Sunday

Today I did something I have never done before.

I got out of bed when the alarm went off. And although I have gotten out of bed when the alarm has gone off on many other days, I don't ever recall doing so on a Sunday. At least not before today. Sunday is a day of rest after all.

Oh sure. Sure it is. Let's ask the Pastor's Wife shall we? Because if she doesn't get to rest on Sunday, there is absolutely no reason whatsoever the rest of us heathens, godless and not, should get to rest either.

So I got up. Had coffee, showered, dressed, kissed my girlfriend goodbye, got in my car and headed for the Metro.

Riding the Metro is a different experience on Sunday morning. There were some other riders, but not nearly the volume I see on weekdays. It feels calmer, both at the stations and on the trains. There were a smattering of folks carrying signs and such, obviously headed to the same place I was headed.

Today was the 29th Annual Marine Corps Marathon in DC. One of my co-workers was running it. Several of us decided we'd go laugh and point and mock his misery encourage and cheer for him along the route. So I rode the Metro to Union Station and met up with one co-worker and his daughter. We walked a few blocks until we were near the Capitol where we met up with another co-worker (the boss) and his wife. We were positioned at the half-way point of the race.

Meanwhile the racers started passing by. The wheelchair folks were the first to arrive. Incredible. Some looked like they were quite comfortable and others appeared to be using the last of their energy. The same was true with the runners as they began to pass our position.

It was hot here today. Like 80 degrees of hot. The sun was brutal, even at ten o'clock in the morning. Those poor racers were sweating buckets. One lady stopped near where we were standing, took off her shoe and sock, and wrung out her sock leaving a puddle behind. The she put the sock back on and repeated the procedure for her other foot. Blech.

Most of the runners where in shorts and a shirt. Others, in celebration of Halloween, were wearing costumes. I saw a woman with cape and a Superman logo on her chest and a fellow dressed as a caveman, complete with a wild wig. My favorite odd attire was the man with a huge hat shaped like a foaming beer stein on his head. There were others carrying flags and balloons and many many wearing political messages.

We spied our co-worker approaching. We jumped up and down. We waved our arms. We shouted his name. We screamed "go go go!" and "yeah co-worker!!" among other things.

The expression of pure unadulterated complete and total misery and pain on his face did not waver. He did not turn his head our way, wave or crack a smile. He was not even aware we were there. But his stride was steady and his pace was good. Surely he was enjoying himself somewhere deep down inside?

The Boss and his wife live on Capitol Hill in an old row house in which they raised their family and have had renovated over the years. The house is really quite lovely. We all adjourned there where we breakfasted on pancakes and fruit. Nice, laid back, casual and fun. I'd not spent too much time talking to the boss' wife before and it was nice to get to know her a bit. Plus she makes really good pancakes. Who knew?

As I was on the Metro riding home, I received a text message from my co-worker who had gotten a notification from the website tracking the runners. It said "He finished! He finished!"

Like there was ever any doubt he would.

Old Habits

A comment by The Music Whore (interesting handle, yes? fun blog also) in my recent whine about NaNoWriMo jitters reminded me to re-focus on A Primary Purpose for Participation.

My semi-automatic editor will be taking a nap. A very long nap. At least, that's the plan. Perhaps I should have found her employment elsewhere for the month. Idle hands and devil's workshops being playgrounds and such. It could be downright dangerous to just leave her twiddling her thumbs in the corner. She's not half bad really. Maybe she'll behave.

If you don't possess your own semi-automatic editor, you'll not relate to the molassas effect it has on the whole process of writing anything. My semi-automatic editor requires me to re-read and usually re-structure every paragraph as I write it. It goes something like this. Write. Save. Read. Edit. Save. Read. Edit. Save. Read. Move on. Go back. Read. Edit. Save.

Is it possible for me to write a sentence and 1) not correct a spelling error or 2) not correct an obvious grammatical error or 3) not re-read what has just been written and make adjustments as desired?

Well in the instance of spelling errors, no. It is not possible. I'll continue to correct spelling because while a spelling error may be one of those mistakes that we all make once in a while, if I realize I just misspelled something, frankly it is impossible for me to not to go back and correct it.

But as for the grammar and re-reading? That's history. At least for this exercise. That's A Primary Purpose for Participation.

This post was practice.
I flunked.
Or maybe I didn't.

The only class in school I ever failed was a typing class in high school. A typing class. In high school. This was back when typing was taught on actual typewriters, albeit electric ones. My teacher's name was Mrs. Blake. She pulled me aside one day and recommended I drop the course. I was like "huh?" She said she'd have to give me a failing grade because I looked at the keys while typing.

Turns out Mrs. Blake knew her shit. As long as I looked at the keys while I typed, I never was a passable typist. It took a concentrated effort as a young adult to eradicate that habit. It was a hard habit to break. Maybe even harder than quitting smoking. But I did it. Because I had to. At the time I was attempting to earn a living as a typist. One does not succeed as a typist unless one can type without looking at one's fingers in order to determine which keys should be pressed for whatever letter is in line to be typed next. Hunger is a powerful motivator.

These days I type like the wind.
And I don't smoke either.

Breaking the semi-automatic editing habit should be a breeze.
This post was practice.
Can you tell?

360-Degree Feedback?

Wendy was studiously working on a project for her office last evening.

It's a program called 360-Degree Feedback. A management review system for the workplace, it provides supervisors with feedback from all sides. Feedback on their job performance and how others perceive the experience of working for and/or with them. Anyone whose position includes a supervisory responsibility is reviewed. Their supervisor, peers, and subordinates complete lengthy questionnaires with section titles including "Conflict Management," "Communication," and "Managing and Measuring Work." The source of the feedback is kept confidential. Or I should say the source of the specifics of the feedback is kept confidential. They'll know it came from a co-worker, just not specifically which one.

Wendy is currently working on the one for her own supervisor. She's going to town on the portion entitled "Examples of Observed Behavior" in the "Communication" section. It's the only section where one doesn't just mark a pre-defined box to rank. It's freeform. Essay style. She evidently has a lot to say.

She was brutally honest when she filled out the form on herself. Ayup, that's right. Supervisor's also have to complete one on themselves. She tackled that one first. Those that know her also know how challenging that was for her. She did herself proud, in my own humble opinion. It's hard to look objectively at oneself. Even harder to put it in writing to then turn over to others who will actually read and analyze your thoughts about yourself and your job performance.

(Or does that sound like fun? Oh sure, it would to you. I'll bet you enjoy going to the dentist also. You are one sick puppy.)

I've never blogged about what Wendy does for a living.
I should, because it's interesting.

NaNo Jitters

The first of the month is creeping closer. No, it's not creeping. It's racing toward us.

I'm excited, because I've got all these words waiting to hit the page. I've been suppressing them because once I start it's hard to stop. At least in the past, once I get started writing it's hard to stop. I've got my outline. And my general ideas. And lots of holes which will (hopefully) be fun to fill.

I'm also scared. Yes. Me. Scared. It's true. I'm a big scaredy-cat. Believe it. I'm afraid that all these words that are currently itching to get written will evaporate and dry up the minute November 1 arrives.

Tonight's the Night!

Tonight is Opening Night.

The Boy is appearing as "Utterson" in his college's production of Jekyll & Hyde: The Musical. We won't be there tonight. But we will see it next weekend. Twice.

His dad, however, will be there this weekend with a slew of relatives from his side of the family. I'm glad for that.

When I was IM'ing with The Boy yesterday, he was totally wired.

Wired is a typical state for him during tech week. Tech week is when all the different facets of a show are brought together: actors, costumes, lights, set changes, orchestra, etc. It requires longer than usual rehearsals as they iron out any wrinkles in the show and get the timing down.

(And sure, he's getting plenty of other schoolwork done this week. Not. But he is doing what he loves. It's not a bad thing.)

I've been listening to the CD this week, getting familiar with the music. In terms of musicals, the score seems a bit more repetitive than the norm. There are several major melodic themes and choruses that are carried through in a majority of the songs. My favorite (which happens to feature The Boy---shocking, I know) is entitled "Your Work--And Nothing More". It combines four voices and melodic themes from other songs which come together in wonderful soaring harmonies as the song climaxes.

If he were still in high school, I'd be apprehensive. Not of The Boy's performance, but others in the cast. High school theatre can be amazingly good but it can also be amazingly bad. We've seen much of both. But since he's in college and the pool of talent is significantly larger... actually, the talent pool actually is a pool instead of a mere puddle... I'm excited. Almost as excited as The Boy.

When he was at home, he'd sing all the time. We'd hear him in the shower or just puttering around the house. He'd play his guitar. He'd sing. He'd share his music with us. Wendy and I both miss all of that. (I won't even touch on the amount of time we spent supporting the theatre program at his high school. And yes, I miss that too. I am obviously part masochist.)

But I miss hearing his voice the most.

There was a song by the band Dispatch which he played and sang often during his senior year in high school: The General. As ridiculous as it may be, whenever I think of that song I cry. At least few tears.

"Take a shower and shine your shoes.
You've got no time to lose.
You are young men, you must be living."

And so he is. Living!

Here's to The Boy.
Break a leg tonight, my dear.
We're with you in spirit.

Many Different Faces

As my yoga class was wrapping up tonight, as usual we were sitting around putting our shoes on and rolling up our mats. One of my classmates, an older woman, said to the group "This time next week...." and then she paused.

We all knew she was referring to the election. After she paused briefly, she finished her sentence with "... the election will be over."

Loud-Breathing-Man (that's what I call him because that's what he does during class) laughed and said "Unless it's like the last one. Then it won't be over for weeks."

However true that may be, I find it more alarming than funny. Some of the others laughed, but nervously.

Then the woman said just to me "I've worked so hard on this election!"

I looked at her and had to ask. Because you really can't tell just by looking at someone. "On which side?" I smiled.

"John Kerry, of course!"

I said, "Whew. At times I'm afraid to ask that question."

She nodded knowingly and then handed me a Kerry/Edwards button. "Wear this," she said. "We're going to win next week."

I seriously hope her prophesy comes true.

Frustrated?

Release some tension.
Slap a candidate.
It's oddly satisfying.

Link swiped from Sam's Shoe Box---thanks Sam!

Dogs Make Good Company

Today, being Tuesday, was one of my floating work days. Which means I get to set my own schedule and go where I either a) need or b) want to go. I get to decide if. I get to decide when. It's a flavor of my work life I'll miss someday if I no longer have such flexibility.

So when one client wasn't ready for me, my Tuesday morning freed up but my Friday morning became booked. I can live with that. I ran a bunch of miscellaneous errands from the list I'd carefully been compiling in my notebook for whenever I found time to do such errands. It was quite satisfying to mark them complete.

The day has been gorgeous weather-wise. So when I returned home from errands and one other quick client visit, I grabbed the leashes, loaded the dogs in the car, and headed for the river to take a walk.

I missed Detail a lot. He and Cosine were wonderful leash walkers. I could hold both leashes with one hand and they'd be out in front walking side by side. Oh sure, there would be some stop-and-sniff or stop-and-pee continuity issues, but for the most part they were easy. And Dudley took quite naturally to pack-walking. He'd follow the lead of the others and we'd all move along quite smoothly.

With just Cosine and Dudley, however, it's a different experience. Poor Cosi is so old now. She doesn't see well, she doesn't move well, and her balance isn't good. Dudley led the way, perking along ahead. One of my arms was stretched out in front of me holding his leash. Cosine was lagging behind and tottering along quite slowly, so my other arm was stretched out behind me holding her leash. Then every so often one or the other would cross the path or Dudley would move to the back and inevitably I'd end up twisted in their leashes. Obviously we are all out of practice.

Despite that, we all had fun. I enjoyed being outside in the crisp fall air observing the colors of the changing leaves, although these pictures don't do the scenery justice. It felt so good to be where we were, I burst into song as we walked. (Yes, it's a good thing there were not many people around.) My song of choice today was "All For the Best" from Godspell.

Thinking about The Boy I was.
Sweet missingness of him, Detail and Wendy.
Sweet enjoyment of free time.

It's all damned good.

Yawn

I'm having difficulty waking up this morning. I mean, I'm up. As in out of bed. But my brain feels foggy and sleepy. I've had my 2.5 cups of coffee yet still feel like my head is wrapped in a cloud. It's not a bad feeling, just not conducive to the productivity level I must achieve today.

Wendy and I stayed up far far too late last night. We took turns talking a mile a minute about a variety of topics. Since this foggy feeling is directly correlatable to that, I really don't mind feeling foggy at all. Long talks about all sorts of things are good.

Maybe some jumping jacks will help me unfog.

Elements

Wendy's hometown fascinates me in so many ways. One way is because where I grew up is so completely different.

In Northern Virginia, where I was raised, it's transient. There are many military installations, federal government offices, schools, etc. Families pop in for a few years and then pop off to some other place or maybe back from whence they came. People come and go and go and come and come and go.

Not everyone leaves of course. A few of us stick. Another few are homegrown.

In Wendy's hometown, the people who leave are aberrant. And those that do usually don't go far. Most folks she knew while growing up still live in the same general vicinity. Everyone knows everyone else. We'd be out to lunch somewhere and Wendy's folks would be saying hello left and right. "Hey, there's *insert name* from our *insert social group*." And the relatives. Wow. They have cousins and siblings and nieces and children of varying ages sizes shapes and types.

Even Wendy got in on it when she saw folks she knew. And she escaped a long time ago hasn't lived there for eleven years.

My cousins, the few of them that even exist, are removed to the sixth degree of generational detachment or some such nonsense (I'm much too young to be into genealogy, so don't be looking for specifics). Even my immediate family is spread geographically, separated into four states. And to count my step-siblings, you'd have to add three more states to the list. None of us live in or even near the same town as each other. We all get along just fine, we just don't happen to live close.

Wendy's parents have not strayed far from their hometowns. Her mom is from a town six miles west. Her dad is from a different town 12 miles east. Liberty, where they raised their family and still reside, is in between.

And that's where things begin to get tricky. Both parents have strong family ties to the towns from whence they came. Both parents have roomy family cemeteries in the towns from whence they came. Cemeteries where a slew of their forebears are laid to rest. How do families handle this sort of thing? Is the wife buried in the husband's family plot? Is the husband buried in the wife's family plot? Do they split up and each get buried in their own family's plot? Do they start a new plot? Are one or the other's feelings hurt if one or the other decides to be buried in their own family plot? Seems likes a dicey decision to make.

I don't much care where my ashes end up.
I don't even wonder why not.

Random

I am looking forward to the new season of The O.C. I hope I remember to watch it when it's on.

Update!

My team now officially has a new name: the Miami Dolphins. Why'd I pick that name? Because my fantasy football team and the Dolphins share the same record: 0-6.

Blech.
Wish me luck today.
Hell, wish the real Dolphins luck.
Sucks to lose, it does.

Mailbox Woes & Weekend Suburban Mundanities

We did have one slight problematic event occur at our home whilst we were away. Our mailbox bit the dust again. Taken out by a careless driver who ran the stop sign at the intersection facing our house.

This is not a unique occurrence. Wendy and I have lived in this house just over a year now. This is the second mailbox whose life was cut short. We were warned after buying this place we could expect it to happen every six months on average. We're right on schedule.

Do the miscreants ever stop to say "oops" or "sorry" or "I'll come back tomorrow and put a new one up for you" or "here's a check for the damage"? Well no, no they don't. They don't even stop. They hop the curb, leave a few skid marks, shatter a perfectly innocent mailbox post and keep right on going. Sometimes they leave behind bits and pieces of their automobiles though, mostly broken glass or paint scuffs. It is mildly rewarding to know they did not escape completely unscathed.

After a trip to Home Depot for necessary supplies (totalling $49.96), Wendy put the new mailbox in place. I helped a little.

When this one goes down, we're planning something new. The something new will be more sturdy than a mere cedar post set in dirt. It will be a cement-filled metal pole set in cement. I just need to figure out how to create an attractive exterior for it. I've got six months. Then when someone hits it, it will not be our mailbox that goes flying. Oh no no no. The mailbox will stand tall. Those careless folks, the ones who give not a thought for things such as stop signs or residential speed limits or other people's mailboxes, will leave more than broken glass and paint. Like maybe a fender. Along with some broken glass.

Then this was delivered.

So Wendy and I made this.

Which led to this, in grateful celebration
of seasonally appropriate weather.

Home is a good place to be.

Used. Not Used Up.

One of the (many) tight bonds between Wendy and her father, outside of early morning algebra, is reading. Books. Fiction mainly, yet not limited to. Books. You're familiar with them. Books... well... books rock. They're full of words, you know. Words formed with incredible twists of imagination and descriptiveness and personalities and stories that come to life and suck one into worlds which can be like, while also being unlike, any world one may have ever envisioned.

While we were in small town southeast Texas this week, I was honored with privileged inclusion in their tight two-person book-lovers circle. In fact, for most of the week it was a three-person book-lovers circle. How'd I get so lucky?

Wendy's daddy, Bo, introduced us to a store he frequents. A book store. A used book store specifically. The three of us piled into the big old boat Wendy's folks call a car and sailed on over.

I didn't have any preconceived notions of what a used bookstore in small town southeast Texas would be like. I've been in many pre-owned book stores in the suburbs. And in the city. But never before in small town southeast Texas. I figured it would resemble other such establishments I had experienced in other locales. I was excited to be going on such an outting with other bookloving individuals.

The building that housed the store was similar to so many other buildings in that small town: plain, with a patina of having been in that same spot for such a very long long time. Dusty. Hot. Dry. Old. Used. It fit the town. It fit the function. And it was just the other side of the train tracks. Like most other places in this 'burg.

Then we went inside. Inside was a veritable trove of treasure. I know I gasped aloud. Books. Books. Everywhere. Stacked ceiling high. Stacks in front of stacks. Rows and rows and rows of shelves. Books in boxes. Books on shelves. Room after room after room after room. Books of all sizes shapes colors topics genres and authors. Alpha by author by genre. I almost wet my pants. Okay that's an exaggeration, but only a slight one. I'm simple, remember? If this store was located where we are from, it would have been shut down as a fire hazard before it even opened. But in small town southeast Texas, here it was. Is this an advantage of a small town?

We prowled for quite a long while. I was mesmerized. Up and down the aisles, in and out of cubby holes, through short corridors, around corners, into other rooms and looping back again. My mind kept touching on the different authors I'd like to look up and then as I found one I was looking for and did a little browsing nearby, invariably I'd start off on a different trail with a different name of a different author in a different genre. Shopping. Browsing. Soaking up the ambience.

Wendy spied this sign, posted between the large room dedicated to romance novels and the sharp right turn leading to the action section. Every so often we'd call out for one another to share finds or make suggestions or ask for help in remembering a title or an author's name. Or just to reminisce about a book we'd seen that we'd read long ago and may like to read again sometime if only there weren't so many other books that kept jumping into line ahead of it.

Before our trip, Wendy and I had visited our sterile suburban used book store. It has but a fraction of the atmosphere of this small town southeast Texas shop. There I picked up a two mystery books penned by a recommended lesbian author. I'd finished one of them and enjoyed it enough to try more. So just for kicks, I looked up that author in this small town southeast Texas used book store. Nestled in with the other mystery novels, I scored another in her entertaining series featuring lesbian P.I. Lauren Laurano.

There's surely a story behind how that lesbian mystery book ended up for sale in this tiny Texas town. Now I've rescued it and brought it to a loving home in the suburbs. It will be in good company here.

"Fresh Hot Coffee Wakes the Old"

So say refrigerator magnets arranged by our 15-year-old son.
The son that is now 19.

Why do I still remember that four years down the road?
It would still be on the refrigerator if we had not moved.
But we did. So it's not. At least, not yet.

Think I'll have some now.
Fresh hot coffee, that is.

Memories of Southeast Texas?

Si si!
Memories abound.
And of course I'll be sharing them.

However for now I'm exalting in cool fall temperatures. See, there is a freaking heatwave going on in southeast Texas. Ayup. Temps topped 90 degrees every day we were there except one. In October. Which is fundamentally wrong. Surely you agree. Wrong wrong wrong. In too many ways to count. Here at home, the temperature is a seasonally-appropriate 50 degrees.

So. Doesn't it just feel great to take off your bra after a long day? Oh yeah baby. It's those little things.

I'm in my sweatshirt now. (But not my new Texans hoodie. I'm saving that for Sunday. Yeah, I know. They are on a bye. Yet I'll wear it Sunday anyway.)

Figero is on my lap. (Wendy's parents have three cats: one indoor, one indoor-outdoor, and one outdoor.)

Our dogs seem very happy to have us here. As we are happy to be with them.

We're catching up on what has gone on while we've been away.
I've got some reading to do.

I think I absorbed a little Texas while I was gone.
Or more appropriately I should say "a little more Texas."

Yes. I know. Scares me too.

Is It a Bird?

Time for that song.
That Leaving on a Jet Plane song.
The one I started singing last month.
When we weren't really getting on a plane at all.
We were getting in the car.
But I was excited.
When I get excited, I often sing.
Nonsensical singing usually. Imagine! Ayup.
This time we really are getting on an airplane.

We depart Virginia from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport (goddammit that name is long and unwieldy and hard to wrap one's tongue around... even for one with maximum flexibility!).

We land at George (H.) Bush Intercontinental in Houston, Texas. (Hopefully after an uneventful safe flight! *knocking on wood*)

Did you notice? From one airport named after a republican past president to a second airport named after a republican past president. I'll wear my Kerry/Edwards button as a talisman to ward off evil. Never hurts to be cautious. Even though politics are no more contagious than homosexuality.

And it begs the question: how many airports in America are named after republican past presidents? And how many are named after past presidents who are/were democrats? Do I have the energy to google an answer? Not at present. But I am curious.

Wendy's from Texas. Which is why we are going there. There are people there who know and love and need her. And me too. So we'll go. Because that's what families do, oui?

Oui! Actually I should say "si". I'll bet more folks speak Spanish than French in Texas.

Not sure if I can and/or will blog from there. Probably not. Try not to miss me too much.

Back next week.
About this time.
About this place.

In the meantime....
Go 'Stros!

Short on Time

There are three emails I need to write. I'd like to get them done before we leave for Texas tomorrow.

Argh! Tomorrow we leave for Texas? I'm so screwed.

All three will take quiet time to compose. Yet suddenly I find myself with no quiet time at all. Well not none, but hardly any. And with the list of things I need to do before we leave there is no way to squeeze in any more.

I need a 48 hour day. Just one.

Blogging for Books: This Month's Entries

All of this month's Blogging for Books entries are now available for your reading pleasure. There are some incredible stories out there.

I was personally too afraid to go where I would have had to go to write an entry on this month's topic. I admire those folks who weren't. Afraid, that is.

A more upbeat topic has been promised for November. Whew.

Pocket Finds

With the onset of colder weather comes the wearing of jackets and coats and other warm items of clothing. Most of which have pockets. And in those pockets will be found surprises left behind the last time those jackets and coats and other warm items of clothing were worn last Spring. Well, our pockets hold surprises. Don't yours?

For my own amusement, I am taking note of items I find in the pockets when I put on a jacket or coat or other warm item of clothing for the first time this season.

So far, I've not found many treasures. But I will. I always do. History repeats itself, doncha know.

So. In the pockets of my black washable suede jacket I found:

• Two orange sinus pills (hermetically sealed in their blister pack)
• A wadded up tissue
• A chewing gum wrapper.

(As an aside, I love love love that washable suede jacket. It's the best of both worlds. No more worrying about getting caught in the rain while enjoying the sensorily satisfying faux-suede. Kudos to my Mom for turning me on to it. In fact, the jacket of which I speak was a gift from her.)


The pockets of my black light rain jacket with hood netted:

• A Metro farecard with a value of $3.45
• A wadded up tissue
• One Vermont quarter
• A lint-covered breath mint of unknown origin.

My green leather jacket (sounds awful but is perfect for some outfits) pockets held the following:

• a Bic lighter, green (don't need that anymore now, do I?)
• Three pennies.

Last year in my gray wool coat I found a $5 bill in one pocket and two $20 dollar bills in another. I'm not allowed to look ahead though. I have to wait until it's actually cold enough to wear the article of clothing before I can check the pockets.

Yeah well. So I'm a creature of habit. Whatever works.

Cosine Itches

We haven't had cause to take the animals to the vet since the last trip with Detail back in July. Just over three months. Seems like a lot longer. (Oh we miss that sweet Fat Boy, we do.)

But Cosine is having her annual seasonal skin issues. Poor old girl. Poor flaky itchy bald old girl. So in she went. Usual response, usual cause, usual medication. Soon she'll not be flaky, itchy or bald. Wish they had as quick a cure for her lack of hearing and fading eyesight.

Last Spring when Detail and Figero each had their health issues, we were at the vet's office weekly with one or the other or both of them. We developed a rapport with the young receptionist, Lea. We'd oogle pictures of her baby and I'd lecture her on the evils of smoking cigarettes. (Yeah, I was a hypocrite but I knew what I was talking about!) In June, she shared with us that she and her husband were expecting their second child.

So today, three months later, when I walked into their office she greeted me with familiarity. I smiled and happily asked how she was doing as I peered over the counter to see her physical form. She looked mildly confused momentarily and turned about three shades of red. Then told me she had had a miscarriage in July. Oh crap. Leave it to me to ask the good questions right off the bat. My turn to turn three shades of red.

Our vet's office has two partners: M-Vet and J-Vet. I've mentioned them briefly in a past entry because J-Vet is definitely gay and the M-Vet just about has to be. I know about J-Vet because she once made a revealing comment to me about "people like us." Well, that and the fact my gaydar goes wild when I see her. They are both nice, but J-Vet seems more down to earth. Maybe it's just because she acknowledged our common sexuality. Whatever. Wendy and I both feel more comfortable with her.

But Cosine and I saw M-Vet today. As M-Vet examined her, she said "Has this lump by her throat been there long?" I gulped. I asked her to put my hand on it. I had not noticed it before. I involuntarily teared up ("Huh? WTF! Stop that, dumbass!" What is wrong with me?) as she talked her way from aspirating it to find out what it is through the reality we probably would not operate on it even if it was cancer because she's such an old girl. Took her only about 6 words and one sentence to reach that conclusion. M-Vet's not such a bad gal at all.

Cosi and I retreated to the waiting room to ... well, wait. For her medicine.

J-Vet came out to the reception area to speak to another pet parent. She tentatively smiled at me, with a hint of a question, as she voiced a greeting. Polite pleasantries yes, yet the last time I had seen her I was sobbing on her shoulder and she had just killed our dog euthanized Detail. Felt weird. Odd. Uncomfortable. Did she remember?

Didn't expect that, no I didn't. Feeling uncomfortable, that is.
Yet I still wonder. Does she remember?

A Good Morning

I woke up slowly this morning. My body felt warm and rested, the sheets soft and silky, the blankets heavy. One dog was snuggled against my leg, the other's head was by my hand. They were both still fast asleep. I heard the low drone of the radio.

Wendy's goodbye kiss stirred my reverie. As she left the room, the scent of coffee wafted. I rolled over just enough to retrieve the steaming cup from my bedside table. My hand curled around the mug, my palm wrapped firmly against the warm ceramic surface. The heat seeped into my hand, the warm comfort easing an ache I had not known existed. I sighed.

I sipped the coffee then relaxed my head to the pillow again. Figero began his plaintive call for breakfast from the kitchen. Another sip of coffee. I cracked open an eye and observed the rays of sunshine streaming through the trees outside. And the sky, bluer than blue.

I love Tuesdays. Especially this one.

Quitting is Hard. Still.

According to the handy dandy quitting statistics meter Wendy installed on her PC, we have not smoked for 1 month 3 weeks and 2 days. We have each saved $162.18 and not smoked 1,081 cigarettes. We have also added 3 days 18 hours and five minutes to our lifespans.

But hell. I really really really want to smoke a cigarette. At this moment in time that is. Sometimes I don't miss them at all. But other times. Oh these other times.

Think I'll go scrub the kitchen sink or something. That's how desperate I am for distraction. Still. Even after 1 month 3 weeks and 2 days.

Smoking is evil.

Searches

Recent internet searches that led seekers to my site:

• Is Rachel Ray a lesbian? (Twice!)
: My gaydar says no, for what it's worth.


• Swinging lesbian neighbors
: This searcher was disappointed. I could make something up and would make it worth reading, although I've never had lesbian neighbors, swinging or otherwise. Imagination? Has it's place.


• Zuma Temple maze
: Hope they weren't looking for tips.


• gay hoodies
: I think my favorite hoodie is straight. But it adores being worn by a lesbian.


• Slumber softball party lesbian first time
: Another disappointed searcher. And it begs the question... why? Oh why why why?


• mega melons pics
: Don't have 'em. Don't have pics of 'em either. Oh wait, they looking for fruit?


• The Highway Zapper
: Don't get this one at all.


• Indigo Girls set list
: Love love love those Girls. Emily! Amy! *smooch*


• lesbian feet pic

lesbian in stockings
lesbian letters and pics: None and all of the above? Boggle with me.

Yawn

I've noticed something about Cosine. Today it really struck me. Having the youthful Bonnie visiting provides a stark contrast.

Bonnie and Dudley race out the back door into the yard. The squirrels scamper quickly up the nearest tree. I'm not sure why those squirrels are in such a hurry. The dogs, while quick, are not as quick as that! The two of them look quite adorable, similar in color and markings. Bonnie is twice as tall as Dud though. But they seem on a common wavelength outside, as if they've been roaming the yard together for years.

The funny part is when Bonnie is at home on her side of the fence, Dudley does nothing but bark fiercely at her like she's the enemy. He does the same thing to Bonnie's daddy. It's interesting how that works.

Cosi doesn't join them. She totters out the door, ambles around a bit, does her business and comes right back on in. Then she asks for a lift up onto the bed and goes to sleep.

What I noticed today was how much of the day she spends asleep in comparison to the others. She is such a sweet old girl. Slowing down, she is. Are we ready for that? Don't think it much matters whether we are ready or not, does it?

Oh, Joyous Sunday!

Oh yeah! We are raising our hands and rejoicing! Because today, on this given Sunday, my fantasy football team is pitted against Wendy's fantasy football team.

*sigh*

We don't like these days. But we don't don't-like them enough to not play in the same league, do we? So we like to suffer. Or something. Use them to practice good sportsmanship? Sure. That's it.

But never before have we entered a face-off week where one of our teams has yet to win a game. (And yes, that would be my team--for those who have not been paying attention at all.)

Angst. Do we root for our teams and revel if our opponent falls flat? Well. We'll probably root. Quietly. But will not revel. Loudly. It's a delicate balance, doncha know.

Weekend Drudgery?

Wendy and I ran errands today. Evidently, so did 95% of other folks living in our vicinity because there were crowds EVERYWHERE. Particularly in shoe stores. And food courts. Shoe shopping is hungry work after all. We were unsuccessful in our primary shoe objective however. Disappointing.

The battery in my watch had been dead for over a year. The battery in Wendy's watch died about two weeks ago. Today we had fresh ones put in both of them. Now I have to adjust to wearing a watch again. It feels heavy on my wrist. Considering how obsessive I am about punctuality, it is rather surprising it took a year and a dead battery in Wendy's watch to get mine replaced.

So who's who? Which wrist is mine and which watch is Wendy's?

We discreetly held hands while walking the mall today. I adore holding hands with my girlfriend. It's the little things, you know.

We wrapped up our shopping with a visit to the used book store. Just so happened it was the same used book store The Boy and I frequented during his youth. Re-arranged a little, but it's basically the same. They have an area with kids books set up with little chairs and other child-sized bookstore accoutrements. The Boy used to love picking out "Choose Your Own Adventure" books, among others.

The Boy would read for hours. I can still picture him stretched out on the couch wrapped in a comforter with a dog on his legs, reading a book. Those snapshots in my head with him in that position start when he was quite young and continue right up until the present. When he comes home on breaks, he assumes that position quite naturally.

Ayup, a bit of missingness today.

Wendy and I picked out quite a few books in preparation for our upcoming trip next week. More on those later, if they end up being worth mentioning. Right now I'm going to curl up in bed with one of those books. And my girlfriend. I'm a lucky one indeed.

One Friday In the Life of...

Here is a list of things I did yesterday. Not everything. Just some things. It was a busy day.

• Wrote $73,569 in checks with someone else's money. One of them was made out to me. It was for $378.



• Decided again that one trip over the newish Springfield flyover was enough for me. Took the longer way around.



• Spent no less than four hours on the telephone attempting to resolve an issue for a job I don't get paid to do on Fridays. The issue, as of 10:58 pm on Friday evening, was still an issue.



• Discovered one of my favorite kitchen stores at Potomac Mills Mall no longer exists. Sobbed internally.



• Was angrily screamed at by a total stranger and, after a bit of thoughtful reflection, realized I probably deserved it.



• Calmly apologized for the inconvenience to the total stranger who had screamed at me before I even considered an apology may be warranted.



• Rattled because that total stranger had been and still was angrily screaming at me, completely forgot the PIN to my debit card and was unable to complete the purchase of items I was standing in line to buy.



• Remembered my PIN while sitting quietly on an uncomfortable bench in a loud place.



• Replenished our household supply of laundry soap, bath soap, dryer sheets and tuna fish.



• Left a message on The Boy's cell phone asking him to phone home.



• Gave Cosine a bath.



• Attended a JV field hockey game at the local high school. Paid $4 to get in. Acknowledged having to pay was a new development this year. Didn't mind.



• While walking to the game, twisted my left ankle and went sprawling to the ground.



• Felt terribly embarrassed laying there in the grass with a bunch of people around (not one of whom either a--saw me fall, or b--acknowledged having seen me fall).



• Was incredibly relieved to hear my friend Tina's voice as I lay there in the grass. Was very grateful she came and sat with me until my ankle felt well enough to walk on.



• Saw an unfortunate field hockey player get hit in the forehead with the ball. Such things are not pretty.



• Worried about Wendy's commute home because of an accident on the American Legion Bridge which closed two of the four lanes heading to Virginia. Evidently it had been there since noon and was still there during rush hour. WTF?



• Kissed my girlfriend hello in a shopping center parking lot.



• Enjoyed dinner out with Wendy and Tina and her husband (okay to mention your name, dude? hahah... I called Nicho dude... lol).



• Accepted delivery of a weekend guest. Because a house with three dogs is a happy place. Was awarded a pound of Blue Mountain Jamaican coffee as a thank you.



• Observed an incredibly amusing face-off between Bonnie (our neighbor's dog and our weekend guest) and Figero. Figero won. Of course.



• Watched the second presidential debate.



• Got clawed by Figero's sharp pointy claws of agony as he assumed his position in my lap.



• Chewed a piece of nicotine gum and drank a few beers.



• Went to bed late.

Word Up

I've been poking around, learning as much as I can to prepare for the NaNoWriMo experience. There is much to consider outside of actually having an idea, plot, characters, and such. Today I'm thinking of The Schedule.

Writing a 50,000 word novel in a month breaks down to writing 1,667 words a day. Evidently it takes the average person about 1.5 hours to write 1,667 words. It shouldn't be hard to reserve 1.5 hours each day or some weekly combination of reserved hours to total the desired amount of time. I do have spare time. And I have the flexibility to schedule that time as I wish. To a great extent at least. Lucky me!

But November is a busy month. We have one four-day trip and one three-day weekend trip on the calendar already. And those trips will mean lost writing days. Seven lost writing days at 1,667 words per day equals 11,669 words, roughly 23% of the total desired word output. So already it is obvious that careful scheduling of time is necessary.

I'm going to get a big calendar and block out days and such and add word count objectives to each week. Doesn't mean I'll stick with it. But knowing where I should be versus where I am is something I personally need.

Well, it's one thing I need anyway.
I so adore planning ahead!
I so adore planning!

So.....

... I wonder if I am the only woman in America who is bothered by the Tampax box saying "absorbentes internos" and "applicateur" along with those same words in English?

I wonder why it bothers me.
But it does.
Yet not all the time.
But today, yes.

Perhaps I should be pleased. It may serve me well to one day to know the meaning of such phrases as "para la mejor proteccion y mayor comodidad, elija la combinacion de absorbencias adecuada a su flujo" or "fibres qui absorbent naturellement pour aider a bien retenir le fluide".

Good lord I'm arrogant.



UPDATE TO RESPOND TO COMMENTS

When I wrote that, I was in the zone where I'm bothered because I don't think any other language than English is necessary for products used here in America.

See? I told you. Arrogant. Over the top arrogant.

It's not just the language on the tampon box that bothers me. I just happened to notice it on my tampon box the day I wrote about it. That's what brought it to the forefront of my mind and from there to here.

Another instance the need to print in multiple languages bothers me is in instruction manuals. It makes those manuals four or five times as long as they really need to be. It's not always easy to find the English. Wah.

That's how one part of me feels. Sometimes.

Then there's the other part of me. The part that feels it's necessary, important and encouraging for America be more internationally accessible.

That's how the other part of me feels. Sometimes.

Got a Spare Pair?

Pair of arms, that is. Are you using yours today?

My yoga instructor had us doing so much work with our arms last night, I am not surprised that I'd really rather not move them this morning.

Oh sure, it started off innocently enough. We had our wonderful "lie on the floor in the dark, think of nothing but how your body feels, and put everything else out of your mind" beginning. Oh how I love those beginnings. Love love love!

But then. Oh yes. Then he got tricky. Then he made us start doing all these crazy exercises with our arms, masked as stretching which is supposed to feel good but after we did three or four rounds of these "stretching" exercises, it became painfully apparent to everyone in the room (except for the teacher who could probably do these particular exercises all night long and not even feel a twinge) that we would all be feeling it tomorrow.

Yet we all did it. Because that is why we were there.

And although I may not be able to move my arms today, I will always have the memory of the wonderful "lie on the floor in the dark, think of nothing but how your body feels, and put everything else out of your mind" ending.

Yes! That's how we end also. Oh how I love those endings. Love love love!

A festival of flavor and texture.
Don't be the last one on your block to try one!

Pet Catalog

Wendy brought home a Doctors Foster & Smith pet supply catalog a friend from work had given her.

I am amazed by the different types and styles of pet beds they offer. "Doctor's Choice!" products get a star by the entry. There are special instructions on "how to measure for dog beds." They offer a ComfortSpring Bed, basically a small mattress for your dog. And wow! The selection of colors and patterns for the covers!

I must say, with as much difficulty as Wendy and I are having trying to agree on curtains for the living room, we'd probably have even more so deciding on the best doggie bed style and cover for our pets.

However it was the pages on cat accessories that really boggled my mind. OMG. Four pages of litter boxes and litter box accessories, each with their own unique features.

And then there are the Soft Claws Nail Caps:

Apply directly to nails; will not interfere with normal claw extraction and retraction. Lasts about 4 to 6 weeks. Kit contains 40 nail caps, six applicators tips, two tubes of adhesive, and complete instructions. Please click on "More Information" for sizing.

Sizing? Caps? Applicator tips? Adhesive? And a cat is supposed to willingly sit still while one glues and slips those little plastic sleeves over it's claws? Uh. No cat I know. Maybe the kit comes with a tranquilizer also. Yet every time Figero jumps into my lap and my legs get scratched by his pointy sharp little claws of death, I now think of those. And wish he had them.

Anyway, cool catalog. If you adore pets. And we do. So it is.

Frost!

Yippee! We have our first frost warning for tonight!
And it was cold enough to require a jacket today.
Soon it'll be time for fires in the fireplace.

I love love love winter.
I love love love winter clothes.
I love love love fires in the fireplace. :)

Marauders Week 4: 0-4

Oh the agony.
Oh the agony.
And again.... OH THE AGONY!

Oh my hopes were up, so so far up. My players did okay this week. The new receiver I picked up paid off pretty well (Reche Caldwell who plays for the Chargers). At the end of Sunday's games, I had an 8 point lead on my opponent. But he still had Baltimore's kicker to play Monday evening...

And what did that kicker do? Scored 8 fucking points. And what does our league do in case of a tie score? It looks to the bench and how many points those players scored.

His bench beat my bench, so even though our teams tied, I lose.

Oh oh oh the agony.

Did You Know?

In the year 2700 B.C., a Chinese emperor declared wheat one of the five sacred grains. Today, it continues to be one of the world's most important food staples.

I read that on the side of a Trader Joe's Frosted Shredded Bite Size Wheat cereal box. We don't eat much cereal here in our household. And when we do eat it, we eat it dry. Mostly because since The Boy is gone, we don't use enough milk to justify keeping it around. Even the little quart size goes bad before we use it up. I only buy it now when I have a specific recipe in mind that requires it.

Yesterday morning I was eating the Frosted Shredded Bite Size Wheat cereal dry right out of the box. It's good that way, but my jaw sure gets a workout. I recall eating cereal often when I was growing up. With milk. And I took great pleasure in reading the sides of the box while I munched.

One of my clearest memories surrounding cereal is the Captain Crunch mashed potatoes incident. Captain Crunch and mashed potatoes? Ick, you may say. And I would concur. Those are two food items not typically combined. And they weren't combined during the incident of which I speak.

Mashed potatoes have always been one of the foods I just do not like. It's a texture thing. My friend Tina mocks me and says I am "sensorily challenged." Fine. Label me such. Just don't make me eat mashed potatoes. The smooshy texture of them I find revolting. And no, revolting is not too strong a word.

When I was growing up, well, until the Captain Crunch mashed potatoes incident anyway, my parents strictly enforced the "eat what is on your plate or it will be served to you again and again until you do." Wonderful rule, that. Not! Actually now that my sister and I are grown up, it's a super thing to hold over my mother's head. Instant guilt. We don't do that to her often and we all end up laughing together when we do.

One evening when I was, oh, 6 years old or so, my mother prepared mashed potatoes with dinner. Being the stubborn little shit I was back then (and still am today to a large extent), I did not eat them. So I was left sitting at the table long after everyone else had finished. Those mashed potatoes and I just stared at each other. The potatoes mocked me as I wished with all my might for them to disappear. They didn't. With my fork, I pushed them around the plate a bit. I stared some more.

I imagine I was a pretty pathetic figure, sitting alone at the table looking forlorn as I watched my mashed potatoes grow colder and colder. (In hindsight, I now believe that was the point my hair started turning prematurely gray.) After what seemed an eternity, my mother took my plate and with a sympathetic kiss on my head, sent me off to bed. The plate she covered in plastic wrap and put in the refrigerator.

In the morning when I got up, I began anew my stare-down with those mashed potatoes. They were served to me right out of the refrigerator for my breakfast. Oh yeah, baby. Right in the same place on the same plate as the night before. I think I was supposed to be learning a lesson.

I don't know for certain how long I sat at the table that morning. It was evidently long enough to inspire some serious guilt feelings in my parental units. I was an exceptionally cute child, doncha know. Blonde curls, green eyes and a legendary pout. Or so I'm told. Apparently just not exceptionally cute enough to avoid being subjected to the cold-mashed-potatoes-for-breakfast punishment learning experience.

It was parental guilt, however, which inspired a bowl, a spoon, a jug of milk and a box of Captain Crunch to be offered as a substitute for that cold plate of mashed potatoes. Both my parents agree it was my father rather than my mother who gave in first. It was perhaps my first (but not only?) victory in a test of wills with him. Yet I did not recognize it as such. I just did NOT want to eat those potatoes!

This stand led to a new family food rule: the Food Exemption. My sister and I were each allowed to designate one Food Exemption. We would never again be asked or expected to eat our chosen Food Exemption.

I, of course, chose mashed potatoes. My sister, who loved mashed potatoes, chose lima beans instead. She never even thanked me for doing the dirty work to earn her that shiny new Food Exemption! But I also hate lima beans. She used to quietly gloat when I had to eat them. Sisters can be like that at times. Then I figured out that Mutt, our family dog, would take care of them upon request.

Dogs rule. Just a hair more than that Food Exemption though.

Cringe!

Ouch in so many ways.
Gives a whole new flavor to "puppy kisses."

October!

The new topic is up over at The Zero Boss. This month it is "write about a time you were pushed to the brink of insanity (figuratively or literally), and how you lived to tell the tale."

I'm not sure I can do that topic justice. Have to give it some thought, I will.

How about you?

November!

It's all Liz's fault. Ack! Strike that. I'll take responsibility for my actions. It's my fault.

But she planted the seed. I got hooked on her blog, "I Speak of Dreams," a few months back. She touches on some unusual topics to which I might not be otherwise exposed. And she's interesting. Then this.

So now I'm a participant too.
I'm a sucker for a challenge. Are you?

Thanks Liz!

I Don't Belong Everywhere. Imagine.

I belong to a few webrings. Perhaps you've seen them hanging out in the sidebar to the right. Yeah. The font is small, but they are there. And boy-oh-boy, there are a TON of webrings out there! One or more for every shape, size, fetish, hobby, flavor and texture of person with a website.

Before I joined the rings, I surfed them to make sure they were worthy of having my blog as a member (whatever I mean by that, and even I'm not sure at all what I mean). Being an internet junkie of sorts has also made me a bit of an internet snob. So be it. I like what I like what I like. The rings I joined seemed expansive enough and were natural selections. I feel at home in them. With an exception perhaps given to the Crazy/Hip one. That's a bit of a stretch. I'm comfortable yet not completely sure I fit. There are some great sites to visit on those rings.

I once submitted my site for approval into the "Lesbian {something normal and happy and rainbowy that I can't quite remember and am too lazy to look up} Webring." I thought "Hey, I'm lesbian! I don't need to bother to look at the other sites on the ring! Surely I want to be a part of something with "lesbian" in the title! Yippee for lesbians everywhere! Yippee for lesbian webrings! Lesbians like me! I'll fit right in!"

Turns out I was wrong about that. If you've joined a webring before, you know it typically works like this:

1. Apply for membership by submitting your "vitals."
2. Put their webring-supplied code into your template so it appears on your site.
3. Wait for the Person-In-Charge-of-That-Particular-Webring to visit your site and approve your membership.

Simple enough! Except that between the time I applied for inclusion in the "Lesbian {something normal and happy and rainbowy that I can't quite remember and am too lazy to look up} Webring" and the time the little Person-In-Charge-of-That-Particular-Webring visited my site, I spent some time visiting other sites in that ring. Because they were all, well, lesbian and such. Yippee for lesbians everywhere! Yippee for lesbian webrings! Lesbians like me! I'll fit right in!

Yet those sites were nothing with which I would want to be associated. Nary a one. Oops. Can I describe why not without revealing more of my hidden personal nature than I truly care to admit? Well. No, probably not. So I slunk back to my template and edited out that ring. No harm, no foul. Later I got a "rejected" email because I had removed the webring html code from my site. Whew.

Since then, I've been more careful about joining webrings. I re-learned a lesson I'm pretty sure I'd already learned but had never had to apply in a situation like this before. I should look before I leap. I'm lesbian, but not all other lesbians are like me and I'm not like all other lesbians and I won't necessarily be able to relate to every single other lesbian in the world. No more than I can relate to every single other human being in the world. Imagine.

Gotta love that "L" word though, ya know?
Yeah.

I love...

... books too, but would I wear a library on my head?

She looks so happy!

HBJ

Today is the birthday of a very dear friend of ours. This particular birthday will bring her to the "almost legal" age. Well, she's already legal for some things and but a year away from being legal for all things. So.

Happy birthday, Jackie!

This year, wait until your parents leave town before you tie one on, okay? It upsets your mother to see you hungover.

Love you, chickadee. :)

Another Fascinating Greenback Tale?

Odd week for money. Today, what with it being the first of the month, I was running around from place to place. Because that's what I do on or around the first of the month. It's what I've been doing for 12 years or so on or around the first of the month. I must like it. Anyway, in between job sites my stomach asked me to put something in it. Of course I obliged because the request was made so politely. Yeah, like I would not have responded if it had asked rudely.

I pulled into a McDonalds drive-through. One guess as to why I was craving such healthy fare. I ordered my food and drove up to the first window as instructed. My total was $4.19, so I handed the young man at the window a $5 bill and two dimes. He thanked me and turned to his register. Then he reached out and handed me two quarters, two dimes, and three pennies as my change. Needless to say, I was confused. I thought perhaps I had misunderstood the cost, so I asked him to confirm.

He said, in a lovely lilting Jamaican accent, "$4.19."

Just as I had thought.

So as I handed him back the change he had given me, I said "I gave you a $5 bill and two dimes. My change should be a $1 bill and one penny."

This caused great consternation and mild distress. He stared at his register for a bit, pushed some coins around and then looked at me again and asked "One dollar and one penny?" I nodded and smiled encouragingly. He then held up a $1 bill and one penny and asked "Is this right?" I nodded and took the change, thanking him and I pulled forward to the next window.

This baffles me. Why would someone be working a cash register if they have no real understanding of counting and giving change? How the hell do they ever get the drawer to balance at the end of the day? What is up with that?

Baseball Coming Back to DC!

As Wendy and I were on our way to Baltimore last week to see the Orioles play, we had a brief chat about the possibility of a baseball team closer to home.

Would we give up being O's fans? Could we give up being O's fans? What about our fondness for some of the players? Little Brian Roberts, for whom we've cheered since he came up from the minors just a few years ago. Jerry Hairston Jr., the somewhat fragile yet incredibly exciting clutch player. BJ Surhoff, oh how we adore BJ, whom we hope is finally back in Baltimore to stay. Old man Palmiero, another player who has come and gone and come back again. And Melvin Mora, we love love love Melvin, with his hot bat, his incredible reflexes in the field and his adorable quintuplets sitting in the stands with his hot wife (yeah, we pay attention to things like that).

She and I decided it will be nice to be able to take the Metro to the game. And I have, as do many other folks in this area, a special sentiment for RFK Stadium where the team will play for at least the first year. Actually, knowing it's the District that will be in charge of building a new stadium, my prediction is the team will be playing in RFK for at least four years.

I hope they choose to use the old name, Senators, because I like it. There's a group pushing the adoption of the name of the old Washington negro league team and I don't understand why. MLB already has a team named the Braves*! WTF are those people thinking? That Atlanta will give up their name so the new Washington team can have it? Or maybe they think it's okay for two major league teams to have the same name. Uh yeah. Sure.

Baseball in DC. Never thought it would happen.





* UPDATE: Newsflash! I'm an idiot. Confirmation in case you had any remaining doubt. I finally realized the discussion I was listening to on NPR about potential names for the DC baseball team did NOT say the old negro team's name was the Braves. Their name was the Grays. Which makes the rest of that paragraph above completely idiotic and irrelevant. Now in comparison, don't you feel totally smart?