Fire & Rain

It's been raining something fierce here on the East Coast. The River Inez (rhymes with Your Highness) flows freely in our backyard. Many a basement has succumbed to the deluge. Having experienced that unwelcome intrusion, I feel fortunate ours has stayed dry ever since our drain problem was solved (knock on wood). A few area homes have actually been condemned due to the damage caused by high water. I won't even get started on the havoc flooded and damaged roads have caused with our traffic, insane even when the weather is dry.

My sister lives in Sedona, Arizona. From her apartment window, she reports a view of flames on the nearby mountain ridge. The smoke from those intense fires fills the air everywhere, irritating her eyes and causing a raspy cough as the conflagration destroys all it encounters.

These conditions amplify to me just how far apart we are, in a physical sense. I wish I could send even a fraction of the foot of rain our area has received out her way. Something tells me they'd appreciate it more.

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Abracadabra! Open Sesame!

I recently visited Trader Joe's for humanitarian reasons. I was on a mission of mercy. Or something like that.

The Boy likes Clif Bars. Since we were going for a visit, I thought I'd bring him some. (Will I ever tire of feeding The Boy? I think not.) The cheapest place I know to procure them is Trader Joe's where they sell for 99¢ apiece. Of course while I was there, I took time to wander the aisles.

Remember this snack binge? I know I do. Ever so fondly. But I had moved past those particular delights eons ago. My binges change target. There are long periods of time, days months years, when I don't snack-obsess. But I've felt it for weeks now. The time was nigh. The need for a new snack discovery worthy of obsession has been burning hot in my blood.

Sometimes the packaging describes the food product within by pumping it up with all sorts of colorful tasty adjectives, making such sincere claims about how delicious the contents are that there is no way in hell to resist purchasing it. At least a minor affinity for one or more ingredients has already primed the pump, so to speak. Otherwise why would one even bother reading the package? I can't be the only one susceptible. Aren't you?

No? Well okay. It wasn't the package that caught my eye this time anyway. It was the seeds.

All hail the Sesame Seed, tasty little morsels of crunchy goodness! And the best part? The seeds are adhered to cashew nuts by a delicate honey glaze.

The first nibble sealed the deal. And so a binge is born. Yet it's controlled bingeing with nary a purge in sight. Behold. Heaven in a bowl, a reasonable portion doled out, each bite savored as no refills are allowed. Not until the next day. And only then if I'm good. Whatever that means.

They're even better with beer.
Try it. You can thank me later.

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NIMBY

I am much more inclined to give a beggar a handout when I'm in the city rather than in my own area. I almost typed "neighborhood" instead of area. But I don't run into beggars in my own neighborhood per se, but rather at places near my home. Does that qualify as my own neighborhood? I'd rather it not.

I've been seeing more homeless people close to our home of late. Well. I don't know for sure they are homeless. Perhaps I should say "people down on their luck." Hell, I'm not even sure they are down on their luck. But their actions and circumstance indicate something along those lines.

There was a man sleeping on the sidewalk of a strip mall, the same strip mall that houses one of my usual grocery stores and also my preferred CVS. I'm not altogether sure he was sleeping either. He may have been passed out. There was a bottle by his side. And me in my suburban state of mind? I wondered where the cops were and why they hadn't rousted him.

Another was a white woman outside a 7-11. Short, round, wearing a dirty t-shirt and no shoes. Her long blonde hair was unkempt. She was not young. She stepped in front of me and asked if I had any extra money. I brushed right by saying, "Not today." Such compassion will surely earn me a place in heaven.

Saturday we were at a different 7-11. The place was hopping. I was waiting in the car for Wendy to make her purchase, car running, windows up with the air conditioning on full blast. An hispanic man with a mustache in a red t-shirt and blue jeans exited the store. He was carrying a small paper cup in his right hand. He stood in front of my car looking around. Then he wandered over to my driver's side window. I glanced up. He was talking then made a motion like he expected me to roll down my window. I looked at him, raised one eyebrow, shrugged my shoulders and mouthed, "No." He kept talking and gesturing. I put my hands over my ears, shook my head and mouthed, "I don't want to talk to you." He threw up his hands in apparent disgust and walked away. But not before he banged the trunk of my car lightly with his fist.

Lest I forget, there is also the McDonald's Man. We have dubbed him that because he can often be found seated on the curb by our local McDonald's. His clothing is filthy, he carries a large bulging satchel and has a beard like Santa Claus. Except I always imagine Santa to be well-groomed. McDonald's Man is anything but well-groomed.

The truth about why I don't give handouts close to home shames me: I don't want to encourage them to hang around. The guy panhandling downtown at the Metro station? Sure, I have and may again give him a buck or two. But put the same guy at my suburban Metro station? I'll walk right by without a second look.

I don't much like that side of me.
But evidently I don't not like it enough to change.

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Rainy Daze

It's been raining for days. Off and on. Between storms, the sun may shine. The air is thick and heavy, humid and sticky. Air conditioning is our friend.

We've had tremendous daily thunderstorms featuring all the elements that makes thunderstorms glorious: torrential downpours, strong winds, roiling clouds, lightning, thunder, power outages. Much more rain is forecast for the upcoming week. Our lawn grass weeds are growing wild.

Thursday night the storms started after we were in bed. I lay there listening to the rain thrash the windows as thunder boomed in the distance then got out of bed to stand on the landing. From there, I can see outside in three directions. With each crack of lightning, every window flashed simultaneously with identical thick muted pulses of light. Fabulous.

We took the dogs for a quick walk Saturday morning between showers. Approaching home, we got a glimpse of our house from an angle we don't normally see. We noticed a huge branch from a pine tree in our side yard has relocated from its home high, high up in the tree to a recumbent position atop our roof. No damage was apparent from where we stood on the ground. We left it there for now. Roof climbing on a slick high wet roof is something we deem Unwise. Since we are Wise, we don't do Unwise things. Nice how that works.

The storms were not exclusive to Northern Virginia: it stormed all over the Commonwealth this weekend. Perfect for a roadtrip through the countryside, yes? Well no. But it was time to trek to Charlottesville to see The Boy perform, so off we went.

We spent the afternoon with The Boy (excellent), saw the show (fine), then drove two and a half hours home through intermittent rain (exhausting). We were nestled snuggly in our bed by 2 am. Yes, late night. The show ran long, but not longer than intended. (Note to theatre directors everywhere: one hour and forty-five minutes is too long for the first act of any show. If I know it, you should know it too. Please.)

It's storming again right now.
I sleep well when it's raining.
Do you?

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Thwarted

A fresh bagel purchased just a few days ago should not grow mold before I get the chance to eat it. Finding mold is especially heinous when it's on a big, fat, picture-perfect bagel covered with a generous layer of delicious sesame seeds that I started thinking about feasting on the moment I awoke. In fact, that bagel is one of the only reasons I bothered getting out of bed. I was gonna slice it, toast it, and slather it liberally with soft cream cheese. Oh for the love of all that is tasty in this world, that bagel was gonna rock!

Mold.
It's what's not for breakfast.

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Wiggle When You Walk?

My sister and my mother both have wandering backs. And by wandering I mean periodically their back will go out and they must spend days in bed until their back returns from wherever it went when it wandered off.

My mother had an operation many years ago to fix whatever deficit was causing her issues. My sister hasn't yet reached that point. Recently, however, her back took another vacation causing her life to be put on hold until she recovered.

Bedbound in agony she moaned to me, "I don't want to lose my strut!"

Her strut. Incapable of standing or bending or lifting or moving, looking good while she walked was forefront in her mind. But I understand where she was coming from. My sister is six feet tall, lithe and moves with what I'd call a glide rather than a strut. Whatever you call it, she's quite graceful and statuesque. I'd not want to lose that either if I had it.

It got me thinking about how I walk. I may have described my usual walk as a plod until I recently observed a woman who really did plod. She wasn't a large woman, but I swear I could feel the earth move every time she took a step. No, evidently I don't plod.

But do I glide? Am I graceful? Do I hold my head up, my shoulders back, stepping lightly but confidently as I move? Do I appear poised and competent, feminine yet strong?

That's what runs through my head these days as I walk.
Because I'd like to do all those things.
It's easier in some shoes than others.
But I rarely strut.

I leave that to my sister.

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My Stepsisters and Their Children

I have two stepsisters. They have both adopted babies from foreign countries.

They were both single when they adopted. The eldest, Joan, is 45 and had been married twice: once to a woman and once to a man. The other, Cathy, is 43 and has never been married.

(Why is their marital status or history relevant? Well it's not. To me. Nor to the governments of the countries where they adopted. I mention it here because, as I understand the rules, if I or any other lesbian were to attempt such a thing, we would be turned down. Just chew on that a bit: who I currently sleep with determines how qualified I am to be a parent. Over here. Over there. And it's obviously not about the whole "children must be raised by a father and a mother" rhetoric. How does it make sense?)

Joan, the sister from my mother's remarriage, adopted a baby girl from Guatemala. She's being raised at the Jersey shore. Cathy, the sister from my father's remarriage, chose to adopt from Vietnam. They make their home on the gulf coast of Florida.

Maia is around seven years old. Cathy has been waiting several years for political "issues" to be resolved between Vietnam and America to adopt a sister for Maia. She and her mother and her mother's mother departed for Vietnam last week to pick up our newest family member, Kiana. Cathy is blogging the experience over at Fly Us to the Moon. It's an interesting read, yet I can't help but think how completely American she sounds. Not that that is a bad thing. It just struck me.

Her heart is in the right place.
She is a good mom.
I'm looking forward to meeting my newest niece.

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It Happened on a Monday

I accidently ate a lima bean today.

Yes, yes. It was a horrific experience, as awful as you may imagine. I'm happy to report I have fully recovered and no long lasting detrimental effects are anticipated.

My friend Lisa and I were lunching at Los Tios. I ordered the chicken enchiladas, which are served, typical of many restaurants of Mexican ilk, with sides of refried beans and rice. I said "No beans, please!" because I don't like refried beans. I don't like them here, I don't like them there, I don't like them anywhere. It's a texture thing.

The rice at Los Tios is dotted liberally with vegetables: little chunks of carrots, bright green peas, pieces of green beans, and, I quickly noted, a smattering of lima beans. Lima beans fall into the same category as refried beans in my world. Yet despite my lack of appreciation for such things, the existence of those lima beans on my plate was not a cause for consternation as they are easily pushed aside.

Except for that one rogue lima bean, the insidious little bastard who hid beneath the cheese and salsa verde liberally smothering my enchiladas. There it lay, snickering quietly, awaiting the perfect moment to slip unnoticed onto my fork and from there into my unsuspecting mouth.

I cringed as I bit into it, immediately aware of my mistake; the soft smooshy texture did not blend well with the other more pleasing soft smooshy textures mingling in my mouth. My mind raced frantically, considering the options available to rectify the situation.

In the end, I, being the mature adult that I am, did the only thing a mature adult could do. I chewed it thoroughly and calmly, albeit quickly, then washed it down with a large gulp of ice water, making no mention of it to my luncheon companion.

My mother would be so proud.

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Doggie Treat Distribution

I'm here to inform the unknowing masses: Wendy and I spoil our dogs. Relentlessly. What's the point in having critters around the house if you're not going to spoil them?

Wait. Let me qualify that. Invited critters get spoiled. Uninvited critters are unceremoniously shown the door, usually by Wendy as I whine and do my helpless female act, hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean or standing on a chair shrieking urgent instruction. But really. I am capable of removing that humongous hairy spider from the office, but I surely do prefer someone else do it.

It all balances out though. I'm better with mice. It's completely irrelevant that mice don't frequent our abode. If they did, I'd willingly escort them out and give them a gentle farewell pat on the head. Of course I would, without doubt.

Meanwhile, our dogs get the royal treatment. To wit, the doggie treat jar. We keep it filled with a wide assortment of tasty nibbles for our canine brethren. The jar occupies a position of honor on a shelf adjacent the back door. Each time our sweet pups come in from a jaunt outside, they expectantly assume alert positions and await a distribution from the jar. Pavlov's subjects had nothing on our dogs.

Dog treats come in many different sizes, shapes and textures. We take great pleasure choosing a worthy assortment at the pet store. Oh yes. Dog treat shopping is serious business.

I'm always quite careful to present the same type treat to each dog. I'll alternate crunchy or chewy, small or large, but both dogs get the same type. I try not to give them the same treat two times in a row. Sometimes I have to forage around in the container to come up with two that match, but I never fail to do so. It only seems fair. The guilt would wrack me unmercifully if I were to, say, give Pixie a small treat and Dudley a large, or vice verse.

(Imagine my shock and dismay upon discovering my dear girlfriend does not follow the same stringent code of treat distribution. Evidently she just reaches into the jar and grabs whatever comes to hand and dispenses them without thought to equality. How does she sleep at night!?)

Now, this part could be my imagination. Yet when smallish treats are presented, I find it impossible to interpret the resultant doggie glances as anything but reproving. Especially from Dudley, our basset hound. There is just no mistaking reproach on the face of a basset!

Bigger evidently is better.
Oh the things we learn from our dogs.

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Magic Eight Ball, Anyone?

Long ago and far away, four suburban women gathered weekly to imbibe beverages, nibble nosh and shoot the shit. BYOB it was, the "B" encompassing beverage to bullshit to banality to bitch. Candles burned, gossip flew, estrogen flowed. The brainchild of one woman, the rest tagged along because they could. Thursday night in the 'burbs.

It was a motley crew, this group of four. One a married mother of one, another a married mother of four, and two partnered lesbians raising a boy. Guess which one was me. Now guess which one was Wendy. Toss my friend Tina in the mix and there is but one I've never mentioned here.

We attended the college graduation party for Tina's eldest daughter recently. (There's more than one good story in that event, but for now it's just glossed over as part of the setup for the story I'm really telling here. But allow me to toss in kudos for the Graduate and the rest of her gal pals from RMWC. Job well done, ladies! Now welcome to the Real World! You're gonna love it!)

Anyway, at that party we ran into Jill, the fourth previously unblogged-about member of the Thursday group. Which led to a recent gathering on our porch. Jill brought over her cairn terrier, Boo, and her traditional bottle of wine. She does love her wine, that woman. We sat, we drank and chatted, we watched the dogs play until it got too dark to see them.

Tina was late. She missed the tale of Jill and her psychic adventures.

Psychic adventures? Oh yes! She shared her recent trip to have a psychic reading. Apparently she had not been a psychic virgin either.

Personally, I don't have much use for psychics. I figure the future will get here when it gets here and the adventure is in the surprise. (I feel the same way about babies. Where's the fun in knowing the sex before the little monster pops out?) But our friend seemed quite pleased with the reading she had received. More power to her.

I'm just not ready to trust there is another layer of ethereal awareness tapped into only by select persons hardwired to view what's coming down the pike (similar mistrust contributes to my skepticism toward religion). However I harbor no illusion my actions completely control my future. There are just too many variables. How can a stranger possibly predict it?

The human mind is so easily suggestible. Sure, it may be nice to say, "Oh wowser! My psychic predicted _____ would ______! That's why the _____ has _____! It had nothing to do with the way I _______ the _______ !"

I guess I'd just rather maintain at least the illusion of personal responsibility for my unknown future as it hurdles toward my present. I'm comforted assuming whatever happens is because I _____ instead of _____. There's plenty of room, however, for giving credit when credit is due to dumb blind luck or misfortune.

Whatever. I'll just take it as it comes.
How about you?

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Git Yer Own Sorry Ass Up!

On the Metro, I listened to two women converse.

What's that? You think it was more like eavesdropping? Well. You're right. It's a favorite pastime of mine. But in my defense, they were talking pretty loudly.

One of them said, "I's got to fight him every morning for an hour! I's got to fight him for an hour! Every damned morning! He say, 'Git me up at 6:30' so I wakes him up at 6:30 and den we fight for an hour until he finally gits his sorry ass outta bed at 7:30."

The other woman pursed her lips and tsked-tsked as she shook her head in commiseration.

I thought, "WTF? That's a horrible way to start the day! He oughts to git his own self up!"

When The Boy lived at home, he would never expect anyone to get him up in the morning, oh hell no. He learned at an early age to get himself up and ready for whatever the day may hold.

If he had waited for me to wake him, he might still be asleep.
It were enough trouble gitting my own sorry ass outta bed!

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Take a Walk on My Dark Side

Many moons ago, I posted my Johari Window and asked y'all to participate.

Evidently I'm very transparent. I have no façade! This pleases me not, as I have always considered myself a secretive individual. In fact I know I am. Obviously I've got you all faked out. Or maybe I've faked myself out.

Whatever. I'm in an odd mood this week, a Nohari Window kinda mood. For this exercise, I selected words I feel represent my negative personal qualities. I must say, I had difficulty narrowing down the choices to five or six.

So tell me. What do you think?
Play along here: Suburban Lesbian's Nohari Window.

Go on.
You know you want to.

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Out & About

Wendy and I trekked downtown Sunday for the annual DC Gay Pride festival. I do so adore walking the streets holding my girlfriend's hand knowing no one will look twice. It is always such a rush to be surrounded by a horde of other gay and lesbian people celebrating nothing but the beautiful day and the freedom to be ourselves. (You heteros have it good. I hope you appreciate that aspect of your existence. Now share the wealth already. Sheesh.)

The people-watching was primo, as usual. If there is one thing to be said about a gathering of gays and lesbians: we are colorful! And diverse. From the old man in the pink shorts so small his cheeks hung out to the baby dyke with rainbows painted on her face to the big shaggy bear with no shirt and leather shorts to the drag queen in full regalia to the everyday queerfolk like Wendy and me and all shades of gray in between.

Favorite item of clothing I'd never seen before: Utilikilts, cargo kilts for men! Have you seen those things? Practical and fashionable at the same time. Especially when worn by enormous manly-men with hairy legs and army boots.

Favorite purchase of the day: the necklace pictured above. It's all rainbowy and dainty and smooth. Ooh la la.

Favorite sticker of the day: Mind your own marriage.

Favorite sentiment on a t-shirt (hat tip to Meg who handcrafted this gem expressing her take on our Virginia state slogan):

*
*some restrictions apply

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Things One Just Shouldn't Do

Dear Lady (and I use that term loosely) ,

While riding the subway, it is never socially acceptable to (a) squeeze and pick the pimples on your upper arms until they bleed and leave bright pink welts on your pale skin, or (b) repeatedly plunge your finger knuckle-deep into the depths of your nasal passages then closely scruntinize whatever it was you discovered therein.

It's especially bad form when sitting next to your boyfriend. Although he didn't seem to mind. Y'all were obviously meant for each other. But please, leave the rest of us out of it next time.

Signed,
Nauseated woman in the seat facing yours

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Shove Me In the Shallow Water

I've been having a recurring fantasy.
Oh it's a hot one, this fantasy of mine.
So hot it sizzles.

It's pretty simple in theory: tear up our roots, sell our house, quit our jobs, relocate to the quiet fantasy place I'm certain exists somewhere besides my daydreams.

Upon arrival at our mythical destination, we'll pay cash for a piece of real estate costing but a fraction of what houses go for in the suburban paradise we now inhabit. There will be no mortgage and therefore no pressure to earn the "big bucks" (har!) our current lifestyle requires. We'll have no-stress jobs we'll leave behind upon returning home. There will be no lengthy traffic-filled commutes and no hordes of humankind clogging places we want to go. There will be a vegetable garden, an office with a spectacular natural view, a huge woodpile, seasons with definition, and an outdoor cat to keep the shed free of mice. Our dogs will like it there, too.

None of our neighbors in this mythical place will care that we are two women who share a king-sized bed. The mythical government will welcome us with open arms.

Oh! There will be a hardware store in town, too. A real hardware store. One with a wide selection of all things which rightfully should be sold in a hardware store along with plenty of friendly staff willing to impart their practical techniques and wisdom to patrons. It won't be some lameass store like the one in the town where my mother lives that only sells 3/16 screws in lengths of 2" and 3" when we what we really need are 2-1/2" (yes I'm bitter!).

See what I mean?
It's irresistible.
This fantasy rocks.

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My Woman's Work

I've often considered writing about what Wendy does for a living, but the task was daunting. Now I don't have to because she did. Much better than I ever could have.

Go on. Read it.

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It's Ancient History, But History Nonetheless

That big lesbo eb recently posted pictures of her hetero-wedding. Before she posted them, I encouraged her (as if she needed it) by saying I'd show mine if she'd show hers.

Yes I, too, was once married and have hetero-wedding pictures of my own. Oh sure, it's ancient history. But it's my history, and an important chapter at that.

I can't tell you how many friends, upon meeting my ex-husband, have said, "What were you thinking!?" I mainly heard that during his mullet-and-pierced-ear phase which began well after we divorced and ended only recently. Despite that rather unfortunate era, he was, and still is, a good man.

The date was June 26, 1982. Our son is now older than we were when these photos were taken. The bride was nineteen, the groom twenty on the 'if I'd known then what I figured out later I'd have known better' occasion of our wedding. We were married for seven years and divorced because I am a lesbian. That poor man didn't know what hit him. Yes, the circumstantial guilt can be thick and gooey even after all these years. It would have been so much simpler had he been an asshole.

We got married in the Methodist church I attended while growing up, the same church where my mother had married my step-father some seven years prior. Neither of us was particularly spiritual, yet a church wedding seemed appropriate. As did a white dress. Sure. Perfectly appropriate.

Per tradition, my father gave me away at the altar. The 5'-6" groom looks rather munchkin-like standing there next to my 6'-5" father, doesn't he? I am eternally grateful our son inherited the height gene from my side of the family.

Our wedding party was small.

My maid of honor, Molly, was my best friend and confidant all through high school and for years beyond. We keep in touch now only sporadically. If I had a forehead as large as hers, I'd keep it covered with bangs. But that's just me.

The best man, Dean, had lived with the groom's family while growing up. I never really did get the story behind that. Last I heard he was living in Thailand. That was at least a decade ago.

My mother was quite relieved her parents could not attend the wedding. They lived in the Deep South and she knew her father would react badly to our best man being black. The photos shared with them were censored. I loved my grandfather dearly, yet it's a very good thing he died without knowing I am gay.

So that was then. My ex finally remarried about three years ago. We talk now primarily to coordinate financial issues surrounding our son. Once The Boy graduates college next spring, it's likely we'll talk even less. That chapter in my life will be wrapped up neatly and tied with a bow, the memories and photos of our youthful selves remaining to remind us of who we were then before we became who we are now.

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You Better You Better You Bet

There's not much sweeter than getting an email that reads simply

I adore you.
*smooch*

Ayup, it says just about everything worth saying.
Really perks up an afternoon.

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Undoing the Laces

Multi-tasking has been a part of my life for so long it is ingrained in the very fabric of my being. Parenthood will do that to you. Running a small business will do that to you. Combine the two and multi-tasking is no longer a matter of choice, rather it's about survival.

But times have changed. I'm no longer completely self-employed and The Boy is no longer particularly dependent. Of late, multi-tasking seems more a burden than a necessity. It's just not agreeing with me anymore, perhaps because the need is not as strong. Perhaps because I'm ready to slow down and approach life differently. My life is different than it was, after all.

But how to make such a change? I mean, egad, I'm still busy. I have plenty on my plate with plenty of responsibilities and tasks to juggle. How do I transition to taking smaller bites and chewing more leisurely? Can my life in its current form be adapted?

Maybe multi-tasking isn't the real issue. The real issue seems to be with my mind. How do I slow down my thought processes, retrain my mind to focus on one thing in one moment and really absorb the object of my focus? Can I shed the habits created by years of necessary multi-tasking?

I don't even know where to begin.
Maybe with a nap.
While napping I don't have to think.

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Articulate Passion

Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte
by Georges Seurat

"The lyrics are stupid," I said flippantly.

He pfff'd incredulously and turned away. But not before I got a glimpse of his expression. I had upset him. And being pfff'd upset me. It was so arrogant, that pfff. Had I come across as arrogant too?

The mood had shifted so quickly. Until that point we'd been having what I thought was casual conversation. We were at home in the office, sharing music and photos and gossip and such. Evidently I missed the turn, didn't see the sign, took the wrong fork. Or maybe it was a spoon. Whatever. I'd been hearing but not listening. Again.

The Boy had pfff'd me, but that wasn't the end of it. "You see, it's like this," he began patiently. Gesturing, his voice thick with controlled emotion, he explained the context of the song. The telling was punctuated with eloquent language and tears streaming unabashedly down his face. I observed and absorbed in awe, seeing him again for the first time. Where did this man come from?

He played the song for me again. With context, I got it. The emotion was clear.

How I envy his passion. How grateful I am for his willingness to share it with me.

Liz at I Speak of Dreams has an interesting post about parents and "trophy" children. I couldn't help but consider my own parenting style as I read it. After all, I am indisputably proud of The Boy and have often said he's the prize in my box of Cracker Jack. Does that make him my trophy child?

We worked (work) hard to give The Boy a "bountiful" life, encouraging him to achieve at high levels. We were (are) involved, helping him make decisions to build a fulfilling and healthy existence. But unlike the parents in the article, I found (find) joy simply in who he is, not in how his being may inflate my own sense of self-importance.

Still. In many ways, he is my trophy.
I hope he doesn't mind.

And that song I didn't get?
It centers around an item in the painting above.
Can anyone name it?

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