Function Follows Form

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Practical, durable art. My favorite kind.

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"You Were Right!"

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

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

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

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

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

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Moving Right Along

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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My Fine Feathered Friend

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

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

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

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Vain Hypochondriacal Moment

I've got a rash. On my face.

It's not pretty.

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

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

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

It's official. I am whining.

But it's on my face.

How rude.

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Hair Today

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

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

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

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

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

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Yard Art. It May Involve Eggs.

This is an interesting article about yard art.

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

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

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

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

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

"This is my empty nest," she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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Hindsight

I'm here to whine about my eyes again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karma's a bitch.

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I'm No Poet

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


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

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


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

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


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

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

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Baking with The Boy

Guess what? It's peach season again!

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

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

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

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

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

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Suburban Mystery

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

Evidently it's flea season.
Color me flummoxed.

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

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

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

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

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

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A Hypothetical Question

Let's say you have a child.

Let's say said child is all grown up.

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

Do you:

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

Thank you for your time and have a nice day.

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Something About Turtles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can hardly wait.








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

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Stealing Hearts

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

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

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Our Yard, It's Calling for One

I've been plotting where to put it.

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

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

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

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

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

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Channeling SK

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

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

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

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

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

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"Makes Me Wanna See The Exorcist"

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

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

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

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

Wendy's comment became the title of this post.

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

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Overheard on the Metro

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

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

Bing bong, doors closing, yada yada.

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

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

Woman2: Oh?

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

Me to Myself: Huh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ever Owned a Teen?

We have, but we don't any longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Help Mel Win Money

There's $500 on the line.

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

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

Thank you and have a nice day.



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



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

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