A Hypothetical Question

Let's say you have a child.

Let's say said child is all grown up.

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

Do you:

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

Thank you for your time and have a nice day.

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Something About Turtles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can hardly wait.








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

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Stealing Hearts

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

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

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Our Yard, It's Calling for One

I've been plotting where to put it.

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

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

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

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

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

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Channeling SK

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

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

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

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

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

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"Makes Me Wanna See The Exorcist"

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

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

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

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

Wendy's comment became the title of this post.

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

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