? No? You thought I was a bookkeeper, didn't you? So did I.

Speaking of being a bookkeeper, I was snoozing to a cheesy Lifetime movie recently. Snoozing and TV-watching are perfect companions on a suburban afternoon. I can't be the only one who feels that way. Why else would there be so much crappy crap on TV if not to help an afternoon snoozer snooze?

So anyway, that cheesy Lifetime movie. Here's the scene: a pathetic young woman who still lives at home and her overbearing mother are having a heated conversation in the kitchen. "But I applied for a promotion at the restaurant, the hostess job!" the daughter whines. "You don't think I want to be a bookkeeper for the rest of my life, do you?"

My drooping eyes snapped open. WTF? How rude. What's she got against being a bookkeeper!? And she thinks a restaurant hostess is a step up? Yeesh. I groped for the remote, found it near my right hand and switched the channel. Ah. Baseball. That's good for napping too.

I like being a bookkeeper but I'm not much of a party planner. However since I was given the assignment, I am doing my best to rise to the occasion. Since it's work-related, I shouldn't really talk about it. The office is hush-hush non-blog fodder after all. Let's simply say it will be a rather formal affair at a fancy hotel in Old Town.

The party planning hasn't been as odious as I initially anticipated. Turns out fancy hotels in Old Town have great staff to help folks like me plan a party. Don't tell anyone, but I'm almost enjoying it. Next thing you know, I'll be tossing aside my red pencils and applying for a job as a restaurant hostess. Sure, sure I will.

Coming soon: Just what will this suburban lesbian wear to a rather formal affair at a fancy hotel in Old Town? And whatever will I do with my hair? I'm not quite sure yet, but I've got two weeks to figure it out. Wish me luck.

12-Hour Turn Around

2007-06-01T22:30:00.000-04:00

That's one reason it's been so quiet around here.

Here being here, of course. It hasn't been quiet there, as in our home, at all. Wendy, The Boy and I have been reveling in the joy of each other's company while bonding in the wide open spaces of our suburban habitat. Nothing like a little blood, sweat and tears to forge fond familial memories. It's a bonus our landscape is being rehabilitated in the process.

Wendy just read this and called me a sap.
Good thing it's true because I don't have the energy to deny it.

Informal Poll

2007-05-21T22:00:00.000-04:00

While brushing your teeth, do you usually:

A. Wander around multi-tasking, or

B. Remain stationary at the bathroom sink?

Thank you for your time and have a nice day.

.

The Ostrich and the Sand

2007-05-17T20:00:00.000-04:00

At times I feel like I live my life with my head stuck far up my ass.
At times I like it that way.

I've been excitedly blathering about our accomplishments at home, completely avoiding the topic of turmoil to the south. This is graduation week but The Boy will not be walking with his class. Surprised? Us too. The what-where-when-why-how of that are his and his alone. I am but a hanger-on, albeit with a heavily ve$ted intere$t.

It is an interesting exercise to let go without letting go. Of course, this circumstance is ~~fucking killing me~~ not the end of the world. The show will go on, the fat lady will (eventually) sing, blah blah blah. Blech.

If he were a helium-filled balloon I'd grab his string and knot it tightly around my wrist, all the while chastising myself for losing my grip to begin with. But that's not my job anymore. Instead I get to watch him bob erratically across a cloudy sky, my heart in my throat, as he finds his bearings. I do so love that boy.

This parenting stuff.
Oh my.
It's humbling.

.

Suburban Quest

2007-05-14T23:00:00.000-04:00

We're growing grass.
Well.
It's actually more than that.
We're crafting a lawn.

A lawn is not just a ragged mishmash of green whatever.
A lawn is an even, lush expanse of pure and glorious green grass.
Soft. Cool underfoot.
Always the perfect shade of green even on a gray day.

Visualize such a lawn.
Oh my, I can already feel it between my toes.
I want it.

It takes a lot of water to grow grass.
It hasn't rained much of late.
So we sprinkle.
Twice a day, every day.
With quasi-religious fervor.

We're growing grass.
It's serious business.
I'm expecting water bills even higher than when The Boy lived at home.

I've never before had occasion to grow grass from seed. I am completely enthralled. We have germination! These blades, thin as thread, stretch confidently upward.

Such a lawn as the one we desire is not a single year project. I'm thinking three years. I'm thinking in three years, with all due diligence, we'll be dancing barefoot in the backyard across our lush green lawn, our toes singing songs of happiness in tune with the landscape around us.

Another exercise in patience.
Can a person have too many?
It feels good to have begun.

Got Her Done

2007-05-07T23:00:00.000-04:00

The Laundry Room Smackdown was a rousing success.
Schmeggle (us) and Gafunge (them) no more.
Yes. Rousing! Quite.

Go. Here. Now. Go here now. See the finished results!

We started in late March and finished in early May, say six weeks. I originally projected three. My optimism often gets run over by reality.

eb and I checked in with each other every few days: "How's it going?" "It's coming along." "We had this idea." "We're not done yet." "What would you do?" "Oooo, guess what we did?" "We need an extension." "So do we."

Ayup, we're the same brand of lazy. We share common interests and, evidently, work ethic. Yet what we did to our Laundry Rooms is quite disparate. Is anyone surprised?

One of the best parts of this project? We had the tools and knew how to use them. Costs were reasonable, kept low by reusing leftover supplies from prior work. The learning curve didn't kick our ass. Well. At least not as hard as she used to.

We ~~survived~~ ~~tolerated~~ enjoyed five consecutive Sunday sojourns to the laundromat while our suburban Laundry Room was out of service. (Yes, we still call it the Laundry Room. Wendy vetoed a name change. Interestingly (perhaps only to me), the furnace no longer seems to mind. Go figure.)

Have I mentioned we're done?

Garden Goes Gone

2007-05-06T21:42:00.000-04:00

This morning it was there.

By afternoon it was bare.

Much like the dandelion field, that ~~blob of foliage~~ garden stood in the path of progress. We saved the rocks. And the hosta. We have plans for them elsewhere. The rest we neatly bundled for curbside pickup.

Wendy excavated an assortment of oddities buried in the dirt, among which was a four foot tall iron mailbox post, a beach ball, a handful of old school pull tabs, two croquet balls, a hammer, a green & white glass marble, and a seemingly endless coil of fat rope that resembled an enormous earthworm as she tug-tug-tugged it out of the soil.

An ancient shrine to suburban living? Usually ghosts from the past have something more interesting to say. The marble is pretty.

The next few weeks will be all about the yard. We'll be digging holes, moving some plants, eliminating others, spreading dirt, weeding and feeding, growing grass. Can you feel the excitement? I'm all aquiver.

Meanwhile after today's labor, Wendy is on the couch with her knee iced and I just swallowed three Aleve.

No pain, no gain. Repeat three times, have another beer and call me in the morning. That's good advice on any given day.

Making a Point to Waste My Time

2007-05-01T22:00:00.000-04:00

Here's Dudley tiptoeing through a large dandelion patch. Such a healthy crop we have this year! Unfortunately for them, they sprouted directly in the path of progress. This time next week, our backyard drainage will have been installed; the route cuts directly through where those dandelions now grow.

Today was one of those weather days that compels a body to be outdoors. I have a body. I was compelled. Situating Wendy's lawn chair in her favorite spot, I was offered a pleasant unobstructed view of the backyard expanse. I settled in with my creature comforts. I've been reading Animal Dreams and wanted to finish it (the ending held few surprises but it's a worthy read).

Sitting in the sun makes a body sleepy, even moreso when one is stretched out in a comfortable chair being caressed by a gentle breeze and lulled by the whisper of the trees. The sounds of the suburbs are a symphony. I soaked it up. Such was my lot this beautiful day.

Terribly self-indulgent, yes? To snooze in the sun for hours? On a weekday? One might think so, but I was busy. Busy letting my mind clear.

Sometimes what appears to be wasted time isn't time wasted at all.

Lunch with Lisa

2007-04-25T23:00:00.000-04:00

I have lunch with my friend Lisa one day a week, usually Monday.

This week she picked the place, La Piazza, a favorite in our lunch rotation. We both have a fondness for Italian food and their pasta is good eats. For $8, I get a nice salad, fresh garlic bread, and stuffed shells florentine. The place smells divine. It's a feast, particularly welcome since Wendy and I have not been eating well at home. As soon as Lisa proposed the location I agreed, despite being attired in a white blouse. A white blouse that now has one tiny spot of tomato sauce that somehow avoided my bib. It was worth it.

A woman occupied a nearby table. My casual glance took in a frumpy middle-aged woman wearing frumpy middle-aged woman business attire: mid-length polyester skirt, blouse with a ruffled neck, panty hose and sensible shoes with a moderate heel, all in earthtones. A bottle of red wine and a glass kept her company as she nibbled on her salad, a paperback book held open in front of her. I couldn't see the title.

As we lunched, Lisa regaled me with tales from her recent trip to Italy, a two-week sojourn she took with her mother to visit their relatives.

Lisa and I can be loud. Just a tad boisterous. Yes, yes, I know how odd that must seem. Me? Loud? Boisterous? Well. It happens. Sometimes we don't whisper. We were happy to be where we were and enjoying our conversation. Several times during our meal, the woman with the wine joined us in laughter. She finally said, "I don't mean to eavesdrop, but we are sitting so close!" We smiled and laughed, nodding in understanding. The more, the merrier.

I'm not sure what gave it away. Her mannerisms? The way she held her head? The timbre of her voice? All of the above? Whatever it was, I was reminded that outward appearances can be deceiving.

Soon she finished her bottle of wine and left, waving farewell.

I looked at Lisa and said, "That wasn't a woman, was it?"

She just looked at me and said, "Duh."
We smiled.

It takes all kinds.

Taking Odds

2007-04-23T22:30:00.000-04:00

I haven't been inside a grocery store in nigh on two weeks.

Our freezer is almost empty. Our stash of canned goods and dry staples is depleted. Fresh vegetables? Fruit? Milk? Eggs? Opening our refrigerator I see only beer and water. And the door full of condiments with nothing to put them on.

The cupboards are bare. We haven't prepared anything close to a meal since we had muffins (made with our last two eggs and water instead of milk) and bacon (from the freezer) for breakfast two Sundays ago. I'm sick of carryout. We need a personal shopper for times like these.

The other night we eagerly snacked on stale Goldfish crackers, cheddar cheese flavor. I felt like I'd struck gold when I found that package buried in the cabinet behind the dog treats.

Yet is the project done? No, but it's goddamn close. How can one little room be so time consuming? It just is. Then there's Spring, which has completely sprung. It's full of distractions.

Pictures Sunday, or I'll eat my hat followed by a home-cooked meal for dessert. I miss my kitchen.

This Was Then

2007-04-19T21:00:00.000-04:00

I'm starting to get all emo about The Boy's upcoming graduation, a mere month from today.

I can't help but think back to his high school graduation. We had a horde of family in for that event. I get a bit neurotic when family visits. Wendy and I hosted a party following the graduation, quite a large party by our standards. I get a bit neurotic when we host a party; the neuroses multiply when it's a major event.

Well. Let's say I used to get neurotic. I've changed since then. Really. I'm far less neurotic. Ask Wendy. She'll vouch for me. Maybe The Boy will too.

But I'm still sentimental. I was back then too, I just wasn't aware of it as acutely as I am now.

So! Flashback to when The Boy was a senior in high school, graduation imminent. It was June 15, 2003, a glorious bright Sunday afternoon, Father's Day, at Tim's Rivershore Restaurant, a charismatic crab house on the Potomac. Gathered around the table were Pop, Grandma Wanda, sister SK, sister Cathy and her daughter Maia, James our temporary son, Wendy, me and The Boy.

I snapped this pic of The Boy and his grandfather, my father, that day. It's a favorite of mine for reasons that don't need words.

Of Labels and the Changing Thereof

2007-04-17T23:00:00.000-04:00

I've been spending some quality time with our furnace. It's unavoidable, really. She lives in the Laundry Room.

While seemingly pleased to have company, I could also sense a bit of an attitude beneath her shiny exterior. I was curious. Perched atop a ladder repairing the ceiling, I initiated conversation.

"Something wrong?" I queried. "You still peeved about that filter? I swear, as soon as we are done in here, I've got a brand spanking new one for you. Fresh and clean, right from the factory. You know how good that feels!"

As I worked I babbled about life outside the Laundry Room. The furnace looked on blankly, kicking to life every now and again. The weather is still cold here. But the Laundry Room is warm, almost cozy.

The truth didn't come out that day, but it did the next. Seems the furnace is displeased with her residence being deemed the "Laundry Room." She groans the word "laundry" with greatly emphasized disdain. I briefly wondered how the washer and dryer have managed to peacefully co-exist in such close quarters with this diva.

But the furnace makes a good point. There's more mechanical function going on in there than there is laundry. And no way in hell was that room designed as a laundry space. I looked around with a new eye. What else goes on in this room? Why, all the hot water we enjoy in all the different places we enjoy it originates here! The source obtrusively occupies a prime corner, with shiny pipes reaching out like arms and disappearing into the ceiling at odd angles.

The space we've been calling the Laundry Room houses other important household functions, the heart of the house it could be said. How could I be so blind? Washing machine and dryer? Pfft. Why should the room name focus on them? Our beloved HVAC system feels slighted; the hot water heater has so far offered no comment but I can imagine how he feels.

Henceforth and hereinafter I think I'll call it the Mechanical Room, Mech Room for short. Yet that sounds stiff. Maybe the Utility Room? It is quite utilitarian and not much else. I can't call it The Pit anymore, not once the makeover is complete.

The one thing I do know is that it is no longer the Laundry Room. Wendy has not yet blessed a change of name, but she humors me often. We'll see.

Usually Between 5 & 6 PM

2007-04-15T23:00:00.000-04:00

My mother and I have frequent meandering phone conversations. She's been quite chatty of late, cheerful and busy. We cover a range of topics, slipping from one to another easily as some mothers and daughters can do.

Some highlights!

Recent oncology checkup: Everything is fine. Tamoxophin makes her feet cramp. That's gotta suck. "Well," I said, "You only have to take it for another four and a half years." We laughed.

Trader Joe's: "Have you ever tried their mango with chili?!" Further conversation determined she was so anxious to taste it, she opened the package while driving home. It lived up to her expectations in all the right ways. She loves her snacks, the spicier the better.

Something about the future: "I figure I'll just move into a nursing home near wherever y'all are then." That's a direct quote. I'm documenting it for future reference.

Innovations in litter boxes: We discussed in detail the features of a new litterbox system she considered buying. She decided against it for fear it would upset Princess, who would then refuse to use it. Princess lives up to her name.

Record winnings: She finished a recent mahjong session up $3.92. The table concurred: no one had ever before won that much in one day. Her hot streak continued the next day when she finished up $1.84. She's a shark and there is blood in the water.

Bathroom wallpaper: Despite shopping for months, she still hasn't found one she likes. My mother, she knows what she likes. Eventually it will find her, and Wendy and I will joyfully hang it. I selfishly hope it remains elusive until at least June. Odds are in our favor.

Happy Test: She twittered about the Happy Test over at Oprah.com. In the spirit of comaraderie, I took it too. I passed, meaning I did not fall into the unhappy range. I was also not in the extremely satisfied range.

Like I needed a test to tell me that.
She'll pass, too.
Happy is as happy does, or something like that.

Update?

2007-04-10T22:35:00.000-04:00

We blew the deadline. Ah well, what's another week in the relative scheme of life? Our partner-in-crime was in favor of the extension. Watch this space. After-pics are so close I can taste them.

So we ran out of drywall mud. The Home Depot didn't have our usual brand. They had this pink stuff instead.

I was a bit skeptical. Outside of the obvious Sassy-like appeal, what self- respecting do-it-yourself'er needs color-changing drywall mud?

But then I used it. The texture is divine, almost like Playdoh but a bit softer. It is so creamy. Not to mention bright. Truth be told, it was amusing to spread that pink Playdoh and shape it to an ~~adequate~~ ~~fine~~ acceptable finish after it dried white. It easily sands to a smooth, satisfying surface. And oh my, how practical is that square bucket!

Little things please me.
Add this new drywall mud to the list.

Hair Bands Gone Wild?

2007-04-08T23:30:00.000-04:00

I knocked a hair band off the bathroom counter and it rolled across the floor, catching the corner of my eye. I startled. My imagination saw an insect. A fast moving insect. Like those fuzzy centipede things that lived in and around the house we used to live in. Except this one was black! I was relieved to discover it was but a hair band. I retrieved it and made a ponytail with my hair.

Those centipede things. I remember them vividly. They ventured everywhere in that house. They moved like the wind and came in all sizes, the largest I encountered was three inches in length but he had smaller kin. Only one color though, a tawny beige. They had hair. Or stuff that looked like hair. Little fuckers were as fast as lightning.

There was no "catch and release" program for those things, oh hell no. There was a "slap fast and wild with any handy shoe or newspaper and hope you hit them even though you don't really want to squash them because it's oogie and they splat but it's the only way and they have got to go!" program. We didn't see them often enough to develop a true technique.

When The Boy and I first moved into that house, we discovered a nest of them in the basement storage area. We got something to spray on it. Killing Stuff. Then we rock-paper-scissored to see which one of us would spray that nest. He lost. I fitted a mask to his 13-year-old face and armed him with the Killing Stuff. He did the job.

We don't have many bugs in this house. A few spiders. A cricket or two. But nothing like those centipede things. For that, among many other things, I am grateful.

Mastering the Plan

2007-04-05T19:30:00.000-04:00

Home improvement isn't all sweat and dirt.
Often it is sweat and numbers.

Last week a fine Spring day here in the Nation's Capitol brought us 80 degree weather with bright sunshine. Where did I spend it? Inside. Crunching numbers, crafting a spreadsheet, multiple spreadsheets actually, each a work of art in its own right, saved to disc with the grandiose name of "2007 Master Plan."

Were I always efficient, our 2007 Master Plan would have been in place before 2006 ended. I do so adore a calendar year. Unfortunately I'm not always efficient. To save face, I will apply the concept of the fiscal year to our plan. Our fiscal year now officially ends March 31, 2008. So it is decreed, so it shall be recorded.

This is not the first Master Plan we've utilized. We've had one each year since we bought this house. We work better with a schedule and a budget is never optional. Sticking to it is often a challenge but when the going gets rough, and it always does, the guidelines are invaluable.

Presently we are in fifth gear, cruise control set for 65 mph, rolling down highway 41.

Will we get a flat tire?
Run out of gas?
Hit a bump in the road?
Get stuck in the mud?

Probably.

Half the fun of a Master Plan is comparing it to reality after the fact. Such masochism draws me like a moth to a flame. So wish us luck. This year should be interesting.

In the Genes

2007-04-03T22:30:00.000-04:00

It's official and I may as well admit it: I am in a Royal Funk. The women among us will understand exactly what I mean. No one does Royal Funk quite like a woman.

I snapped at my mother on the phone today for asking yet again if my father will be attending The Boy's graduation next month. Then I took a deep breath and apologized.

The problem is that I don't know if he and his wife are planning to attend. Due to circumstances I will not detail herein, our communication has been less than stellar since November. Yes, November. That's a long time. It niggles at me, sharp little teeth nipping randomly. I'd like to think it niggles at him too.

Stubbornness is the root of my problem. Pride may also be involved. Encased in my Royal Funk, what I should do is obvious. I am driven deeper into Funkitude because I know if I do what I should do, what I've always done, it's giving in to the same old same old. I need something different. I drew a line in the sand. My line matters.

I think of those ducks in my neighbor's yard. I think of my neighbor's certainty about the bread they like to eat. What if she didn't feed them white bread? Would the ducks turn their noses up at rye? Would they spit it out if she offered whole wheat? Would they eventually stop gracing her with their presence because what she serves tastes bad over time?

No one does a Royal Funk quite like a woman.
And for the record, I'm a fool for pumpernickel.

.

Suburban Photo Op

2007-03-26T23:30:00.000-04:00

I was at my neighbor's taking pictures of the migrating ducks. They visit semi- annually to rest in her swimming pool. She feeds them, stating unequivocally that ducks prefer plain white bread over wheat or rye. I believe her.

The duck photos didn't turn out very well, but I did snap this bit while I was there. It's my friend Tina's hand, circa 1971. She was eight years old and lived then where we live now. Next to her hand print in my neighbor's concrete walk are three other little hand prints belonging to my neighbor's children.

I love stuff like that. A moment frozen as time rolls on, each print a story unraveling still.

Here's to my friend Tina. I like being part of her story.

We Won!

2007-03-22T22:00:00.000-04:00

Perhaps I should be pleased.
Part of me is pleased.
I like winning, but the honor here is dubious at best.

Our laundry room won the Smackdown! Thank you to all who voted, although I am amazed how many did not vote for our Schmeggle. What were you thinking?!

Our space already looks quite different from when we took those photos last week. The renovation has begun. "When's it gonna be finished?" you may wonder. If neither Wendy nor I had a job, if we weren't losing time to social obligations and travel, if there weren't waiting periods for this to dry or that to cure, if we didn't like to sleep, if all that were true our room would already be finished. Since life gets in the way, best case deadline is March 30, worst case April 8.

As we gleefully waited to see the outcome of our less than scientific poll, eb and I latched upon the idea of fixing up the two rooms simultaneously. Like Trading Spaces but without the trading or the designer and carpenter or the plump reality TV show budget.

It's about comaraderie and common purpose. Will it be motivating to know a friend is slaving in a similar fashion in their own home some 1,400 miles distant?

We'll see.

Little Things

2007-03-21T22:30:00.000-04:00

My car was in the shop. It had been making a noise, the kind of noise I pray will go away on its own but in my head I know it won't so I need to just suck it up and deal with it, that broken car kind of noise. Perhaps you've heard your own.

I won't bore you with the entire experience despite the tale being in and of itself not completely without interest. My car was supposed to be ready after work on Monday. Arriving at the auto repair shop at the designated time, I was displeased to see my vehicle still in the bay.

"Sorry, so sorry, it is not ready," said the owner of the shop while shaking his head sadly. "All my fault, all my fault! Tomorrow, tomorrow."

"But I need my car to get to work tomorrow!" I whined.

"Here," he said, pulling his keyring out of his pocket and removing a key, "Here. You take my car until yours is ready tomorrow afternoon."

Well. I wasn't expecting that. But hey, it solved a problem for both of us. Despite the loaner being an absolute piece of shit automobile, it got me where I needed to go and back again. I'm easy.

The next day, I handed the fellow his key and joked, "Man, tell me you don't drive that thing on the freeway!"

He just looked at me sideways and grinned, "No, no."

An insurance identification card floated in the back seat of that crappy car. I looked at it. The last name of the insured person had 18 letters, ten of which were consonants. 18 letters! It stretched out three inches in small print. His last name. My entire first-middle-last name spelled out in all its glory has but 21 characters, only five of which belong to the last.

I experienced a random moment of true affection for my short last name. Can you relate?

.

Vote for Ghetto

2007-03-18T23:59:00.000-04:00

I'd like to invite y'all to vote in the Ugliest Laundry Room Evah contest. There are but two entries: one room belongs to Wendy & me, the other to eb & Maxine. It's simple: just follow the link and view the pictures of two different laundry rooms. Cast your vote for the most horrid.

Yes, one of those rooms is in our house. We've lived with it for over three years as it worked its way up the priorities list. Its moment has arrived. I've got nothing to do with that other room. That is eb's problem. If I lived closer, I'd help her.

I have little use for existing conditions shame during our renovations. I mean really, it is what it is. We bought a well-used home in need of TLC. We cannot fix it all at once. It's a delicate balance of time and money. The projects we have completed are satisfying, things just take longer than we'd like. We're not the first do-it-yourself'ers to experience this non-phenomenon.

Starting with a real mess can make even the least improvement seem that much more impressive. So go on, vote for the ugliest laundry room. There are adult beverages riding on the outcome of the vote and we are thirsty. And we look kinda scary.

PS: We're gonna win ourselves some Simple Green too, number one product for cleaning as chosen by weese aka the Lesbian Queen of Clean. I know we will put it to good use.

Out of the Blue

2007-03-15T22:00:00.000-04:00

Phone conversation with The Boy on Tuesday:

Him: Oh yeah, I'll be home later this week.

Me: What?

Him: Yeah, TC and I will be there Thursday night, we may leave Saturday. (He really didn't say TC. That's a pseudonym. His girlfriend.)

I'm pleased, although instinctively my mind panics, "There is no food in the house!!"

Fortunately, I know how to remedy that.

.

Clean Bright Spaces Bring Smiling Faces

2007-03-13T23:00:00.000-04:00

I've never laid eyes on The Perfect Laundry Room but I've seen it in my dreams. Oh sure I've come across some nice ones, just never in my own home. Not yet anyway. The one in my dreams has a western exposure with large windows framed by flouncy curtains. The sunlight glistens off sparkling surfaces. The Perfect Laundry Room always looks clean and uncluttered.

Conversation between suburban lesbians touched on the topic of laundry rooms. I asserted our current laundry room qualifies as The Ugliest Laundry Room Evah. eb claimed theirs does. We didn't discuss The Perfect Laundry Room.

We are scheduled to begin refurbishing the space that qualifies as The Ugliest Laundry Room Evah. It's a nasty little corner of our abode in need of creative TLC. When we are done, it will be upgraded to Much Less Objectionable Yet Nowhere Near Perfect Laundry Room status. Eh, sometimes laundry must be done in the space you have, not in the space you want to have.

I have a sudden strong curiosity about other people's laundry spaces, whether said spaces bring them joy. I personally don't spend much time in our laundry room, but I'd like for it to be a joyous place because Wendy does.

Can there be joy in a laundry room?
We're gonna find some.

Squeaky Clean

2007-03-11T23:00:00.000-04:00

We use liquid soap at the sinks and bar soap in the shower.

The bar of soap resides atop a green sponge in the lower-upper shower niche. The sponge absorbs all bar soap residue, preventing the puddles and slime so commonly found beneath a bar of soap. A rinse and a squeeze every so often keeps it clean and fresh. A sponge is the perfect complement to bar soap in a shower niche.

Bar soap dwindles, melts away as it is used until nothing is left but a sliver of its former self. The sliver becomes so small as to be virtually useless when presented with the task of cleansing an adult woman's entire body.

I find it challenging to remember a new bar of soap is needed BEFORE I actually GET IN the shower which then necessitates GETTING OUT of the shower and opening the bathroom door to access the closet on the landing to grab a fresh bar of soap.

It feels like a long distance. It's really only six feet. I don't actually have to step out of the bathroom to reach the closet. But still. The door is open. I'm wet. I'm dripping. I'm chilled. I'm wishing I'd remembered the soap sooner.

Today I found a fresh bar of soap already waiting in the shower for me, with a bit of the sliver I had used the day before blended on top. Waste not, want not. The new bar had been used only once before, to soap the delicate curves of my lovely lady.

That's one lucky bar of soap.
Almost as lucky as me.