Hair Bands Gone Wild?

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.

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Mastering the Plan

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.

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In the Genes

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.

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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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