Baseball or Erotica?

I'm relaxing in the chair that replaced the green chair. The green chair is destined to furnish a certain college apartment come September. The green chair has been around. The new chair rocks. Literally. It rocks, swivels and reclines. It's one hell of a chair.

My mind is filled right now with baseball and erotica. Odd combo, I know. It's been that kind of day.

Hmmm.... baseball.
Hmmm.... erotica.

Hmmm.

Erotic writing is something Wendy and I always laugh at when reading lesbian-themed fiction. To us, it is so often the weak link in such books. We are ever-so-certain we could write the most compelling sex scenes, cliche-free, hot and inspirational with just the perfect amount of tasteful innuendo. I don't think it's necessary to spell everything out explicitly. I like my imagination to take over at some point.

I've not attempted to write anything erotic in ages. I used to write it, long ago and far away. It was hardly quality stuff so I'm not sure why I think I could do better now. Strike that. I know exactly why I could do better now.

I clearly remember remember being in high school and composing a rather nasty tale featuring Nancy Drew and her boyfriend Ned. Oh baby, oh baby. I had those two solving a different type of mystery than old Carolyn Keene tasked them with. George and Bess were also much closer than cousins should be. And Carson, man oh man. That lawyer was paying Hannah for more than housekeeping duty.

Pure lust can be a wonderful thing.

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File This Under....

You gotta be shittin' me!

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GPS

No no no, I'm not referring to a Global Positioning System. I'm talking Gross Pet Stories here.

If you have pets, much like children, you'll have stories to share. Some of them make you go "awww isn't that precious!" Others make you screw up your face in horror like you've just bitten into a piece of six day old sushi. Those are the stories that qualify for the GPS classification.

I have a GPS about Figero. It's probably the grossest pet story I have to tell about him. Put it this way: if you are ever fortunate enough to receive an invitation to dine at Casa de la Lesbiana Suburbana, you may remember this story and opt to decline. But hey, live on the edge people! Don't let a little Gross Pet Story deter you.

Figero always had a designated place on the kitchen counter to serve as his dining area. It kept his food up high away from the other four legged critters who seem to prefer cat kibbles over their own. What is up with that, anyway? Oh sure, the cat would occasionally munch on a little dog food but he would never scarf it completely down. The dogs, on the other hand, if left alone with cat food, would hoover it gone in a matter of minutes. Hence the elevated location of Figero's plate. Fig had given up jumping up onto anything high about a year or so ago. We adapted by lifting him up for his meals. He had no problem leaping down after dining.

Some folks think letting cats on the kitchen counter is gross. They are entitled to their opinion, of course. In some instances I'd even agree with them. I usually support the practical solutions, however, and in this case allowing the cat on the counter was the most practical solution available.

During my sister's recent visit with Nikita the Indian Princess, Figero spent a great deal of time up on the kitchen counter avoiding the disrespectful and persistently curious Nikita. Fig would hang out up there long after he'd finished his breakfast or dinner. One day I came home from work and found him curled up next to the stove. I raised an eyebrow, confused. Since he no longer could jump up onto the counter, he must have spent the entire day up there! I was slightly alarmed. I peered around the counters yet noticed nothing amiss. I whisked Figero down while Nikita was outside and sent him on his way.

Later that evening SK put the kettle on the stove to boil water. My sister drinks a lot of tea. Hot tea. Well. Maybe it's not tea she drinks. But she boils water for something. That's when the fun began.

Science has always bored me to tears. What happened that night as the stove heated up to boil SK's water was like some sort of ill-conceived science fair experiment gone wildly awry. Merely a few moments after she turned on the burner, we were all gasping for air. Our eyes watered and burned, squinting tightly against the mace-like pollution filling the house. Oh the stench! It smelled like our house been swirled directly into a well-used port-a-pottie on the Fourth of July on the DC Mall. 98 degrees, man. Blazing sun. High humidity. The whole nine yards. We retched in unison.

I glanced around wildly then ran toward the kitchen, waving my arms and shouting frantically. That frantic arm waving shouting stuff works wonders for solving problems. You should try it some time.

Have you figured out the punchline yet? Of course you have and you are undoubtably 100% correct.

There were puddles of cat piss in the burner drip pans on one side of the stove. Overflowing puddles of heated cat piss. In our kitchen. On our stove. Where we cook our food. The food we put in our mouths. Argh.

It wasn't obvious at first. There was no smell until the stove heated up. Why there was no smell, I don't know, but there wasn't. The burners drips pans are black enamel and the urine blended right in with the shiny surface. Who'da thunk it?

Some of us milled around the hot burner. Others flung open all the exterior doors to let in fresh air. I stopped shouting and cussed under my breath instead. We cleaned it up. Thoroughly. Now we try not to talk about it. I mean really. Yuck.

This story does, however, top my list of When Pets Cross the Line.
What story tops your list?

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Snot Rag, Please

We don't usually keep Kleenex around the house. (Please note the capital "K" in Kleenex. It is, after all, a trademark used for a soft facial tissue. But I usually use Kleenex to blow my nose and am therefore a bit mystified as to why they are formally referred to as "facial tissue." Snot rag would be more true to life.)

So the secret that is not really a secret is now even less of a secret: we don't usually keep soft facial tissues around our house. I know, I know. Admitting it helps me feel less heathen.

According to our mothers, Kleenex is a staple that should be kept on hand at all times. Perhaps at some point in our lives once Wendy and I have reached that certain age, we, too, will feel the need to keep Kleenex on hand at all times. Until then, however, I only buy it when one of us has a cold or when one of our mothers will be visiting. We prefer Puffs Plus brand over Kleenex brand (mmmm.... lotiony).

When Wendy's mom was here a week or so ago, we picked up a box of Kleenex for her. She prefers Kleenex brand. She didn't use them all. Yesterday morning I was glad to have them because I woke up blowing snot everywhere. (Doesn't that inspire a wonderful visual image? Please. Take a moment and let your imagination wander.)

I have a freaking summer cold. I don't recall ever having had a summer cold before. I'm usually so healthy it's ridiculous (k-o-w). It began the day of the picnic with a irritating sore throat. A sore throat! Even when I smoked cigarettes, my throat didn't get sore. Bah.

As my runny sneezy stuffed up nose and I left for work that morning, I snagged that box of Kleenex to take to the office. All day long I was glad I had it.

But now. Oh now I'm sad. When I left the office I neglected to bring that box of Kleenex home.

I should have left my runny nose at work too.

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Hobbies

I did wonder about listing balancing my checkbook as one of my hobbies. But it seems reasonable considering how much I adore keeping track of money.

Doesn't everyone feel a little more lighthearted when they open their mailbox and see that their monthly bank statement has arrived? Doesn't everyone take the first available opportunity to rush to their computers and open up Quickbooks? Doesn't everyone enjoy painstakingly entering every single transaction involving cash or credit or a check into their accounting program? Doesn't everyone get the same thrill, that rush of satisfaction, that splendiferous glow of success, when, after checking off that last transaction on the statement, the bottom line of the reconciliation reads "$0.00 difference"?

No?

Well.
I do.

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36 Hard Boiled Eggs?

Ah yes, it must be time for my ever-revered company picnic! That's the reason Wendy and I boiled dozens of eggs. Wendy has kindly taken on the responsibility of peeling said eggs. I wuv her. I'm in charge of the next steps.

My office takes our picnic very seriously. Two compulsive planners are in charge. No, I'm not one of them. I am but a peripheral picnic planner, a peon. I sit in on the meetings and try not to laugh inappropriately.

The two that are in charge are such compulsive anal-retentive planners that they insist on managing every detail down to extrapolating exactly how many napkins we will need based on the past sauciness of the barbequed ribs. I am so not kidding. Compared to them, I am laid back and relaxed, a real sloth who flies by the seat of her pants having never made a plan in her life.

Compulsive Planner One: "Let's talk about the napkins again. I'm sure we all remember the disaster at last year's picnic when Daniel (his name has been changed to protect the innocent) wandered around most of the afternoon with barbeque sauce on his face because we ran out of napkins. Oh the mess he made in the moonbounce!" Compulsive Planner One shuddered at the memory.

Compulsive Planner Two: "I'm thinking to avoid that problem we should assign the task of bringing napkins to more than one person. Hey! Maybe everyone should be responsible for bringing their own napkins! That way there will be no misunderstandings and we can't be blamed if we run out. Then it won't matter how much sauce Johnny Mac pours over those delicious juicy irresistible ribs!"

Me: "How about we bring that unopened package of 500 napkins and three rolls of paper towels from the kitchen along with the extra-super-duper-economy-sized container of Wet Ones someone gave Daniel as a gag gift at the holiday party? That should cover us nicely."

Compulsive Planner One and Two looked at me like I had just sprouted a second head. Then they looked at each other and scribbled in their notebooks. "Okay Suzanne. If you feel that will be adequate for the 50 or so guests that will be there, we'll go with your idea. But remember! If we run out of napkins it's on your head!" I nodded and smiled.

But seriously, they do plan a fun picnic. Every person in the office is saddled with at least one preparatory picnic task or is assigned a during-the-event duty.

This is the first year I am not in charge of the water balloons, which makes me a bit sad. I perversely enjoyed filling up several hundred water balloons the night before the picnic. Wendy would help. It was a real family affair. There's just something about huddling shoulder to shoulder with your loved one at the kitchen sink, a huge cooler at your feet, stretching colorful bits of rubber around the faucet and gently tying them off after filling. Of course the real fun is when they break loose and spray water in every direction.

Obviously I am still in charge of deviled eggs, which I prepared rather on a whim last year. Now it evidently shall forever be assumed that Suzanne will bring deviled eggs to the company picnic. That's fine because I make good deviled eggs and enjoy preparing them.

The recipe is not complex, yet I enjoy refreshing my mind by looking up what The Joy of Cooking has to say about deviled eggs. This line makes me appreciate the writing in this cook book. It manages to give instruction without really telling you anything specific: "Crush yolks without packing them and moisten them pleasantly." Alrightly then.

That may well become my new farewell greeting: "May your yolks always be pleasantly moistened." Yummy!

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Pictures for weese

Because she always asks so politely.

Before: Big ass honking cedar tree.
We think there is a house behind it.


After: There is, there is a house!


Yeah, we still have a long way to go to make this place beautiful.
A long long way.

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Weekend Recap, Suburban Style

This weekend, a first in many recent weekends, belonged to Wendy and me. Exclusively ours to do whatever we decided needing doing---including nothing, should we so deem.

I secretly hoped we’d deem at least one weekend morning worthy of doing nothing. Mornings are for laying about after all, as are evenings to a great extent. Afternoons and afternoons alone are for exertion. Unless it’s football season. When it’s football season morning and afternoons flip flop on Sundays. But it’s not, so they don’t.

Our weekend began with Friday night. A craving for chocolate had been hounding me all day. Literally all day. I baked a pan of brownies. The box recommends letting them cool for one hour to ensure ease of extraction from the pan. I showed great restraint by waiting 30 minutes.

(They’ll be gone before I go to bed Sunday evening.
I’m a glutton that way.
Just so you know.)

Saturday I played bed slug. Wendy brought me coffee. I fell back asleep and my coffee got cold. Wendy brought fresh hot coffee. I sipped it while eating a brownie and watching Sports Center. Wendy decided to mow the lawn. I watched some cheesy movie on TNT or some such like. I think it was called “Blood Surf” or something equally as enticing. It was about this 30 foot long giant man-eating crocodile. Everyone in the movie got eaten one by one until just a hero and heroine were left. They killed the croc and made love in the surf. Oh yeah baby.

I started feeling a tiny bit guilty about being so indulgently lazy, so decided to get up and do some work in the yard myself. There are several bushes/trees in the yard that need to taken down. (What do you call something that is like a tree but also like a bush? Trush? Bree?) I got it in my head to start taking down a holly bree in the front yard. I ate another brownie and got to work with my granddaddy’s pole saw. Soon all that was left was a humongous pile of pruned branches and the twelve foot tall eight inch diameter holly bree stump.

Wendy and I surveyed the situation.
“We need a chain saw,” I stated the obvious.
Wendy said “Tomorrow.”

Ah! The Alexandria Waterfront Festival. I’d forgotten we were meeting friends there for the evening. We showered and dressed. I ate a brownie and we hit the road.

One friend showed up wearing fake hair in a ponytail, which is odd yet entertaining in its own special way. The evening was beautiful. We could have indulged in an advertised culinary delight called “crab cake in a crepe” but we decided on a pulled pork sammich and some fresh cut fries. I mean really. Crab cake in a crepe? Pul-lease. That’s just not done in the civilized world.

We set up not far from a beer truck to watch the bands. Alexandria is a great city in which to attend a festival. The shuttles run on time, trash cans are emptied regularly and there is Purell in every port-a-potty. Do I need to get out more or has Purell been a fixture in port-a-potties for a while? Either way, it rocks. Totally.

We arrived home a little before midnight. I had a beer and a brownie and headed for bed.

Sunday we got ourselves a chainsaw and finished off the holly bree. We bundled the debris and stacked it by the curb. Wendy and I eyed the cedar trush at the corner of the house. It was huge. Taller than the house. It so needed to be gone. So it was said, so it was done. Said trush now resides neatly bundled at the curb awaiting Wednesday's designated yard debris pickup. Little by little we are taking charge of our landscape.

Which brings us to Sunday evening. Right this minute. Wendy and I are sitting side by side on the screened porch. Cans of cold cheap beer are open at our elbows. We survey our corner of suburbia, our eyes comforted. Green makes everything gorgeous. The breeze wafts across us and we enjoy the sound of the wind through the trees, a gentle rustle as soft and silky as Faith Hill in her “Breathe” video as she writhes naked on satin sheets.

Wendy says “This feels like being on vacation.”
I have to agree.

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Power of Three

Third time's a charm?
Gina thinks so.

3 names I go by:
Suzanne, Suzi, Mom

3 screen-names I've had:
WordsRock, UpUpUpUp, Metis

3 physical things I like about myself:
my eyes, my nose, my freakishly large hands

3 physical things I dislike about myself:
my thighs, my hips, my upper arms

3 parts of my heritage:
Scottish, German, Irish

3 things I am wearing right now:
sandals, toenail polish, jeans

3 things I want in a relationship:
desire, friendship, trust

3 physical things about the preferred sex that appeal to me:
eyes, ears, long hair

3 of my favorite hobbies:
reading, writing, balancing my checkbook

3 things I want to do really badly right now:
go back to bed, visit with The Boy, smoke a cigarette

3 things that scare me:
insects, heights, Ge0rge W. Bush

3 of my everyday essentials:
Coffee, clean panties, goodnight kiss

3 places you want to go on vacation:
Bigfork, Montana; Canada; Sedona, Arizona

3 kids' names you like:
Gregory, Adrienne, Zachary

3 things you want before you die:
To see The Boy on Broadway, to have my relationship with Wendy legally protected, to write something worth reading

3 ways I am stereotypically a boy:
I like girls, I like girls, I like girls

3 ways I am stereotypically a chick:
I dislike sweating, I love to cook, I hate bugs

3 6 celeb crushes (why stop at three?):
Heather Locklear, Angie Harmon, Susan Sarandon,
Queen Latifah, Jodie Foster, Faith Hill

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Doggie Style?

I was home alone a few Wednesday nights ago for the first time in I can't remember how long. My sister was in Maryland praying or doing some other such nunly activity. Wendy was attending her employer's annual board of directors awards dinner. She was presenting an award and ever so excited to be a part of things. (Those of us who know and love Wendy realize she'd rather be home with me and the dogs on the couch watching baseball instead of wearing pantyhose and giving a speech in front of a roomful of bigwigs.)

My arrival at home precipitated a great deal of doggie enthusiasm.

Had I mentioned we were dog sitting for our neighbor? No? Well we were. We also had Nikita staying with us while my sister was off at the temple. So there were four dogs to greet me; four dogs to be petted, walked, fed, watered, talked to, snuggled.

Eventually we all settled down. Hanging out on the new couch, laptop in my lap surfing the internet, baseball on TV in the background. I was completely enjoying the peace and quiet and the feeling of being the only human in the house.

Then some thoughtless neighbor of mine had the nerve to walk down the sidewalk with their dog on a leash.

Nikki started it because she had the best view out the front window. Bonnie and Dudley were instantly alert, leaping up on the couch and lining up next to Nikki, their paws on the window sill. They bayed and barked and generally created a cacaphony that caused the very air around us to shimmer and shake.

Cosine, in her obliviousness, continued to pace large circles in the dining room, unaware of the excitement she was missing.

Ah, the simple life.

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Every So Often

I recently caught a ration of shit from some loved ones when I shared with them something I rather randomly wrote in my little green notebook. I read it aloud to them.

"I've thought how convenient it would be to be mentally ill. To have 'breakdowns' where all would gather around and tend to my needs. Where being in a medicated haze would be encouraged and no one would expect much."

It was interpreted as being disrespectful to persons with mental illness. I didn't intend it as such when I jotted it down. I was just feeling overwhelmed by life in general. Every so often I get the impulse to hide away somewhere. Scrap everything, find a cave in the wilderness and call it home.

That's a pretty big stretch considering how much I dislike camping.

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Ah Youth?

Wendy and I had a taste of young lesbians this past week. (For those whose minds tend to drift into the gutter, allow me to clarify: not a literal taste!)

Two women, both less than half my age but just over half of Wendy’s, accompanied us on our annual Indigo Girls concert outing. Their sexuality is not a secret, yet I choose to preserve their anonymity herein by referring to them as YoungLesbian1 and YoungLesbian2, apropos of Dr. Seuss’ Thing 1 and Thing 2. Yet calmer. And less destructive.

We’ve known YoungLesbian1 for years; YoungLesbian2 is her friend from college. Emphasis on friend. Just. Really. The concert was at Wolf Trap and we were sitting on the lawn with hundreds of others. As I scanned the crowd, I took note of a healthy sprinkling of heterosexuals. It was a nice mix with lesbians in the majority. Lesbians of all ages, shapes, sizes.

The specifics of one particular conversation are lost forever to the vast expanse of my memory that is no longer a memory. But I recall YoungLesbian2 saying to us, “Hey, we could grow up to be y’all one day!”

She didn’t look disgusted or apprehensive or anything! Yay?

Wendy and I were crowd watching, pointing out interesting audience members to each other.

“Hey, look over there. BlackTank is nibbling on BrownTank’s ear and BrownTank seems completely disinterested.”

“If you were nibbling on my ear like that, I’d be a puddle!”

“Yeah, you sure would.”

We looked at each other and smiled.

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Rubbing Off?

My in-laws arrived today. Up from Houston, Texas, they flew. But not on broomsticks. Oh no. They are much too sweet to have been issued broomsticks. They flew Continental Airlines, the only carrier that offers non-stop service from George H. Bush International Airport to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Those airport names please her parents as much as they displease Wendy and me.

Wendy's Texas accent is creeping back as it tends to do when she's around her family.

I like it.
It's sexy as hell.

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Ripped From the Headlines!

It's rather ooogie to think about in any way other than merely on the surface, but I'll offer a hardy thanks to my parents for having passed along the "good" genes.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, it's raining men?

In other news, certainly not headline news, our fence is complete. I solved my shower dilemma by letting the hot water run until the window was completely fogged. Only then did I shed my pajamas and step into the shower. I am one smart cookie.

It is a beautiful thing. Wendy and I can now walk out onto our newly refurbished screened porch wearing nothing but what the good lord gave us without fear of scarring the neighbors for life. We'll have to think of some other way to make our mark on them.

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Another Day

By the time Detail died, I was ready to tell the world. His illness was lengthy and I comforted myself by writing his obituary over several months. I'd revisit it every so often, adding and editing, until I had crafted something I felt worthy of such a beautiful dog. Working on it truly brought me solace.

One may think, because we had two other aging pets in the household, I would have also been working on their stories. But while I have mulled them over in my head many many times, I have not yet committed even a single thought to paper. Perhaps it was my way of trying to postpone the inevitable. After all, if I have not yet written their stories, there is no way my pets can die.

Foolish me.

For those of you who expressed concern, it was not Cosine who died yesterday. It was Figero, the Alpha Cat. Why I just didn't come right out and say that in yesterday's post is up for examination. I guess The Boy isn't the only one with a dramatic flair, although I wasn't thinking "drama!" when I posted it.

I was just thinking I felt worse because I have not yet written Fig's story.

Right now I'm thinking about how the hell I'm going to take a shower. When Wendy and I remodeled the bathroom there was one finishing detail we procrastinated over: frosting the window. The window in the shower overlooks the backyard and anyone in the backyard can look up and observe the showering person showering. This can be entertaining in the right circumstance.

But this morning, bright and early and before my usual shower time, the fence folks showed up to finish installing the fence. In the backyard.

Can I shower effectively with my pajamas on or will Juan, Jose and Hector run screaming out of our yard, blinded because they looked up at the wrong moment?

Complete details on the News at Nine.

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Odd Start to the Week

The man who used to be my father-in-law died last week. I heard about it two days after the fact via a voice mail from my ex-husband. I am grateful to be kept in the loop. I hate when people die and I don't hear about it for weeks or months.

He filled me in on the circumstance in the returned call. Despite his father's poor health over the past decades, his death arrived unexpectedly. As he recounted what happened, I yearned to press for details but knew to do so would be in incredibly poor taste (my mother did manage to teach me a few manners).

He had a coronary while driving, his wife the only passenger. (Were they on a freeway? Highway? Country road? Close to town? Where were they heading? What was he wearing? Was it daytime or nighttime? Raining? Was the radio on? Sirius or XM? What were he and his wife discussing? Were they enjoying the day? Arguing? Laughing? Was their dog in the car with them?)

The wife was able to steer the car off to the shoulder of the road and safely stop. (How did she manage that? How fast were they going? Were there any other cars on the road? If so, could they tell something was wrong? Was she crying? Shouting? Was she talking to him when it began? What alerted her that something was wrong? Could he speak to her? Make eye contact?)

She dialed 9-1-1 and began CPR. (Did she have good signal strength on her cell? Was she calm? Did she stretch him out on the front seat of the car? How the hell did she manage to maneuver him? Had she had formal CPR training? Was he dead before she got the car stopped? Were his eyes open? Did anyone stop to help her? How long did it take the paramedics to arrive? How many of them were there? Male or female? Old or young? Did they declare him dead or was that done at the hospital? Did someone comfort her? What happened to the car? Did it get towed or did she pick it up from the side of the road later? Will she ever be comfortable driving it again?)

All those questions. I’ll never have answers. I have no need to know. It’s just morbid curiosity. Or natural curiosity. Is there a difference?

Another oddity of divorce in a family: who keeps in touch with whom? Who fades away to become someone I used to know? In the case of our family and our divorce, we all kept in touch rather closely while The Boy was younger. His dad wasn't great about making sure The Boy got over to see his grandparents on a regular basis. They were kind enough to include me in invitations for holiday gatherings and other occasions. With me came The Boy. Doh. But I enjoyed participating and always felt welcome. They are good people and it was important to me for The Boy to know that side of his family.

But by the time his high school years rolled around The Boy was so busy, we didn’t see his father’s family very often anymore. It was hard enough keeping up with my own. Distance was a factor. Everyone had moved a bit south and we had moved a bit north. His dad still wasn’t good at making sure The Boy got over to see his grandparents on a regular basis. We made do with minor contact on big special occasions.

I guess today is one of those big special occasions as I feel compelled to attend his memorial service, particularly since The Boy cannot.

And perhaps because a cake is better with icing, someone else died today. This morning actually. Dealing with that will have to wait. Well, dealing with the body will happen now but dealing with the loss will happen later.

I'm on autopilot.
I heart autopilot.

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Blocks from the White House Part Deux

Back in February, I shared with you the ever-so-fascinating tale of the polite man peeing in an alley.

Yesterday, I was in that same alley. Right next to the dumpster where the man relieved himself on that cold February day now sits a sparkling new Port-a-John.

DC is one oddball city.

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I Got Some Last Weekend

Soft sweet baby cuddles, that is.



PS: This baby, soft sweet and cuddly, is only six months old. He weighs 20 pounds and has six teeth. Six teeth! Twenty pounds! Six teeth!

He's going to be the size of a teenager before he's two!

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Ducks in the Road

Picture, if you will, a four lane highway. Route One, Richmond Highway as it is called while passing through the part of Virginia I am in. It is rush hour on a warmish June evening. Heavy traffic, bumper to bumper, fills both southbound lanes. The northbound volume is less dense yet still proceeds along the highway in numbers not to be ignored.

Myself, well, I’m on a side street in my car patiently waiting at one of the world’s longest stoplights. Soon, hopefully very soon, I will be given the opportunity to turn left onto the northbound lanes and proceed homeward.

Movement on the highway median catches my eye. I see a family. A family of ducks! Mommy and six little babies. “Oh! Baby ducks! How cute!” are my first thoughts. Then I think, “Holy shit what are those ducks doing in the middle of the road during rush hour?” I cringe. My mind races through possible outcomes. None of them are good.

An ancient red pickup truck traveling north stops in the middle of the intersection. An older man, let’s say he’s fifty, dressed in denim overalls and a ball cap, hops out of the truck. He boldly steps into the other northbound lane and holds up his hand in the classic sign “stop!” Surprisingly, the approaching vehicles do indeed come to a stop.

Overall Man is in charge. He approaches the Duck Family and begins to herd them across the northbound lanes. The Duck Family is surprisingly compliant and moves in a seemingly organized pack quickly across two lanes toward the curb.

Mama Duck hops up into the grass. But the Baby Ducklings are unable to climb the concrete curb! I see one jump and tumble back into the gutter, then another and another.

Overall Man to the rescue again! He squats down and gently helps each duckling up the curb into the grass. Except for those two ducklings who evidently are alarmed by Overall Man. They waddle rapidly away down the street. He breaks into a trot after them. His legs being considerably longer than theirs, he catches up with them quickly and scoops them up to join the family. The ducks all disappear into the tall weeds.

From afar in my car, I cheer.

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This is a picture I took on my trip with my mom. I call it “Dunking Ducks” because these silly ducks kept putting their heads under the water. My mother thinks they were eating. I think they were taking baths. Anyone know why ducks dunk their heads?

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So Much Paper!

I am in a state of disbelief at the amount of paper I am responsible for pushing around every month. How did this become my metier? It no longer inspires. Instead, I feel buried. And bored.

Some news! I'm now a "regular" over at Emerald Pillows. I wanted to be a "large," but that slot was already filled by the always-lovely-and-ever-so-opinionated Elizabeth (mwah!). She and her partner put out a monthly publication filled with writing and such. Writing and such by lesbians. I fit right in because I am a lesbian and such. (In this case, I think that statement is actually true unlike the other times when I thought I should fit in because I'm a lesbian but then I didn't fit in at all because, like it or not, all lesbians don't always necessarily fit in with all other lesbians even though they may want to. Long live the run-on sentence ending in a preposition!)

So what does being a "regular" mean? Just that my name will appear regularly with my words somewhere besides this blog. In print and on the web. My vanity is growing along with the size of my ass. To view this month's edition in its print format, click on the PDF link at the top of the Emerald Pillows main page or read the contents by following the individual links on the left of the same page. Cool stuff within.

I envy Elizabeth's html skills and hope to wring some of her vast knowledge out of her head and absorb it into mine. Anyone know the proper grip for the Vulcan mind meld?

On second thought, a mind meld with her is too frightening to consider. I mean, really. And I don't scare easy.

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