Road Trippin' with Tina

For a hundred and fifty miles or so. Tina will be accompanying Wendy and me on a road trip this weekend. She was going anyway and somehow got stuck lucked into riding with us. It will mark the first time we have travelled in the same car with her anywhere besides around town.

I wonder. Will she have to stop every twenty minutes for a pit stop like my sister? Will she insist on controlling the radio? Will she fall asleep in the car and snore? Is she a backseat driver? Will she cringe and gasp at my driving? I predict no to all but the last.

She'll only be with us for the first leg of our weekend travels. We are the advance scouting party for parent's weekend at RMWC in scenic Lynchburg, Virginia. We'll spend Friday night with her and her daughter, a senior at said college. (Shall I mention that her daughter will be turning 21 this weekend? Why of course I shall. One must be very very old, veritably ancient, to have a daughter turning 21. Don't you agree?)

Saturday morning we will abandon Tina to whatever fate has in store for her. Wendy and I will depart for North Carolina to see The Boy. Festivities shall abound! Or something like that.

Oh yes, it's that time of year again. I still can't believe it's our third college parent's weekend. Third! Yikes. Only one more to go after this one. Time flies, indeed it does.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye! I'll be having enough fun for all of us, leaving the rest of you free to be productive members of society. Try to hold up your end, okay?

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Camera Phones

Wendy and I have a friend, a young woman, who stores risque photos on her cell phone. Then she leaves the phone laying around for anyone to pick up and peruse said photos. Well. She leaves it laying around for nosy people who have no qualms about being nosy to pick it up and peruse them. Yeah. I'm one of those nosy ones.

What exactly do I mean by "risque" photos? Well for example, a full-frontal nude of her rather well-endowed male significant other is featured along with close-ups of, shall we say, intimate parts of her own anatomy. Yeah. Personal porn? Yikes.

I recently got a new cell phone. It has camara capability. Can't say as I'd ever consider storing personal porn on it. That's just not my style. So when a co-worker asked me if he could look at the photos on my phone I said, "Sure, go ahead." I knew there were no untoward photos on the camera because, after all, I'd snapped each photo personally.

Hadn't I?

Turns out no. Turns out someone took a few pictures with my camera phone while we were hanging out with our fantasy friends watching football. Turn out someone, who shall remain nameless *cough* Wendy *cough*, took a photograph of yours truly at that gathering. While not personal porn, it was a view of me I would never wish a co-worker to see. One of our fantasy friends? No problem. But a co-worker? Uh uh, no way. The photo was revealing in a distinctly unflattering manner, oh yes, yes it was.

Ripening karma.
Something to be counted on along with death and taxes.

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Structure

After reading this recent post from Mel, or maybe it was this one, I've decided she is vying for the title "Hardworking Mother of the Year" in direct competition with my friend Tina. I think Mel has the edge if only because her children are younger.

Those busy mothers have got it easy, let me tell you. So much of raising children is reactive. Reacting to their needs, I mean. And boy oh boy, kids can be a needy lot indeed. There isn't much time to focus on oneself with children at home.

Their needs lessen, obviously, as they get older. The high school years bring a riotous blossom of independence, yet require parental attentiveness of a different ilk, still as time consuming in many ways.

Mel's posts highlighted to me the heart of the whole empty nest bullshit adjustment period with which I've struggled. After eighteen years of primarily putting someone else's schedule and needs above my own, I suddenly found myself with too much free time and absolutely no idea how to adequately fill it. There was nothing to be done that could not be put off until some other time. There was no one counting on me to feed, dress, nag, share with, drive, learn from, motivate, play with, check on, pick up after, teach and listen to. There was just me and empty hours, jumbled like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle on a cardtable.

Wow. That sounds rather pathetic. But within lies a large dollop of truth.

I think I'm finally putting that puzzle together.
I wonder what the picture will be?

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Taking Inventory

How many brassieres do you own?

Of those, how many actually get worn on a regular basis?

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Slightly Beyond the Nose on My Face

I didn't even notice it until Tina pointed it out to me a few weeks back. But in defense of my powers of observation, she does drive by the corner more often than I do, despite our own home being at the intersection.

A new street sign installed across from our house had the name of our street misspelled. Specifically, an "E" was placed where a "Y" belongs. Granted it's an odd word, not used daily or monthly or even annually by most people. But to have the county misspell it on our street sign? Well, that's just wrong. And what was the matter with the old green one anyway?

This morning I was sitting at the computer idly gazing out of our office window. The view is primarily trees filled with leaves. In another month or so I'll be able to see the house across the street. Through a small gap in the trees, a bit of blue on the street sign peeked through.

And that's when I saw it. I had to sit forward, squint and tilt my head a bit to confirm: a "Y" is now in the correct place, no sign of the wayward "E" to be found.

My head briefly spun with questions: who what when how, but not where or why. But then my mind settled on the most important question: Has Tina noticed yet?

How pathetic is my life to feel a tiny bit vindicated if I've noticed before she has? Matters not. I'll take it where I can get it.

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How Christian

"Your family does not meet the policies of admission."

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Tramp Stamp

I don't have any tattoos, nor is there an even remote possibility I ever will. It's just not my thing. But hey if you're into them, by all means, indulge. I'll admire the artwork and reserve the right to cringe at the ugly ones.

I read something somewhere the other day that referred to a tattoo as a "tramp stamp." That phrase doesn't sound particularly complimentary to me, yet it made me giggle. The particular reference was to a large tattoo across a woman's lower back.

I wonder. Does any tattoo qualify as a so-called "tramp stamp," or just one on a woman's lower back? Is it derogatory or neutral or welcome? If it is welcome, why is it welcome? Is it widely used? Generational? Ethnic? Geographical?

These things I'd like to know. Because my brain obviously isn't full of enough useless trivia already.

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It Was a Fine Day for a Funeral *

But that's got nothing to do with the topic at hand. It was also a fine evening for suburban porch sitting.

There is an art to sitting on ones screened porch. It didn't take me long to develop my own style. I'm a natural. Comfortable chair. Cold beer. Good book. Mild evening. A lap full of Dudley.

Heaven.

The night air was full of sounds, quiet suburban sounds. Unobtrusive and familiar. Crickets. The occasional car in the distance. A child's voice from afar, followed by a dog barking. My neighbor calling her cat, "Kitty-kit-kit-kit-kit-kitty!"

The cat-calling inspired Dudley to come to full alert and charge out his pet door, crunching through the blanket of leaves that already litters the yard as he raced to the fence. He bow-woooed enthusiastically as only a basset hound can.

Since we all know practice makes perfect, porch sitting is one activity I will continue to practice even after the frost is on the pumpkin. I can already imagine being snuggled in a blanket with my girlfriend, listening to snow softly fall.

Heaven. To be continued.




* Line borrowed from a song by the band Disappear Fear , the title of which momentarily escapes me.

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Pandora's Box?

A while back my mom asked if Wendy's mom had an email address and if so, could she have it. I said sure, then promptly forgot to send it to her.

The last time Wendy's folks were in town, I remembered my mother's request. I told Wendy's mom about it and asked if she'd mind if I share her address with my mother. She said of course not. In fact, she had been thinking of making the same request herself.

But of course, I again forgot to initiate that address exchange. I'm easily distracted.

Quasi in-laws communicating with each other isn't unusual, is it? Their photos occupy neighboring spots on our mantel after all. It seems natural for our families to get to know each other. They all recognize our relationship as it is, a lifelong commitment.

I rather like the idea. Perhaps they can be supportive of each other. They do have the commonality of a lesbian daughter, which is not the easiest thing for women of their generation. It is not unlikely they will meet in person someday. And what of our fathers? I try to imagine all six of our parents in the same room and my mind just boggles.

Out of the blue last week, Wendy did it herself. She sent her mother's address to my mother. My mother called me yesterday, all excited because not only had she written to Wendy's mom, she had received a thoughtful reply the following day.

But now Wendy and I are both dying of curiosity wondering what our mothers have shared with each other.

How about you other coupled folks out there? Do your parents know each other? Have they met? If not, would you want them to meet? Do they correspond? Do they get along? Do they talk about you behind your back?

What kind of spark has been ignited by this first seemingly innocent email exchange? Only the shadow knows.

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And Then There Were Three

It's a damned good thing I finally figured out how to gracefully adapt to change. At least it feels like I have.

Really though, the past two years have been a crash course. Just two short years ago, our home was so much fuller, our lives so very very different.

The Boy, of course, left for college.

James, another young man about whom I've never blogged but who lived with us during his senior year in high school, departed for the Air Force the same month The Boy left. He's a story unto himself, yet one I have not found the words to tell.

Of our furry friends, I've often blogged. First went Detail, then Figero, and now Cosine. The end of an era. Our black and white trio of pets is now a poignant memory, a once in a lifetime alignment of the stars. It was a good run, a good run indeed.

We've been pet sitting Bonnie, the dog who lives behind us, since Friday evening. I think it has provided a nice transition for Dudley. It's been good to see healthy dogs play together and race around the yard chasing squirrels. They make a good surveillance team, sitting with us on the porch in full alert, ensuring nothing dangerous like a moth or an axe murderer has a chance to sneak up on us. We'll see how Dudley does when Bonnie goes home tomorrow evening.

Oddly enough, I feel pretty damed good. Maybe The Boy is not the only one who has grown over the past two years.

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Saturday Morning in the Suburbs

We had two cords of firewood delivered yesterday morning. I've got to say, dealing with men who sell firewood is always an interesting experience.

The process of finding someone to purchase logs from was not easy this year. I left messages in five places before I got a response. This particular woodman, the one who actually deigned to return my call, seemed typical of the breed: a slow talker and a bit of a hick. I inquired about price, he quoted me one a bit higher than I expected. I asked if the price included stacking and he said, "Aw, I'm 75 years old. My knees just don't work the way they used to! I'd like to stack it for you, but I'm just not up to it anymore, sir."

That's right. He called me sir. Now I'm not unused to being mistaken for a man on the telephone. Yet I had clearly identified myself as Suzanne both in the message and when I answered his return call.

Anyway. Wendy and I can handle stacking. So we agreed on price and set up delivery. Saturday morning, crack of dawn. Well, not exactly dawn. But "sometime before 8:00." Same diff in our world. I rolled myself out of bed and threw on some clothes when Dudley bayed loudly announcing the man's arrival.

Woodmen can be chatty. I learned quite a bit about this man and his wife, specifically their health issues, in the ten or so minutes he was at the house. I listened politely and nodded in sympathy. He asked me what I do to stay in shape. "I stack wood," I said, chuckling. He looked at me funny. His large truck dumped a humongous pile of logs in our driveway, I paid him and we said our goodbyes.

As he climbed into his truck he said, "Tell your husband I really appreciate his business."

Now there are so many ways I could have responded to that statement. I could have jumped up and down and shouted, "Hey dude, my husband is my wife!" or said, "Yo, mister! Whose name is on that check in your pocket?" or "Jane, you ignorant slut...." Wait. While a fun flashback, that one doesn't apply to the clueless woodman driving down our driveway.

Instead, I just smiled and waved.
Some battles just aren't worth fighting.

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Bubble Tea Has Bubbles, But They Don't Float

That bubble sure did its job. With all that selfish petty whining cleared out of my mind, I think I am looking at things more objectively.

That's what it's all about, isn't it? Objectivity? Cold rational thought devoid of emotion.

Yeah. Right. I'm actually looking at things with emotion wrapped in objectivity. Resolve? No. Resignation? Yes. The end of the line, but not because I'm emotionally ready but rather because objectively, it is the right thing to do. For her.

Bah.
I don't like myself very much right now.

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Alert: Selfish Petty Whining Ahead

I've avoided writing about Cosine recently. She seems to be in some sort of holding pattern, making it easier not to do any "hard" thinking about her. No, instead of thinking about her, I'm thinking about me. Hence the whine alert.

Her life has been reduced to sleeping, eating, peeing and shitting. Oh. And circling. She doesn't wag her tail anymore, but she does eagerly snap up treats when they are waved under her nose. She doesn't enjoy spending time outside yet she loves her chow. Her response to affection includes low groans as she tries to push her head into my leg. Or side. Or arm. It depends on where we are in relation to each other. I often wonder if her head hurts her.

Now to give you a glimpse of how ugly I really am: I'm starting to feel worn down by the level of care she requires and the impact it has on our lives.

First selfish petty whine: she sleeps in the middle of our king-sized bed. If she sleeps at the foot, where she has slept most of her life, she falls out of bed during the night. It is impossible to snuggle my girlfriend when there is a dog between us. Sleeping without snuggling sucks monkey butt (whatever that means).

The second selfish petty whine ties in with the first: she wakes up during the night and teeter-totters around on the bed, waking one or both of us up to steady her and ensure she doesn't fall. Then she wakes up at o'dark-thirty and gets restless, which means we get up early with her. I intensely dislike being rushed out of bed. Intensely.

Why don't we just let her sleep on the floor? Well. She's dangerous. We've old-stumbling-blind-dog-proofed the house as much as possible. Sometimes she gets stuck in corners and under things. It makes her unhappy. She lets us know. More importantly, she's always slept in the bed with us. It's familiar.

Yet another selfish petty whine: We make sure she has plenty of outside time to do her business. I come home at lunchtime if she didn't have a "productive" trip out in the morning. But here's the rub: that doesn't always ensure she is accident-free. While infrequent, they do happen.

Oh and when those accidents happen, they really happen. She circles. She steps in the mess and tracks it around in her circular pattern. Just imagine dog poop squished into all four furry feet and spread around the entire room in a disgustingly odiferous way. Yeah. Nothing like coming home to that, let me tell you. Figero's brand of accident is preferable. Really.

The last time I bathed her, I thought I'd killed her. Before I was done, she laid down in the shower and refused to stand up. I wrapped her in towels and settled her on her bed where she stayed, unmoving, for several hours. That's not a whine. That's a fact. It scared me.

Now that I've laid my selfish petty whines out in pretty words in pretty lines on the computer, I can put them in a big fat bubble and let them float off into the nether. I can remind myself of the joy she has brought, brings, our lives and focus on making her as comfortable as we can.

It's the least I can do.
Don't you agree?

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Never Hurts To Try

Okay, so it's no secret I'm a middle-aged suburban white woman. Not a physical wreck, but my body has experienced better days. Days of having more stamina, being more flexible, stronger, firmer, fleeter, fitter. Still, does that stop me from thinking I can do anything if I but try? Of course not. I'm possessed by Rosie the Riveter: We can do it!

Yeah. That's the attitude that found me outside this afternoon, work gloves on, sledge hammer in hand, striding authoritatively toward the large pile of logs left over from when we had that cherry tree taken down.

That's right! The lethargy has vanished as quickly as it appeared! The day was bright and warm, a good day for an outdoor activity.

I sang "I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay!"
Well okay. I really didn't sing that. But I thought it.

I selected a large round of the cherry tree and set it on end. Positioning a wedge in a tiny crack, I whacked it firmly several times to set it with my little mini-sledge. I love that mini-sledge. What a useful tool when you need to whack something really hard yet maintain a bit of control.

Standing, I hoisted the papa-sledge and tried to find my rhythm. Last year, I pulled a muscle in my forearm splitting wood. I need to avoid that this year. My left hand gripped the bottom of the handle while my right hand slid down as I whipped that hammer over my shoulder and made contact with the wedge. Lather, rinse, repeat. Sweat buckets. Repeat again.

I learned to split wood watching The Boy's father. Back then, I would just perch nearby on a log and let the guys do all the work. I sorta wanted to try it but was not really inclined. Now, though, I relish the challenge. It is a task which gives immediate gratification: the satisfying thonk as the head of the sledge hits the wedge and drives it deep into the crevice, the cracks widening with creaks and groans as the log splits in several directions.

Only three. Only three of those large rounds did I manage to split today before I called it quits, dripping sweat from every pore. Such a lovely image that conjures, yes? Our pile of firewood will continue to grow until every last one of those rounds is split.

Today was all about reminding myself that yes, I can do it. Except by the time I'm done I'm afraid I'll have forearms rivaling Popeye's.

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Suburban Slug

I can't be the only woman who goes through this. This particular component, or perhaps side effect, of the whole phase of the moon experience, the cyclical joyousness that those of the fairer sex suffer endure embrace tolerate every 28 days or so.

I'm talking about one specific element of what PMS means to me: a complete and total inability to motivate my sorry ass to do anything remotely resembling a productive task. Some months it is more subtle than others. This month, subtlety would be welcome. This month, a harsh taskmaster with a large whip lashing me unmercifully about the head and shoulders while issuing commandments in a loud harsh tone couldn't motivate me to even do the simplest of tasks.

That's one thing about having children in the house. When children are counting on you, there is no option to completely flake out and be a slug. At times like this, I really miss that structure, that neverending demand. Motivate? Why bother? Where's the fire? What's the rush? It'll wait until tomorrow. Or the next day.

I need something to snap me out of the lethargy and back into my usual productive, detail-oriented, Tee crossing and Eye dotting, getting-the-job-done self. Can someone loan me a toddler for a few days?

On second thought, perhaps I should just relax and go with the flow. Perhaps I should embrace my hormonal limitations and revel in the sheer pleasure that is suburban slugdom at its finest. I'm really quite good at it, after all.

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Maybe You Live in a Vacuum...

... and haven't realized that football season is upon us.
Or maybe you ... gasp ... don't care about sports.

Oh September!
Oh October!

The happiest months of the year for fans like us! Baseball goes into playoffs as a new football season begins.

Tina asked me what we were doing on Sunday. I said we were hanging out with our fantasy friends to watch football. She looked at me funny.

"Your fantasy friends?" she chuckled.

Today was all about football. Football and fantasy friends and jello shooters. I wonder how old one has to be to no longer appreciate a good jello shooter. Evidently I'm not that old yet.

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Satin Feet Saturday

Wendy has her own Mary Kay lady. One she has never seen or even talked to. The best of all worlds, she places her order via the internet, pays with a credit card, and voila! A few days later her goods are dangling from the knob of the screened door in the carport. No personal interaction necessary.

I don't know about other people's experience, but the Mary Kay ladies I've come in contact with are kinda scary. Maybe it's just salespeople in general that make me feel oogie. They are always trying to sell something. Doh. And while I usually like perky people, Mary Kay ladies seem to have more of a disturbingly crazy perky air rather than a regular perky air.

(I suddenly wonder if any Mary Kay ladies read my blog. If so, no offense intended. We need people like you. I just prefer you at a distance. As I'm sure you would me.)

They sell a product called Satin Hands Pampering Set. We're all about the pampering, dontcha know. The stuff is great for hands, but it also is heavenly for feet.

It's a four product process. First a thick oily substance reminiscent of heavy pink vasoline is smeared on, followed by a scrubbing with thick gritty cream. Before rinsing, a cleansing gel is applied. After rinsing with warm water and drying with a fluffy soft towel, moisturizing cream from the fourth tube is massaged in.

This process leaves feet and hands as soft and smooth as a baby's bottom. I've never met a woman whose feet didn't deserve such pleasure.

Don't yours?

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Arms

Last night I had one of those irresistable itches smack dab in the middle of my shoulder blades. Actually just a tad lower, just a tad lower than exactly between my shoulder blades. You know the kind of itch I mean. The kind that just will not tolerate being ignored and demands immediate undivided attention.

Not everyone has arms long enough to reach the middle of their back. I feel bad for them. Fortunately mine are long enough, with enough flexibility to scratch any spot on my back, including where that itch was itching.

Is there any sweeter relief than scratching an itch?

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Read, Forrest, Read!

I caught pieces of Forrest Gump three nights in a row as I channel surfed (my life is soooooo full of thrills!). Last night I watched the scene where Forrest is talking to Jenny's grave. He places a note from their son on her grave telling her he hasn't read it because he isn't supposed to.

Man, I'm telling you. That scene is sappy sweet, Forrest so innocent, Jenny's grave so lovingly tended. But the whole not reading the note thing? Well screw that! Had that been me, I'd have not only read my son's note, I may have kept a copy.

I have a stash of notes The Boy has written me over the years. He's like me in that he seems to like expressing his emotions in writing at times rather than verbally. I try to remember to write the date on the corner of each note, so I can more clearly remember the whens of them. Those things I cherish. Those notes. I always will.

There used to be a pile of notes on the shelf in our laundry room from his high school years. Wendy would find them in his pockets while doing his laundry. They painted a fascinating snapshot of his high school life. Girls wrote the most interesting and revealing things! For the record, teenage girls are scary. S-C-A-R-Y!

Was it eavesdropping to read them? I don't think so. In my opinion, laundry notes were fair game. As were others he'd leave on his desktop or on the floor or in the bathroom. Eminent domain or something like that. It was a viable means of keeping track of things.

When Wendy and were moving his stuff last month, we came across a neatly organized stack messy bag filled with paperwork from the previous year. I could see personal notes interspersed with the musical scores, assignments, books and other detritus. With real evidence of maturity and parental "letting go," I did not reach into the bag and pull out those personal notes. I just put the bag in the closet.

Reading his notes now would be wrong, but back then I called it responsible parenting. Not to mention fun.

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Checklist

House picked up? Check.
Clean linens on the bed? Check.
Dogs freshly bathed and sweet smelling? Check.
Dinner planned? Check.
Bathroom clean? Check.
Plenty of cheap cold beer in the fridge? Check.
Fudgesicles? Check.
Legs shaved? Check.
House swept? Check sorta check.
Cut flowers by her side of the bed? Check.
Flight on time? Check.

My girl is coming home tonight!
♥ Be still my beating heart. ♥

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"Are There Books, Are There Novels By Her Bed?"

The title of this post is a line from a Natalie Merchant song entitled Jealousy: "Is she bright, so well read? Are there books, are there novels by her bed?"

We have a stack of books on both sides of our bed as well as on many other surfaces scattered throughout our home. I'm not claiming to be bright or well read, but that line always makes me think of me and my girl.

While we were on vacation I finished the second book in a series I've been reading, Tales of the Otori. Not an absorbing read, but entertaining nonetheless. It is written in a rather sparse style with unique characters. Book II ends with all the signs pointing toward war. I needed to know the outcome!

When we got home, I looked for where I had put the third in the series. I even looked carefully, which is, I must admit, not my typical approach when looking for something.

Usually I begin by saying, "Hey Wen, have you seen such-and-such anywhere?"

She'll reply by saying, "Have you looked for it yet?"

Yeah, she has my number.

This time, however, I looked all on my own. I thoroughly scanned all bookshelves, I looked through the stack by the side of my bed, I checked the piles of "things" in our office. I even looked where I knew it wasn't, just in case. No Book III. Damn. Where did I put it? I picked up another book to read instead but kept a sharp eye open for the other. It had to turn up somewhere.

In my clumsiness last night, I knocked over the stack of books on my nightstand. The books slithered and slid, some crashing to the floor, others caught by my outstretched hands. And voila! The top book left on my nightstand stack was the one I'd been looking for! I could have sworn I looked carefully there before. Perhaps I should examine my definition of "careful."

Anyone else have stacks of books by their bed?
What's the last book you finished and was it worth reading?

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My Dearest Wendy,

We just hung up from our evening good night. It helps me feel closer to you to hear about the day's events, down to the minutia I crave. I wish I was there to share my shoulder as well as my feelings about your uncle, who, while having met him but once, I know much about from the stories you have shared. I'd like to hear more of such stories, from those who knew and loved him as you did. I'd like to be there to bid him farewell.

I'd also like to be there in person to commiserate as you vent your frustration with small town Texas politics. Patience, my love. Soon, you'll be back here in Virginia where politics are just as frustrating, but we are at least moderately free to be you and me.

Sleep well, my dear.
Dudley sends puppy kisses.

I love you.




PS: I did buy something while shopping with Lisa today. But it's a surprise. Don't worry, you're gonna love it!

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Roads Not Taken

It is amazing to me how warm and cozy a king-sized bed can feel sometimes while at other times it can be a large expanse of solitude. This morning was a large bed feeling. Before I was really awake, I stretched my legs seeking a little toe snuggle but ended up with my lonely left foot snuggling my lonely right foot. Not exactly what I had in mind.

I did some blog surfing this morning. It's all Katrina, no real surprise. There seem to be three distinct tones: those who share where and how to help, those who intensely criticize the lack of response by our federal government, and those who defend the government vehemently. One unifying thread that runs among them all is anger, just the target of the anger varies.

Fingers can be pointed in so many directions, but to what end? Part of me thinks, "STFU and let's work together to help these people! This should not about politics!"

But unfortunately it is about politics and will go down in history as such.

Government of the people, for the people, by the people---my ass!
Our country is horribly off track.

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Home Alone

What does one do when one finds oneself suddenly home alone for Labor Day weekend?

Wendy left for small town Texas today to visit her ailing dying uncle. While a trip was planned later in the month for just that purpose, circumstances dictated her immediate departure. A bummer on many levels, the least of which is that I am home alone.

Why didn't I go with her? The reasons are practical and numerous. We just got back from a vacation and my leave time is non-existent. It is also the first of the month, the busy time for my bookkeeping jobs. Cosine is failing and I am loathe to leave her. I'll not even touch on budgetary constraints.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about our parents and acceptance. Part of me feels it will be easier for Wendy's mom if I am not there. Don't get me wrong, I know her parents like me. Love me even. But her mother is very conscious of social propriety. Small town Texas is not accepting of homosexuality. She's got enough on her plate with her brother's illness without family friends and neighbors gossiping about her daughter. Does that make sense? Maybe I'm just overly sensitive, but my sensitivity is rooted in past experience.

Meanwhile our country is reeling from Katrina, the people of the Gulf Coast suffering unimaginable horrors, which piles on to the distress of what Wendy's family, my family, is enduring right now. If you've got kind thoughts and yes, even prayers, to spare, send them on down to small town Texas. They'll find the target.

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