Suburban Photo Op

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.

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We Won!

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.

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Little Things

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?

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Vote for Ghetto

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.

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Out of the Blue

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.

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Clean Bright Spaces Bring Smiling Faces

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.

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Squeaky Clean

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.

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Play Ball!

The last house we lived in was half a block from the high school baseball field. I could hear the sounds while hanging out the bathroom window. Or see it when driving home. Many an evening Wendy and I were drawn by those sights and sounds, the crack of the bat, the umpire's call. Off we'd go to sit in the bleachers and watch the boys play baseball.

Now we are three blocks from the high school and can't hear a damned thing. One must strain even to hear the marching band on football nights. Another sound I miss from the old 'hood are the bells from the Catholic church. When I was at my friend Tina's house last week, those bells tolled. Very nice.

But back to those other sounds, the sounds of baseball! The season is at hand which means, among other things, Fantasy Baseball preparations have begun. Or more precisely on my part, thoughts of preparation.

If you didn't play with us in our Blog Fantasy Football League, you missed out on the opportunity to win the fabulous trophy bestowed upon the Champion.

It currently adorns our mantle.
Wendy's name is engraved upon it.
She allows me to dust it.

Just what type of trophy will Commissioner Sporks select for the baseball champion? The buzz has already begun.

The baseball trophy could become yours! We've got room in our league for more teams. Novice, expert, tweener. Matters not.

Any takers?
Drop me a line!

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Taking the Plunge

I brought up the subject of poo with my friend eb. She remarked that we had discussed poo not that long ago. There we were talking about it again! But this was different poo and a different story.

My mother told me a bizarre tale. My version will spare you the convoluted who-was-where-doing-what-when backstory and hop right to the poo part.

She had a group of friends over to play Mahjong. They play regularly, rotating hostesses. That particular day one of those little old ladies took a big enough poo in my mother's upstairs bathroom to cause the toilet to clog and overflow.

That event unto itself is not bizarre. I mean really. Who hasn't had a toilet clog on them at one time or another? It's the nature of a toilet. And bowels. The question becomes, just what does one do when it happens?

In spring 2001, we hosted a French foreign exchange student. His name was Alex. He spoke limited English. For six weeks, he lived with our family and attended high school with The Boy. He had been with us for about two weeks when one evening he raced into the kitchen, gesturing wildly, a panicked look on his face.

Our toilet had clogged when he flushed. It was full of shit and almost overflowing. Alex knew what to do: get help! The Boy quickly plunged it. Problem solved, tragedy averted.

My mother keeps a plunger behind both her toilets. We keep ours handy in the closet just outside the bathroom door. When a plunger is needed, it is of great benefit to have one close at hand.

But that little old lady did not use the handy plunger. Nor did she mention to anyone at all that the upstairs toilet had overflowed. She just took her seat at the table and resumed playing Mahjong, saying nothing of the craptacular mess she had made upstairs. My mother discovered it shortly after the game ended and all had departed.

I'd like the give that little old lady the benefit of the doubt. I'd like to think she didn't realize the toilet was overflowing. But given the detail of events, it doesn't take Perry Mason to connect the dots. There is just no way she didn't know.

So I asked eb, "What would you have done given those circumstances?"

"I so would have plunged!" she stated vehemently.

Of course. I would have too.

And if that didn't work, I'd have hollered for help despite unavoidable personal mortification over the situation. It's embarrassing to clog a toilet. There's often poo involved. Real poo, not just talked-about poo. Real poo is private, to be shared with only the most intimate of loved ones and then only when it cannot reasonably be avoided. Or is it just me?

Can you plunge a toilet?
If not, I suggest you learn.
It's a skill everyone should master.

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Ramblings from a Woman with Muddy Shoes

Our weather has been warm.
Temporarily I hope.
The recent snow and ice melted rapidly.
Everything is wet.

My favorite puddle in the Metro parking garage?
She had plenty of playmates.
There was more puddle than dry pavement.

The usual creek has formed diagonally across our backyard. It streams from northwest to southeast, flows near the porch door and toward the woodpile.

The dogs can't help but walk through it.
Muddy dog feet are a nuisance.

We can't help but walk through it.
Muddy shoes are a nuisance, too.

Long ago, that "creek" was dubbed the River Ines (rhymes with Your Highness). We didn't name it but that's what pops into my head when it seasonally forms. I know others who remember it too.

It's nothing personal, Ines. You know I love ya, babe. But your river has got to go. Even after it dries up, we'll remember it and the woman for whom it was named. Memories are in every nook and cranny of this property. It is not uncommon for me to think of you when I walk through our dining room, my mind's eye seeing you seated at the head of the table, a cup of coffee at your elbow, your books and papers strewn across the tabletop.

Huh. I started out with the intention of writing about our need for backyard drainage. My fingers carried me to an entirely different place.

I believe the saying "No one ever truly dies as long as someone remembers them." Memories kick in at odd times. Like now. When my shoes got muddy.

We've got interesting ghosts kicking around our home.
I'm glad they don't snore.

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Blob* Friends

Picture time.
Better late than never.



* Blob was coined inadvertently by Syd's better half, K, aka The Hot Chick. Her accent begs to be licked like an ice cream cone.

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From Afar

I remember The Boy's first Spring semester with auditions for summer work. I wasn't there. I lived it vicariously through the sounds of his voice as he told his stories. That phone call when he announced his first job offer to be a professional actor. I didn't even care what or where the job was, the excitement bubbling in his voice was all that mattered.

Does it embarrass The Boy when I write about him? When I write about him like this? I don't know.

Anyway. It's that time of year again. Audition time. His "What will I be doing this summer?" time. But this year it's different. It's also his "What will I be doing next year?" time. It marks the beginning of what I hope will be his perpetual Spring.

The Boy is a senior in college. Have I mentioned that? Graduating in mere months? Perhaps I have. Mentioned it. But can it be said too many times? Not from where I'm sitting. Vicarious living and all. My baby. I still can't figure out where the years went.

So about those auditions. This week and forward.
Break a leg, my son. Break both legs.
You know you've got it going on.
Go grab it.

I'm so proud of him I embarrass myself at times.

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Phase I: North by Northeast

Among other things, this I have learned: there are many rocks in Connecticut.

Wendy and I were fortunate enough to attend what we hope will be but the first BlogFriends gathering. Face to face with people like us. Some we had previously met. Some were strangers. Most are bloggers. We are parents. We are not. We are women. We are lesbians. We are young. We are old. We are tall. We are short. We are loud. We are quiet. We are bold. We are shy. We are white collar. We are blue collar. We are blonde, gray, brunette and red-headed. We are all colors of the rainbow. And we are everywhere.

That fine Saturday, however, we were in Connecticut, land of the plentiful rock.

SassyFemme and her delightful wife Eagle Eye Fran put forth the invitation: Come to our house, BlogFriends! Eat our food! Make art in our snow-covered yard! Use our toilet paper! Scare our dog into hiding! Revel with us as you enjoy our hospitality!

Oh, those two are brave. Quite.

Here's a random picture of my fierce dog shadow puppet about to maul eb's weenie little snake shadow puppet. She didn't stand a chance.

Months prior, with the emotional commonality of sons in college, Wendy and I were the recipients of what has been deemed a Drunk Dial. No, no. It wasn't Sassy. It was Weese and her Absolutely Amazing Wife. It's no secret they live in Connecticut also. During that phone call, they, too, had extended an invitation for us to visit.

It hadn't just been the wine talking. A plan was hatched, approvals gained. Wendy and I would hie to Connecticut, be guests at Weese and her AAW's suburban estate. Together with them we would attend Sassy and Fran's party. The plan twisted as the timing of my sister's visit overlapped. Perhaps she could come with us!

Because isn't that what everyone does? Plan a visit to a friend's house then invite your family along?

Graciousness abounds. My sister, Sherab Khandro, was welcomed on the adventure.

And what an adventure it was!
I sit here still in awe of the entire experience.
Details will come out along the way as details have a tendency to do.

Right now I am savoring the glow.
I want to bottle this feeling.

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Planes, Trains & Automobiles

Phase I of Suburban Lesbian's Excellent Adventures has ended. If we survive Phase II, I'll be back to tell the tales.

Y'all behave.

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I Blame Public Transportation

I have a vicious cold.
It blew into my life the same day all the sleet did.

The frozen sheet of sleet can stay around as long as it likes.
But this sickness needs to go.

As I pulled the last tissue from my box of Puff's Plus, a tear ran down my cheek. I was certain it was the last Puff in the house. I'd have to use something other than a wonderfully soft, delicately lotioned tissue to wipe my stuffy yet dripping nose. Imagine my delight---yes, sheer rapture---at the chance discovery of an almost full box of tissues behind the stack of books next to our bed. Score!

My usual cold remedies have done nothing to quash my symptoms. So I lay like a lump, drink plenty of fluids and moan.

Have I mentioned my sister arrives tomorrow?
This sickness needs to go now!

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In the Soft Glow of the Streetlamp

It is 11:30 pm.
It has been sleeting all day.
It is sleeting right now.
It is supposed to sleet all night.

I glanced out our picture window.
It is all shiny out there.
I spied a bunny in the front yard.
Just hanging out.
In the sleet.

Where is he going?
Why did he pause in our yard?
To catch his breath?
Why is he out in this weather?
Does his mother know where he is?
Why isn't he curled up in his rabbit hole, warm and dry?
Who goes out voluntarily on a night like tonight?

Odd circumstance for a bunny, I thought.
He stayed about 10 minutes then departed.

That bunny could use a sweater on a night like tonight.

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Comment Comment

A comment my friend Liz from I Speak of Dreams left on this post hasn't sat well with me since I read it:

"... The deal is, though, people who switch teams after having kids... it is hard on the kids, as the team-switching implies the death of the family of origin."

Team-switching implies the death of the family of origin? With all due respect, I couldn't disagree more.

Such could be implied in any instance when parents split up and change is wrought to an existing family structure. Team-switching as a component adds but another wrinkle to the whole process, just one among many.

Or am I just talking out of my ass to cover my own guilt at the merest implication my own life caused something as tragic-sounding as the demise of The Boy's family of origin?

I know better. How a family--an entire family--handles such an issue determines the experience a child has. Implications aside, reality counts. Family can be fluid and strong as steel. I'm happy to say ours is.

On a completely unrelated note, our crocuses bloomed last week. It's only February. I'll miss seeing them when Spring really arrives.

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I'm Too Sexy for My Car

The first automobile I ever owned was a 1960-something Fiat Spyder convertible. I bought it with money my maternal grandfather gave me. Bright yellow with black running boards and roof, my nineteen-year-old self looked damn good in it.

Three years later, I was driving a cherry red 1983 Ford Mustang GT 5.0. Yes, a muscle car of sorts. Yes, my then-husband picked it out. But I liked it just fine. Zero to 60 in second gear made getting on the highway a rush of pure joy. I got my first speeding ticket in that car. I got my second, third, and fourth speeding tickets in that car. I learned the obvious lesson: people driving red cars receive more speeding tickets. I swore I would never own another red car.

I drove it for nine years before trading it in on something better suited to my life: a silver Toyota Corolla stationwagon, circa 1992. I had a son and two dogs. We liked to go places together. It fit.

Today I drive a 1999 Toyota Camry. It's a common shade of light brown, taupe maybe. There are at least one million others like it on the road. The missing paint on the rear bumper is one way to quickly identify it as mine in a parking lot. It's economical, functional and halfway comfortable.

I work for an engineer who chuckled, "You drive an accountant's car alright."

Man. That cut. Mocked by an engineer.
But hey, it is what it is.

Last week, a gas station attendant struck up a conversation with me as he checked my oil while I pumped gas. He said, "I have a car just like this except it's blue. 1999 yes? You like yours?" I answered without thinking, "Yeah I like it well enough. I'll probably be driving it for another five years or so."

That thought depressed me. I'm one of those people who buys a car and drives it until most of its useful life is lived. I should be pleased if my car lasts that much longer, not depressed. Still. I'm tired of the one I have. But I'll keep driving it. Replacing a car is too much work: shopping, comparing, educating, test driving, salespeople. Plus I'm cheap frugal.

My car will continue to say nothing about me as we blend into our suburban environs going about our daily tasks in an economical and nondescript manner. And I'll keep wondering why I don't enjoy blending in as much as I used to.

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"Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Lend Me Your Ears"

Do I seem a sympathetic listener? Do I present as understanding and non-judgmental? Do I appear the type to offer solid advice when solicited?

I don't think so either. Someone should tell that to the friends and acquaintances who recently decided, en masse but apart, to test those theories.

People with issues--real live angsty situations--who need someone to "talk to" surround me. It's a fucking epidemic, hitting from all sides: upside, outside, redside, blueside, and of course the ever popular "blindside." The past two weeks have been one startling dramatic revelation after another. The variety astounds. I pray it isn't contagious.

It may sound as though I'm complaining. Part of me is. It can be exhausting, this lending of an ear. Despite the deluge, a larger part of me is grateful for the opportunity to be there for others. Yes yes, terribly cliche. But I'm serious. What else are we here for anyway?

Today I write to celebrate those people, to applaud their courage and raw humanity. Their continuing efforts to Keep On Keeping On amid their troubles are downright inspirational.

Still. It must be said. I'm ever so glad to be listening to the ones with issues instead of being the one with issues. Who wouldn't be?

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I Like Numbered Lists

I borrowed this from The Tropopause.
I'm hoping to return it before she notices it is missing.

1. The phone rings. Who are you hoping it is? An unknown number so I won't feel obligated to answer it.
   


2. When shopping at the grocery store, do you return your cart? Of course. Like it's optional.


3. In a social setting, are you more of a talker or a listener? Yes.


4. If abandoned alone in the wilderness, would you survive? I've actually daydreamed that scenario. I'd be dead. D capital E capital A capital D. It would not be pretty.


5. Do you like to ride horses? I can count on one hand the number of times I've been on a horse, each time a terrifying thrill. Yeah, I think I like it.


6. Did you ever go to camp as a kid? Many times. Summer camp, Girl Scout camp, church youth group camp. Camp camp camp camp camp. I learned spiders adore latrine huts and how to build a fire, among other campy things.


7. What was your favorite board game as a kid? Candyland. I was a simple child.


8. If a sexy person was pursuing you, but you knew he/she was taken what would you do? Introduce her to my girlfriend.


9. Are you judgmental? No, it's too much work.
   


10. Would you date someone with different religious beliefs? That depends. Is she hot?


11. Are you continuing your education? Every day, it continues.


12. Do you know how to shoot a gun? I pulled a trigger once: a shotgun, fired at nothing in the middle of nowhere. That middle of nowhere is now a dense suburban sprawl. It's been a while.


13. If your house was on fire, what's the first thing you'd grab? My bra.


14. How often do you read books? Daily. All day when I'm lucky.


15. Do you think more about the past, present or future? No.


16. What is your favorite children's book? The Chatterlings in Wordland by Michael Lipman.


17. How tall are you? 5'9"


18. Where is your ideal house located? When we find it, I'll let you know.
    


19. Last person you talked to? Wendy.


20. When was the last time you were at Olive Garden? It's been years. At least five.


21. What are your keys on your key chain for? Things I keep locked.
    


22. What did you do last night? Sat in my recliner, re-reading the second book in a fantasy series by George R.R. Martin, a dog in my lap and a fire in the fireplace. I'm going to do the same thing tonight.
    


23. Where is your current pain at [sic]? Huh? Sitting in my chair with the rest of me.


24. Do you like mustard? Yes.


25. Do you like your mom or dad? Yes to all.


26. How long does it take you in the shower? Average 10 minutes. Fifteen when I shave my legs. Squeaky clean.


27. What movie do you want to see right now? None in particular.


28. Do you put lotion on your dog or cats? Uh... no.


29. What did you do for New Year's? Hung out at the beach with the rabble we call friends.
    


30. Do you think The Grudge was scary? It didn't scare me. Then again, I don't know what it is.


31. Do you own a camera phone? Yes.


32. What's the last letter of your middle name? This is a trick question. I refuse to answer.
    


33. Who did you vote for on American Idol? I eagerly watch, but do not vote.
    

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"Yo! Pseudos!"

At present, I know more gay and lesbian people than I ever have before. When The Boy was younger, I was often the lone blip of homosexuality in our heterosexual world. By choice? By circumstance. Interesting times, those. It was all good.

These days I'm surrounded. It's been gradual, this expansion of my cultural vista. It's not sole source, either. I meet lesbians and gay men so often, in such a variety of circumstance, it has almost become commonplace. We are everywhere.

A rumor hit the mill that two friends, heterosexual females, were "hooking up" with each other. Surprised me enough to merit a raised eyebrow while rousing my curiosity. Who doesn't love a little titillating gossip now and again! And of course it was titillating. Since when is news of any two friends of any gender hooking up not titillating? It could be love! Or at least good sex.

Turns out the rumor was true. Not only were they hooking up then, but they are still a couple now. It's been over a year. At what point does "hooking up" turn into "having a romantic relationship" turn into "Hey world, I'm gay"?

Wendy pinned the nickname "pseudos" on those friends of ours, a term of endearment if you will. Are they lesbians? Situational? Transitional? Who knows? Them least of all, maybe. Does it matter?

Wendy and I are fortunate to have friends who span generations. Some are solidly heterosexual, some solidly homosexual. Others are trying to figure out who they are. Toss in a handful who have no fucking clue and all bases are covered.

What's a friend to do when a friend switches sexual teams? I know what my "friends" did when I traded up. Many of them fled. A few adapted.

I'm an adapter. A friend is a friend. Life is hard enough without stressing over something as basic as who someone loves.

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Distance is Relative

I only wear t-shirts to work around the house or lay around the house, depending on the mood of the moment. Rarely do I appear in public so attired. The neckline of a t-shirt is just not flattering on me.

That's not to say I don't own many t-shirts. I do. Too many. Some have cute sayings, others are emblazoned with sports team logos, none are blank and none have breast pockets. They are white, black, yellow, green, but the color I most often choose to wear from my t-shirt collection is gray. Various shades of gray. Again, not the most flattering color on me but who cares when one is laying around the house?

My most favorite t-shirt of all, I stole. Swiped it from someone near and dear to me. I don't think he noticed or would even particularly care if he had. I justify the theft by telling myself I had paid for it anyway. It was part of The Boy's high school gym uniform.

It is soft, soft, soft. Soft in the way only well-worn cotton can be. When I first obtained it, our last name was boldly lettered in black in the oblong designated to display such information. Over the years, repeated washings have faded that ink to nothingness. The other graphics on the shirt have faded too but no holes have appeared. Yet. I know they are coming. Old t-shirts embrace such things.

Why would I steal my son's shirt? I didn't think about it then but I know now. It's a tangible way of keeping a piece of him near. Silly me. Used to be I'd wear it to comfort myself. Sometimes I still do, but it has grown to be comforting in a completely different way. I'll miss it when it finally wears out.

The Boy is now a senior in college, on track to graduate in May of this year. He and I were in the midst of a conversation over the holidays when he said, "After this visit, I don't know when I'll be home again."

He's right, of course. The fairly regular patterns of life as a student will morph into life as he chooses to live it. Where will he work this summer? Where will he be in the fall? What opportunities will present? Will he land the job he seeks? When he does, where will it take him?

Over the past four years, cocooned in my stolen t-shirt, I've worked on figuring out how to be a parent to an adult child. I've often said each stage of his life has been more fun than the last, all equally as challenging and fondly remembered. The future, it comes, ready or not. The secret is not in the knowing, but in the being in it together as it unfolds around us.

The Boy will never live right around the corner, odds are he'll not even live in the same state. But we'll still be together. Family can be like that. I hope ours always is.

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"That's Fuckin' Teamwork!"

The title of this post is a line of a song that has been playing in my head for over a week.

It was one of the first I purchased for my new iPod. Yes, that's right. I've joined the earphone revolution (thanks Wen!). Today when I rode the Metro downtown I was plugged in like nine-tenths of my fellow commuters.

The song features a bright red box next to the title: EXPLICIT. I already knew that, but thanks Tipper & Company. Those labels are, I suppose, helpful for parents screening their little darlings' choices in music. It's too late for me. (Evidently too late for The Boy too. He's the one who first played this particular song within my range of hearing and later identified it for me.)

The music itself is soft and melodious, light rock, almost folky. The lyrics, while quite explicit, amuse while making a point. Well. Making a point may be stretching it a bit. Still, the tune is so damned catchy it's been trapped in my head for over a week!

The band is Tenacious D. I like Tenacious D. There. I said it. I'm mildly ashamed yet I don't know why. I'll get over it.

So. Can you readers identify the song from the post title? Am I the only one here who enjoys an occasional profanity-laden tune with style echoing through her head?

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Of Loud Noises On a Rainy Night

I've already learned one important lesson this new year: when the fire alarm sounds, it's not a good idea to pull the pillow over your head and go back to sleep. I think I was supposed to learn that in kindergarten.

Of course one may assume when one is surrounded by good friends that said good friends will insist the sleeping beauty get out of bed and leave the house when alarms emit piercing warning noise. There is danger in being abed when the house is possibly on fire. Or so the cute dykey Fire Marshall reminded said good friends upon her arrival. See, they had abandoned not only me but one other slug-a-bed in the house with the fire alarms blaring at a decibel not usually conducive to sleep yet somehow not fazing we two left behind during the evacuation.

Am I really that grumpy when awoken from a drunken stupor sound sleep in the middle of the night? Evidently I'm bitchy enough for the thought of waking me to strike apathy in the hearts of good friends.

I imagine the discussion:

"Suzanne is asleep upstairs!"
"Shouldn't we wake her?!"
"I tried! She growled at me to leave her alone!"
"Oh. Well then. I guess it's cool to leave her where she lies. "
"Hey look! Here comes the fire truck! I hope the firemen are cute!"

Despite this potentially near-death experience, 2007 is off to a good start. The police came. We were not arrested. The fire department came. There was no fire. I was never in danger and my good friends could have safely left me slumbering during the disruption. But once a real adult arrived on the scene, said good friends selflessly pried me from my comfortable cocoon so I could huddle outside in the rain with the rest of them.

I feel so loved.

Lesson number two? This I didn't retain from kindergarten either: a nap in the sun is good for what ails you. Especially when nothing does.

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Holiday Waves

I was watching a special about tsunamis on cable recently and imagined a similarity with the holiday season. The holidays rush upon us, bowling us over with feverish activity, disrupting routines as well as digestive tracts. The first wave recedes only to be renewed as New Year's celebrations follow quickly on the heels of Christmas.

When The Boy was five, my mom made an advent calendar for him. She's so crafty, my mom. For the past sixteen years, that calendar has been part of our holiday decor. I'm a fool for tradition, but have learned over the years that traditions must bend with the times. The calendar, however, remains constant.

There are twenty-four pockets, each holding a handsewn felt "toy." Every toy has unique character, crafted with sequins and embroidery. Above is Santa and his empty sack. Each day the countdown to Christmas is marked by removing the item from the pocket of the day and attaching it carefully on one of the small velcro squares surrounding Santa.

I have distinct snapshots frozen in my memory of The Boy at various ages tending to his calendrical duties: him in his footie pajamas, his curly blonde hair tousled, standing on his tiptoes to reach the upper portion; him dressed in his elementary school uniform, expression thoughtful as he carefully considered where to position the toy for that day; him in what was his standard high school attire of khaki cargo pants and button-down shirt, untucked, his blonde hair so short the curls were nonexistent, standing eye to eye with Santa. More recently, The Boy towers over him.

This year my mom commented, "Oh that calendar is looking old." I hadn't noticed. It still looks good to me.

We'll bring in the New Year listening to the Atlantic waves crash on the shore in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, a tradition that has adapted over the years from a family event inclusive of The Boy to a vacation with close friends. The Boy is heading north to the Big Apple, already forming his own traditions. But still. He'll be with us and, I trust, us with him.

Happy New Year, all.
Be safe.

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Money. It's a Hit.

Money rocks, but cash is a drag. I'm a debit card kind of girl. It's the best of all worlds: living on a cash budget but not having to carry cash. I don't even want to think about life before it.

Using my debit card, I end up with a managable pile of receipts, neat pieces of paper I stash in one of three places until it's time to compile them to update our financials for the month. Those little receipts are individually input in the computer and voila! I know where the money went.

But using cash? I end up with bits and pieces everywhere. A $7.86 purchase? A tolerably tidy $10 bill becomes two one dollar bills, one dime, four pennies and a receipt.

The pennies end up jingling around in my pocket or the bottom of my purse. From there they make their way to the olive dish that sits atop the dresser where I empty my pockets each evening and fill them each morning. Why do I keep my pennies in the olive tray? Why not? Once they hit the olive tray, they can consider themselves out of circulation. I rarely pick them up again. The bottom of my purse is also a penny graveyard.

I've often thought of how nice it would be were pennies to fall out of favor. Every purchase would round to the nearest nickel. Could any sane person object?

Real coins, and by that I mean anything that is not a penny, go into my Poker Can which sits next to the olive dish on my dresser. When the Poker Can fills up as Poker Cans are wont to do, the whole lot is transferred into the Super Poker Can. This coinage system is only two years old. I'm not sure what I'll do when the Super Poker Can overflows.

Neat storage of bills in purse or pocket is another issue. I like my bills orderly and neat, denominations collated with all heads facing the same direction. That takes effort. Not to mention paper money is far from sanitary. It's the nature of the beast, trading from hands that have been god-knows-where doing god-knows-what into other hands with a similar history and so on and so on. It's a germfest out there, people.

I know, I know. I should be grateful to have money to spend, no matter what form. Even when it's pennies. Truly I am. Yet I am equally as grateful for my debit card, without which life would be less organized, less efficient and germier. Long live the self swipe!

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Suburban Lesbian Bakes a Pie

Joanne's Pecan Pie to be exact.

My office holiday party is tomorrow. We'll have lunch at one of Old Town Alexandria's plethora of fine restaurants then return to the office for dessert and a gift exchange.

We do one of those roundtable gift exchanges. Everyone gets a number and presents are opened and traded around. (Is it rude to vie for the gift oneself brings to such an exchange? I must mull that over. I'd really like to have what I'm giving away.)

So back to the pie. It's a simple recipe and makes a damn fine dessert if you enjoy such things. Let's create one, shall we?

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Gather the ingredients:

One 9" frozen deep dish pie crust
2 cups pecan halves
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup water
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/4 tsp salt
3 eggs, beaten
36 Kraft caramels (unwrapped)

It is interesting that the recipe specifies the 36 Kraft caramels are to be unwrapped. Some details are best not left to intuition.

Into the saucepan go the caramels, the butter and the water. Over very low heat, allow it all to melt. Stir frequently. Watch it happen here through the miracle of timelapse photography!

Meanwhile, between stirs of the caramel mixture, blend together the eggs, sugar, vanilla and salt. Ummm ummmm good?

Gradually add the melty mess to the eggy mess.
Stir in the pecans.
Voila! Ready for the pie shell!

Bake in a 350 degree oven for 45-50 minutes.

We haven't heard from Joanne in years, but I think of her every time I bake her pie.

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The Eyes Have It

Turns out reading glasses have revolutionized my humble existence. Everything is easier. Why did it take me so long to conform? (Stubbornness chafes more often than not. I should give up that habit.)

It has not been easy to develop appropriate routines for proper eyeglass usage. Like remembering to always have them at hand, when to put them on and take them off, the exact position to perch them on my nose so I can peer successfully over the top, and how to keep them safe and accessible in my travel bag. Circumstances dictated I follow the advice of similarly handicapped individuals and purchase multiple pairs.

Circumstances being because I broke the one pair I owned. That's right. It took me less than a month to snap an arm off. Dainty fragile little things, my reading glasses. Now I own four pair.

I broke them at work. (Don't ask how, the story is too ugly to share. It was brutal.) Off I traipsed to the local CVS on my lunch hour to purchase a replacement pair. I grabbed two instead. The blouse I was wearing that day partially influenced my color choice: one pair I selected perfectly matched one of its colored stripes. I emailed Wendy a one-liner upon my return to the office: "I bought some really sassy glasses today." Her response: "OMG you bought PINK glasses!?"

The other pair is plain black. Or so I thought until I pulled them out of the package. That's when I saw the white scrollwork down the earpiece. The bright office light glinted off the rhinestones. Oh no. No no no! Pink glasses I can handle. Black with rhinestones and white florally decoration is beyond my limit.

Chalk up yet another practical application for a black Sharpie. It even did an admirable job of masking the rhinestones.

I threw the broken pair away.
Ten minutes later I picked them out of the trash.
I taped the arm neatly back on with scotch tape.
They'll live in the bathroom and no one but me will know.

Well. Wendy will too.
But her I can trust to keep my secret.

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It's the Weather

Last Friday we had a high of 75 degrees.
It was humid, too. Tasted like late summer.

Monday we had a high of 40 degrees.
It was crisp and clear.
It still is. Now it tastes like winter.

Tuesday as I made my way to the Metro station, I noticed as I always do the Permanent Puddle. It exists no matter what the weather, occupying an outside corner on the upper parking deck of the garage. The position of said Permanent Puddle requires me to take a longcut to avoid trapsing through it. (It's usually too deep to tiptoe through without your socks getting wet. I am certain. Don't ask how I know.)

Tuesday the Puddle was ice. I squelched the immediate desire to step on it, walk across it, slipslide a little on purpose. I could almost hear how the edges would crackle underfoot.

I wish I had done it. The first ice patch of the season deserves celebration.

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Reality TV Transcends the Ages?

Image jacked from somewhere on the internet.
Kudos to the anonymous artist!

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Go Ask Alice

Trees glorious trees! Their awakening in Spring is a sign of renewal, their plummage splendiferously shady in Summer and a riot of delicious color in Fall, the barren dark branches reaching toward the sky setting just the right mood in Winter. Who could ask for anything lovelier to decorate the horizon?

Right about now, I could. It's a passing fancy. See we haven't yet gotten around to tidying up Mother Nature's leafy detritus. My father always proclaimed, "What God put down, God will take away!" or something of the sort. I have no childhood memories of raking leaves. Who knew then how lucky I was to be spared such labor?

Now is not a good time to romp in our backyard. The thick brown coat of leaves obscuring the grass masks all signs of whatever dangers may be hiding beneath the crunchy layer.

And yes, there is danger. Grave danger. We have two dogs, dontcha know. Said dogs take care of all their worldly business in our backyard. It's nigh on impossible to scoop in the Fall. Even with my glasses.

Alice visited us the day after Thanksgiving. It was a warm sunny day here in the Nation's Capital. She thought of better things to do than to sit around chatting in the living room with the old folks. We romped in the yard. The backyard. Three year olds have their own special brand of romp. Alice loved the dogs and the dogs loved her. Pixie had never been up close and personal with a miniature human before; she was greatly intrigued. Dudley was, as always, a gentleman.

Alice made the rounds of our yard several times. Pixie spreads her toys far and wide. Alice insisted on tracking down each and every one. She would carefully pick them up, give a brief sniff and test the texture gently against her cheek while squeezing to discern density and squeakability.

Somewhere in our travels, she picked up dog shit on her shoe. Those cute little saddle shoes. I snatched it off her foot in the nick of time just before she stepped back into the house.

Wendy washed Alice's hands. I cleaned and polished her shoe. That cute little dog shit-covered saddle shoe.

We like it when mini-people come to visit. Even when they insist on wandering through the minefield.

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Suddenly Scientific

How many rolls of toilet paper does a household go through in an average week?

That is the question I've set out to answer for our own household, inspired in part by the quantity of Charmin flushed away during our recent spate of company over the Thanksgiving holiday.

Yes, we had a lot of company and it was a "food" holiday. But damn. I swear we blew through a nine pack of Ultra-Charmin over those four days and five nights. I personally changed the roll four times over the course of the holiday. (That's not counting whatever happened in the downstairs bathroom. I'm not even sure anyone besides The Boy used it. I sure didn't. The last time I was down there I saw a spider. Quite near the toilet. Need I say more?)

The Boy was the only representative of the male persuasion. The other seven bodies utilizing our humble facilities were female. Isn't it a commonly known factoid that women use more toilet paper than men? Is it true? I've always assumed so. Perhaps you've never thought about it. I have. More than once. The mind, it wanders.

Suddenly I'm irresistibly interested in Typical Household Toilet Paper Usage (THTPU). For the purpose of this experiment, our household will be the control group.

The data collection began with a fresh roll of toilet paper last night. I've numbered the spare rolls stashed handily in the cabinet within arms reach of the toilet. Lest you feel I'm unduly obsessed and perhaps should use my time more wisely, the numbering took a mere moment, a worthy investment for potentially serious scientific gain.

Well. That's a stretch.
But at least I'll satisfy my curiosity.
I shall report back here in a week to satisfy yours.

Feel free to play along if you'd like.
You know your inner scientist wants to.

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My Own Moral Authority

Science creates questions that can't always be answered.
Religion creates answers that can't ever be questioned.

I don't recall where I saw first those two sentences juxtaposed, but they've stuck with me.

I was reminded of them when I stumbled across this recent opinion piece entitled "When religion loses its credibility" by Oliver Thomas, a Baptist minister. The theme is Christianity and homosexuality.

In part, he writes of the pomposity of the absolute certainty with which religions avow their beliefs as fact despite contradictory scientific evidence. "What if we're wrong?" he wonders. It wouldn't be the first time.

He feels religious "moral authority" erodes as leaders and practitioners pick and choose which bits of the Bible are to be touted as supreme certainty that God is anti-gay. Nothing says hypocrisy like a little selective interpretation.

Are we homosexual types born this way? Or are we "disordered" human beings as the U.S. Roman Catholics have decreed? Not that they are alone in their zealous classification. There are plenty of other denominations tossing their derogatory verses into the fountain. Pile on, everyone! There's gay hating enough to go around!

I don't agree with Elton John that organized religion should be abolished, but maybe they could just shut the fuck up and hide like they want me to do. That doesn't seem terribly unreasonable.

Or does it?

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I Even Licked the Plate

I just devoured the last of the leftover cornbread dressing and cranberry sauce. Only some turkey and creamy gravy remains. But alas, even such grand taste sensations as those pale without dressing and cranberry sauce in company.

Until next year, oh savory sweet goodness.
Worry not that I shall stray.
Nothing could ever take your place.

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On the Sixth Day....

... we rested.



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Food Security

According to our own USDA, hungry people are no longer hungry. They just have low food security.

There is high food security at our home right now. No, I'm not gloating. I am grateful. We will be hosting the family Thanksgiving feast. The weekend was spent planning and shopping for the event.

Changing traditions is the theme of the week. Out with the old, in with the new, saving pieces of the past as ballast.

Out with the old: no more Thanksgiving at Grandma and Grandpa's house. No more travel naps in the car for The Boy on the way to their home. No more Hal grumbling over carving the bird. No more eating off my mom's beautiful china with sterling silver utensils. No more interesting seasonal centerpiece and handcrafted tablecloth, placemats and napkins. No more playing dominoes in the evening. No more family bonding while clearing their expansive lawn of fallen leaves the day after.

In with the new: Thanksgiving at our house. My sister and mother will be joining us, as will The Boy. We will eat off our ancient Corelle plates with our stainless steel flatware. Our serving dishes will not match. Luckily there will be but five of us, otherwise our glassware would not match either. I wonder who will carve the bird. Might be me. I had dreams of putting everyone to work clearing our lawn of fallen leaves, but I've tabled that fantasy. We're all more in need of rest.

Ballast: Our turkey will be lovingly smoked by Smokey Joe's as always. I will make the same cornbread dressing and asparagus casserole my mother always made. We will watch football together and perhaps play cards.

We will drink a toast to Hal's memory with cheap white wine. I will recall his crooked smile and bushy eyebrows; the wine decanter with the decorative knot collar he crafted; the way he always pouted when losing at dominoes and laughed when he won; the motion he used to push his bangs out of his face; him sitting in his recliner with his glasses on his nose and a newspaper open in his lap, peering over at the television set every now and again; and his quiet snore when he drifted off for a nap.

Yes, this year marks the start of a whole new generation of traditions. I hope you enjoy yours, whatever they may be. And may your food security always be high.

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Home Sweet Home

Wendy and I have been renovating our house for three years. Three freaking years. We're not done yet. Sure, measurable progress has been made. But in recent months we have stalled to almost a complete standstill. There are several daunting projects remaining and other areas in need of fine tuning.

We've amassed a large photo library documenting our efforts. In search of motivational inspiration to get us back on track, I perused those photos. Particularly striking are the "before" pictures. Some projects I'd forgotten we'd even done. It's quite affirming to be reminded how far we've come.

I do enjoy a jaunt down memory lane. Take this project, for example.

How could I have forgotten the decrepit heating/cooling unit under the picture window in the living room? Just ignore the pink holey walls. We had bigger problems. Weighing several hundred pounds, that monstrosity dominated the living room and the brick exterior of the front of the house. The problem vexed, not only "How?" but moreso, "Then what?"

One gray Saturday not long after we moved in, a wild hair sprouted. That unit would be removed and it would be removed immediately! We'd figure out how as we went along. Formulating a rough plan, we grabbed our tools and had at it.

Ta da! I may look dismayed, but it was a triumphant moment. When all was said and done, we muscled that bitch through the wall and to the curb for trash pickup. We sheetrocked the interior and buttoned up the exterior until we could hire a mason to patch the brickwork. Today there is no sign it ever existed. And the living room is no longer pink.

At times it is helpful to remind oneself of past success in order to gird for the present. Often what seems at first impossible is solved by something as simple as a wild hair and determination.

Girding for the present.
There's something to be said for that.
Determination rocks.

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One Fine Weekend

We had houseguests.

You all know what that means. The hostesses must ensure their abode is in decent shape to receive visitors. This entails not only neatening and cleaning, but also meal planning and grocery shopping. Thankfully Wendy and I work well together in that regard. We are akin to a finely tuned symphony as we prepare for guests.

Did I mention I broke the dishwasher? Well I did. About two months ago. We haven't bothered to repair it because we are lazy slobs. Really though, how many dirty dishes does a family of two create anyway? Not that many. Handwashing is perfectly adequate. Of course with company coming, I view a broken dishwasher a bit differently. Anyone got a pill to cure lazy slobitude? It was too late to fix it for our most recent company, but Thanksgiving is just around the corner. We're definitely gonna need it then.

Our weekend guests have come and gone. I wasted all sorts of energy worrying about how the visit would unfold. Why? It's what I do. I worry. I'm damned good at it. But it was wasted worry, and oh how I abhor wasting worry. I mean, really. What if I run out? What would I do if I had nothing to worry about? I'd be lost, adrift in a sea of calm. The very idea makes me cringe. I'm not meant to be calm.

These visitors were like cotton candy: a sweet treat that left us wishing for more. I can't make up my mind if they were pink or blue or maybe even green cotton candy. I don't think it matters. I dare you to experience cotton candy and not smile, riding the comfortable wave of silliness that accompanies a high dose of sugar. Yes, that's it: our guests were pure sugar.

What do you get when you mix two California bloggers and two Virginia bloggers with a bowl of gummy eyes left over from Halloween?

Triclops?

Frankly, I don't quite know what to make of these.

Yeah. It was a mighty fine weekend.
Y'all shoulda been here too.

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On Thin Lines and Being Easy

I crossed a line.
It's one I never thought I'd ever cross again.
I did it anyway.

Having traded my easy wash-n-go hair for a quasi-Medusa-like mass of long curls, it no longer dries automati- cally between when I exit the shower and my arrival at work. A hair dryer is now part of my mandatory morning routine. It's a good thing Wendy doesn't mind sharing her toys.

I waffle about my hair incessantly. Each time I'm certain I've decided to get it all chopped off, I receive affirmation for my new look. It happened again yester- day on my way to vote.

In our neck of the woods, elementary schools serve as polling places. I secured a parking spot in the crowded lot and followed the signs to the designated entrance. I passed a woman and her teenage daughter heading back to their car and smiled a greeting. The woman and I simultaneously realized we knew each other.

I hadn't seen her in at least three years, possibly four. We had worked together during my five-year stint as the treasurer of our local chamber of commerce; she had also been on the board. While our politics are at divergent ends of the spectrum, I appreciated her work ethic and follow-through. Plus she always had responded generously to solicitations for support of the theatre program where The Boy attended high school.

She and her daughter proudly sported George Allen campaign stickers on their jackets. We stood in the sun and chatted a bit, talking about her three children and my one. Then she said, "I really like your hair. It's such a softer look. You look years younger."

Alrighty then. That waffled me right back to leaving it long. The need to blow it dry every morning suddenly didn't seem so odious. I'm so easy.

By next week, of course, I'll have waffled back.

Meanwhile, I bask in the results of the elections. Sure, the Virginia marriage amendment passed along with similar measures in seven other states. I'm not basking in that. But the House? And the Senate? I'm basking. For the first time in a long while, I have hope for America.

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Mine Eyes

I gave in. I had to. I'd resisted far too long for no reason other than what I guess is vanity.

The last straw landed softly on a recent weekend. I spent the better part of a Saturday curled up on the couch, a fire in the fireplace and college football on the TV. In my hands was a book I'd been meaning to read for months. Reading is fundamental, dontcha know.

So there I curled, reading. Or trying to.

I'm stubborn yes, but an eventual realist.
Now look at me.

It seems for vanity and middle age to peacefully co-exist, one must make concessions.

At least the book did not disappoint.
Five stars!

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Just a Little Pinprick

*tap tap*
Is this thing on?
The cobwebs concern me.

I wonder if I seem as different as everything I see around me. Like the burning bushes in our front yard. Each morning when I roll down the driveway, the brilliant blotches of red catch my eye. This time next week, the leaves will be brown and on the ground.

I've been home for five days. The show was amazing, The Boy's voice pure honey. There's more I'd like to share about the trip, but other circumstances have me paralyzed. I screwed up, and in the process learned who has my back, or, more precisely, who doesn't. I wonder at times how I can be so obtuse.

The first anniversary of my stepfather's death is approaching. Aware only of the numbness, I've not delved deeply into my feelings. Not much anyway. In that regard, I'm grateful to have my mom to look after. Playing caretaker leaves little opportunity to examine oneself.

I poke at the numbness, prodding it gently. My eyes flood with tears and my body feels like lead. I can even get a rhythm going: poke, tears, stop poking, breathe deeply. What a cool party trick. I'm doing it right now. Can you tell?

It's almost been a year. I wonder if he knows how much I miss him.

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Like a Tree

It's that time of year again, time for the fall musical at The Boy's college. This year it's Rodgers and Hammerstein's Carousel, classic music theatre fare.

Until The Boy went off to college, we never missed an opening night, most often seeing every performance in a run. We're weird that way. Parents can get away with a certain amount of stalkerish behavior.

We haven't attended even one opening night since college began. Timing, distance. You know the drill. But I'll be there Thursday for this one. I only wish my girl could be there with me. Due to the very unfortunate timing of an accreditation review at Wendy's office, she is chained to her desk and unable to join me until the weekend.

Thinking on it, I'm pretty sure it'll be a first. A first for me being at one of his shows without her in the seat next to me. It's going to be odd. I feel selfish leaving her at home. Sure, she'll be joining me Saturday, but meanwhile I'll sit in the theatre with a stranger in the seat next to me, wishing it was Wendy instead.

The title of the post is from a song The Boy will perform, "Soliloquy". His character, Billy Bigelow, has just found out he is to be a father and is contemplating what he envisions for his child: "Like a tree he'll grow / with his head held high / and his feet planted firm on the ground... "

Just like our boy.
And almost as sappy as me.

After singing such a sweet emotional song of future hope and determination, Billy, in despair after botching a robbery attempt, plants a knife in his own belly.

Trees rarely behave that way.
Billy is obviously more like a weed.

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Were I an Efficient Woman

Were I an efficient woman, there wouldn't be yet another pink card from our postal carrier announcing yet another non-delivery of yet another package.

Getting packages is cool. Getting a pink card from our postal carrier announcing he has a package for us but did not deliver it because no one was home is uncool. Completely uncool.

Do you get packages? Now and again? We do. Aren't packages fun? They are not always expected. They do not always fit in our mailbox. The ones that don't fit used to get delivered safe, warm, and dry in the carport. By the door. Where we'd find them when we returned home.

Our letter carrier, somewhat new to the route, a retired marine who "always adheres to the letter of the law" as directly quoted third-hand from a neighbor, states there is a new regulation requiring a homeowner to either be present to accept a package or have on file with the local Post Office a note stating it's okie-dokie to leave packages without a human presence to accept them.

This seems to be the height of postal inefficiency. Don't people pay extra to get "signature required" delivery? But he doesn't want a signature. He just wants us to be there to transfer the package from his hands to ours. He won't even leave it with our neighbor.

Oh sure, we can sign the little pink card and he'll bring the package in a few days. Or we can go to the Post Office and pick it up. Or we can write a note for him to keep on file saying it's okay for him to leave packages and he'll leave them like they always used to get left.

Were I an efficient woman, I'd have written the note weeks ago.

We got another pink card on Saturday.
I wonder what's in the package?

Were I an efficient woman, we'd already know!

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Signs of the Times

Here in Virginia, we have a hotly contested Senate race underway between incumbent George Allen and challenger Jim Webb. Emotions run high, as evidenced by this enormous sign displayed down the street and around the corner from our home.

Someone has too much time on their hands.

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Comfort Food

Sometimes one must perform icky tasks in pursuit of culinary delight. The results are usually worth the effort. My labor Friday paid off all weekend.

Picking chicken off the bone is not my favorite cooking chore. I try hard not to envision the chicken clucking happily around the barnyard or, worse, stifled in a chicken factory. You know what I mean. Yet the chicken must be off the bone when one is crafting chicken stew. I put some happy tunes on the CD player and sang along as I separated the meat from the carcass. The bare bones joined their vegetable counterparts in the stockpot where they simmered with spices for a few hours, melding into my version of homemade stock as it filled the house with a luscious scent. The shredded meat waited patiently in the refrigerator for the next step.

That's another joy of making chicken stew: no part of the chicken gets wasted. It greatly appeals to my sense of efficiency.

I make chicken soup and call it stew because it's thick and chunky. It's also an excuse to cook with farfalle, or bowtie pasta as it is commonly known. Bowties are a favored shape running neck and neck with acini di pepe as my all time favorite pastas. It's rugged and holds up well in soup. I also get weak for rigatoni, but that's a tale for another day.

This weekend was filled with outdoor labor enjoying glorious blue skies and crisp fall air. During the day, Wendy and I channeled weese as we busted ass to get our yard in a semblance of order for the impending winter season. Evenings found our appetites sated with hot chicken stew and cuddles in front of a roaring blaze in the fireplace. Does it get any better than that? Not often methinks, but then we are simple folk.

The touch of green is fresh spinach from a bag, the first I've purchased since the e. coli debacle. Living on the edge, oh yeah baby. That's how we do it here in the 'burbs.

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Up In Arms

Do you like the look of your arms? I haven't been enamoured of my own in years.

My arms used to be something truly special. I clearly recall my stepmother telling me admiringly on more than one occasion, "Suzanne, you have perfect arms!" Of course it was in jest, but not total jest. I did have good arms in my youth, near perfect to my legendary memory.

Years passed as years tend to do and my arms aged along with the rest of me. From the elbow down, they still look good. I say this with no exaggeration: my forearms are fab.

From the elbow up, well that's where it gets scary. Tone and shape have disintegrated into classic middle age upper arm flab. The pudgy flesh sways gently back and forth like a hammock swinging betwixt two trees. Or is it more like the jiggle of a bowl of jello? Either or and both. I haven't worn a sleeveless anything in more years than I can count on both hands. A little self-conscious, you say? Indeed. I used to have perfect arms after all.

When my stepfather died, we were the beneficiary of first choice of his yard tools. One of those little gems may be the upper arm savior I so desperately need.

Behold The Pogo! This device splits logs like a knife through butter. It works with a pump action by lifting then driving the handle downward which propels the wedge into the log. It's like a sliding hammer. Guess which muscles get used? That's right, those flabby ones that run down the back of my upper arms!

It's so much more pleasant than splitting wood using wedges and a sledge hammer. No missed targets, no flying or stuck wedges. No bending over to retrieve and reseat the wedge or log. No harsh jarring of my aging joints. No danger should the dogs want to hang around to help. It's efficient, smooth, and damned effective.

Nothing gets me quite as excited as productive exercise and accomplishing more than one thing simultaneously. There may be hope for my arms after all.

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People Who Call Me Susan

There are three who get away with it.
Three people I know.

All others get corrected. Politely of course. No venom in my voice, no evil glare exposing the truly heinous nature of their offense.

Still. It's best to remember.
I prefer you remember.

My name is Suzanne.
Not Susan.

Richard is one. I've worked for and with him for nineteen years. He has called me Susan from day one. His business partner and employees get it right, but not Richard. Not verbally, not in writing. Susan it is and for some reason I don't mind.

Katie is another. She has cut my hair for... well... for a long time. I like that she always asks about The Boy and consistently gives a good haircut. I don't see her often these days, what with adopting the wild and crazy long grey curls I've been working on since last November. But when I stopped in last month, I smiled at her greeting: "Hello Susan! It's been awhile!" I don't even grit my teeth when Katie calls me Susan.

Anthony is the third. He's Bonnie's dad. They live directly behind us. We met them before we put up the privacy fence, otherwise he might still be a stranger. I don't have the foggiest idea why he thinks my name is Susan or if I've ever corrected him. Seems like more trouble than it's worth to do so. I just roll with it.

As for the rest of you, well, don't be stealing my "z".
Such deprivation should not be the norm in polite society.

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Sunrise, Sunset

The house we lived in prior to this one had three levels. Our bedroom was on the top floor. The master bathroom was small, yet perfect in function. Its best feature was the window overlooking the backyard. We used to hang out that window and smoke cigarettes.

I leaned comfortably on my elbows, my forehead on the sash, usually a book or magazine resting on the sill, the smoke from my cigarette drifting away discreetly. I miss that window.

I smoked off and on during the five years we lived in that house, but mostly on. Evidently I'm addicted. I used to spy on the neighbors behind us. Couldn't be helped, really. Sometimes I liked to look around while hanging out the window smoking cigarettes.

I often watched the man behind us do chores in his yard. He was a fairly young man, clean cut, father of three. Once I observed him deconstructing tree branches that had fallen during a particularly nasty storm. The man always moved like he was encased in a bubble of molasses. Each move was painfully deliberate and slow in motion. Efficient, I suppose, in his own way, as he eventually got the job done. But geez. From my comfortable smoking perch on the third floor, my imagination conjured up a leather whip to crack over his head while shouting, "Get moving, man! You haven't got all day!"

But maybe he did have all day. Who was I to say? I dropped my cigarette butt into the toilet, flushed, then re-entered my own world.

I thought about him today as I worked in the yard. 'Tis the season to turn the summer pile of tree debris into a neat stack of kindling for the fireplace. I had all day to do it. I moved slowly, deliberately, without great sense of purpose and zero urgency. Much like our old neighbor.

My kindling project today was just busy work. Brainless busy work. Minimal physical labor to get me moving, to keep me moving. Snapping little twigs and branches into appropriate fireplace lengths is satisfying. Every so often I'd get gouged or scratched by those branches and twigs, which aroused an idle curiosity when I almost appreciated the pain.

I told my friend Tina that I am in a mood. She didn't ask me to define it. It's just the mood I get in when things are happening around me over which I have no control.

There is no control. No task that can be done to fix or repair or resolve. No 'if I just apply myself, get off my lazy ass and do it' results to be had, no tangible 'if I just put my mind to it, the problem will be gone' solution. There's just hanging out. Waiting.

I thought about that while I snapped twigs and made piles.
The weather was beautiful.
I sure made an impressive mound of kindling.
And for today, that's gotta be enough.

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It Gets Around

My blogroll is acting up.
I don't get the little visual indicators when someone has updated.
It displeases me.

We're having our trees trimmed this week.
I think they will be happier all neatened up.
It excites me.

I opened a door without really thinking.
It will expose something near and dear to my heart.
It scares me in a good way.

Things are settling down nicely at work.
I get to use my brain again and have found it still functions.
It gives me hope.

I woke up early and listened to the rain.
The weather is dark, cold and wet.
It relaxes me.

My mother has breast cancer.
She's being evasive and I still don't know if she's shared everything.
It makes me wanna puke.

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Do Your Friends Treat You Like a Guest?

And if they do, is it a bad thing?

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Reflection Unbecoming

I did something completely radical.
I shaved off my eyebrows.




No, of course I didn't. But I feel like it sometimes. In moments of fury. Fucking eyebrows need almost daily maintenance. Tweezers be damned! I never signed on for this.

And how about these damned age spots? The ones on my face? What the fuck is up with that? It's got me seriously contemplating wearing makeup. Lots of it. I yearn to slather my face with cosmetic concoctions thick and rich enough to offer at least a vague promise of fully concealing those demoralizing spots. Age spots. On my face! Oh the unmitigated horror.

Let's not even go near the topic of the wrinkles on my neck. Only Wendy can go near them. Because when she's near my neck I'm not thinking about how wrinkled it looks when I see it in a mirror.

She needs to stay there. Near my neck.
Aging gracefully evidently requires props.

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Innovation

During a casual conversation with long-distance friends, the topic of strip clubs came up. I declared, in a somewhat righteous manner, "There are no strip clubs in Virginia! We have laws against that sort of thing." Imagine my nose pointing in the air as I sniffed arrogantly. Why the pomposity? I was lost in the moment.

I was reminded of the conversation as we passed through Richmond on I-95 and saw billboards advertising Paper Moon: Richmond's Finest Gentlemen's Club.

"Huh," I mused. "Virginia does have strip clubs!" A google search provided a directory of 23 clubs located throughout the state, clustered primarily in Virginia Beach and Norfolk, with a handful in Richmond (doesn't every capital of a conservative state have titty bars?) and a couple here in Northern Virginia. Who knew?

I don't have any strong feelings for or against such places. I've even been to one. Once. Well. It wasn't a pure strip club, it was a Girl's Night stripper event at a now-defunct gay bar, Tracks, in the District. Gay bars don't flourish here in Virginia. There are even fewer of them than there are strip clubs. Shocking, I know. We Virginia homosexuals must venture across the river to mix with Our Own Kind in public.

So there we were on that mild summer night, a throng of lesbians of varying ages gawking at the skantily clad dancers gyrating on the stage. I felt awkward, quite awkward actually. I was around 25 years old, my life in a complete shambles transition. What was I doing there? Peer pressure. My friends thought I needed to get out of the house and have some fun. They were probably right.

Those friends badgered me into tipping the dancer I'd been oogling watching. To this day that memory is strongly ingrained: me shyly approaching, unexpectedly making eye contact and quickly looking away. But at what? What drew my eyes? Well her fabulous abs for one thing, which were even more spectacular up close. She smiled, but I don't know if it was a real smile or a plastic one. Didn't particularly matter. She shimmied provacatively as I tucked the dollar into the waistband of her panties while turning twelve shades of red. I ran casually strolled back to our table. My friends greeted me with whoops and hollers. I grabbed my beer, drank deeply and waited for my heart to stop beating so damned fast.

Have you ever driven down I-85 from Virginia to North Carolina? The... umm... facility pictured below can be seen from the highway just after crossing into North Carolina. Many times, I've seen a red neon sign flashing "OPEN" displayed in the window, otherwise I'd be certain it is abandoned. I've always assumed it is a strip club. Despite the sign announcing its status as an innovative health club. A health club with an all girl staff.

What do you think?

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