Happy Feet

It was a weeknight in October 1998. The evening was clear with a definite chill in the air. Weather perfection. I had a date, a cliched meeting for coffee. At Starbucks even. Decaf for me. I didn't know her well enough to know what choice she may make.

My hair was freshly coiffed and cooperating. I wasn't smoking at the time, so I smelled like a girl is supposed to smell. I chose seasonal clothes for versatile comfort: bluejeans and a black turtleneck topped with a black wool blazer. I wore at least two gold bangle bracelets on my left wrist, a watch on my right. No earrings. My shoes were boots, my black cowboy boots, with a fresh shine. Cash in pocket, $10.

I set forth that evening of my first date with Wendy unaware I was about to be handily conquered, smitten even, by a deer-in-the-headlights look and an eyebrow waggle. Had I even suspected, I may have stayed home. Wendy doesn't believe. She claims I made her work much, much harder and made her wait much, much longer. The truth is somewhere in between. Or perhaps it is as I say? (The best of times, my dear. From then til now and onward.)

But back to my boots. I adored those boots. The miles eventually wore them out beyond repair and I bid them farewell. Wendy enlightened me to the joys of being a shoe whore. (An afternoon spent together at DSW is a hot date. We need bigger closets.)

I ain't no cowboy, but I did miss them boots and kept a casual lookout for replacements. It took me a while to pull the trigger, but last year I acquired a new pair. Via the internetz. Point and shoot. From Made in Mexico to my feet in a mere two days. Free postage. Tony Lama's. Size 10. Just in time for autumn.

This fall is even better: them boots already be broken in.

I still get a thrill every time Wendy waggles her eyebrows in my direction. You should be so lucky.

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Remember These?

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

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The Postman Always Rings Twice

I subscribe to Sports Illustrated magazine.
I have for years.
I enjoy the magazine.
A lot.

I like sports.
Baseball and football primarily, but others too.
I like them a lot.
I like to watch them, read about them, discuss them.

Imagine my heart filling with joy.
That's how much I adore sports.

Recently I answered the phone. The caller ID screamed UNKNOWN but I picked it up it anyway, not my traditional modus operandi. I don't know what got into me.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hello, is Mr. or Mrs. my-butchered-last-name available?" asked a young man's polite voice.

"No." I said automatically and mechanically while regretting my uncharacteristic compulsion to answer a mystery call. Nothing good ever comes from such behavior. I considered just hanging up, but instead foolishly blurted "Who's calling please?" while wondering why I asked and why I was still on the phone.

"This is Robert from Sports Illustrated. Do you know when they will be available? I'd prefer to speak to the man of the house."

My jaw dropped.
I gaped.
Really.
I was speechless.
Momentarily.

"Man of the house? Are you serious? It's 2009 for Pete's sake, not 1954. Dude." This I said in the treacliest of voices, soft and kind, oozing patience.

There's a reason I don't answer UNKNOWN calls.
My impulse control needs work.

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30-20-10-0

Am I the only blogger with draft posts that never see the light of day? I was rummaging thru my 287 unposted drafts and came across this oldie written in October 2007. Was this a meme? I don't remember.

30: 1977

• I was 14.
• A freshman in high school, academic success easy.
• I lived with my mother, my step-father and my sister in the suburban house where I grew up, in Alexandria, Virginia.
• We had Mutt, the family dog, and two white cats, Angel (mine) and Mush (my sister's).
• My father and stepmother lived in southern California.
• I knew every inch of my neighborhood and beyond.
• I rode my bicycle everywhere.
• Except to school. There I walked, carrying my clarinet.
• I was in the symphonic and marching bands.
• I adored band.
• I had yet to become a rebellious teenager.

20: 1987

• I was 24.
• The Boy was two.
• I drove a cherry red 1983 Mustang GT.
• I had what could, still to this day, be called my favorite job as the office manager for a 32-person architectural firm.
• The Boy's father and I had been married for five years.
• We had a husky mix named Paisan.
• My sister lived nearby.
• My mother and stepfather lived in Norfolk, Virginia.
• My father and stepmother lived in Portland, Oregon.
• We purchased our first house in the suburbs.
• The shit, it hit the fan in 1987.

10: 1997

• I was 34.
• Divorced, out lesbian. Alrighty then.
  
• The Boy was 12, attending his eighth year of Montessori school.
• There were seven kids in his class. Ten years ago, it was all about those kids.
• We lived in Woodbridge, Virginia and commuted 12 miles north to his school in Mount Vernon.
• We had three pets: Cosine, Detail and Figero.
• I drove a 1992 Toyota Corolla wagon.
• My sister lived in Sedona, Arizona.
• My mother and stepfather lived just south in rural-ish Virginia.
• My father and stepmother lived in Portland, Oregon.
• I was self-employed as a bookkeeper.
• I had yet to meet Wendy, but I knew Tina.
• I was dating someone but in hindsight, seriously, wtf what I thinking?
  

0: 2007

• I am 44.
• The Boy, 21, is a working actor and college student.
  
• I live with Wendy, my partner of eight years, about five miles from where I grew up in Alexandria, Virginia and over a thousand from where she grew up in small town southeast Texas.
• We have two dogs, Dudley and Pixie.
• I drive a 1999 Toyota Camry.
• My sister lives in Sedona, Arizona.
• My mother, a widow, lives in semi-rural Virginia.
• My father and stepmother live in semi-rural Washington State.
• I appreciate my employer and strive to give my best.
• I am a peri-menopausal woman recovering from empty nest syndrome.
• Expect the unexpected. Life is gentler that way.

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Time. Marching On.

My first post in nine months will be about my hair, which seems appropriate after all the whining I've done here on the subject.

I had it all cut off a couple weeks ago. That's right, it's back to the same short style I've worn most of my life. Did you know me then? I feel free.

There is tree stump a few yards from our screened porch door. The tree that once grew there has been gone for years. A proud holly she was, quite beautiful, with the unfortunate habit of blanketing her surrounds with sharp prickly leaves. A minefield 10 yards in circumference brought woe to the careless person who dared draw near with bare feet. Even the squirrels kept their distance.

The stump doesn't drop prickly leaves. It's a low and flat, not too troublesome while mowing. What passes for grass snuggles up to the edge. We call it Hal's Stump. Felling that tree was the last home project he helped us with before he died. Just a month or so before, actually. I hate surprises.

I began growing my hair out after his death. In hindsight I believe it was part of my grieving process, something I could pretend to control during a time when so much was spinning beyond me. I will say the pony tail was kinda fun. But as I sat in the salon chair, my long-time stylist Katie snipping off my long crazy curly gray locks, an almost physical sensation of lightness washed over me.

Hal will always be in my heart, but the ache has finally dissipated. I am giddy.

I Broke a Tooth Today

That is never a good thing.

It began as a delightful outing with Lunch Friend Lisa on Thursday instead of our usual Monday. I chomped, in a most lady-like fashion, a moderate bite of a roast beef sandwich. The beef, ever so tender, was sliced paper thin on a soft onion roll, its flavor enhanced by a layer of red onion marmalade and almost-but-not-quite-enough horseradish mayo. Tasty.

The sandwich is not to blame. But it set off a miserable chain reaction of events. As the headline announces, a tooth broke. In my mouth.

When I break something, I don't do it halfway. Oh no. This is not a simple break. This break is complex. This break had the dentist saying, "Oh why did you have to do this on a Thursday?!"

Restoration of my tooth will require three separate phases, the first of which will begin tomorrow. My gum line will be reshaped. Doesn't that sound pleasant? This break is going to cost us a small fortune. Yes, this tooth is that important.

The incident inspired dialogue with friends about why dental work is so damned expensive. We debated. We did not resolve. We did, however, commiserate.

Before this broken tooth debacle a friend recently queried, "I love living in a modern world, don't you?" I agreed with her then and it applies here too. Imagine being a pioneer and breaking a tooth? Let's not even go there.

Oh yeah, I'm digging.
Digging deep to find the bright side for my current condition.
I think I'm doing a damned fine job.

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I'm Back and You Know What That Means

It means hair talk. See, I got a really bad haircut last week. I mean a Really Bad Haircut. This RBH ruined my luscious pony tail. I am bitter.

I bumped into my neighbor that afternoon. We pulled into our parallel driveways at the exact same time. She was backing in, her truck loaded with tree rounds scavenged from two streets over where a large oak had recently been felled. As I oogled her bounty and exclaimed over her good fortune, she glanced at me and did a double take.

I caught the question in her eyes, "What the hell did you do to your hair?!" Louder than words, I tell you, louder than words. She quickly looked away.

There is a two block walk between the parking lot and my office. A scruffy gaggle of Brothers frequently hangs out near an alleyway I pass on the way. Typically I'm greeted with a friendly "hey baaaaab-beee, looking good!" or some other such brotherly babble. I respond with a polite nod, a smile and/or a perky "good morning!"

The morning after my haircut? Yeah. I heard, "WHOA girl! What happened to your hair!?" Awkward.

Wendy insists I look fine. While I value her opinion, she's almost required to reassure me. It's a relationship law or something.

Meanwhile, I had lunch today with my Lunch Friend Lisa. LFL has gorgeous hair. She has, on occasion, offered a merciless opinion of my hairstyle, or lack thereof as the case may be. Friends are called on to play that role at times. At least with someone as hair insecure as yours truly they are. I was sure to get an honest assessment from her.

And what did she have to say? Nothing. Not one goddamned thing. The silence. Oh how it burns. I kept it to myself.

I've discovered a Trader Joe's bag fits me quite nicely. It has a style, a panache, a certain je ne sais quoi all its own. Trust me. It's a vast improvement.


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I Like Music Theatre

And I adore this video.



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I'm 45 Years Old

I thought I knew myself. I thought I had an understanding of, and yes, even an appreciation for, my body and its womanly ways. It's been a pretty good body as bodies go, serving me well without demanding an extravagant price.

But I'm aging. Strange and bizarre things happen to women as they age. Strange and bizarre things are happening to ME. Oh the ignominy, the horror, the downright inconvenience of it all. (My mother never warned me. Did yours?)

Who hasn't laughed at a joke about women having hot flashes? I have, heartily. I'm not having hot flashes (yet), but I am no longer laughing. Recently I began recognizing manifestations of perimenopause, the precursor to menopause, in myself. A woman needs to know these years can be fraught with symptoms even more odious than hot flashes.

My memory, never stellar, balks. My ability to concentrate, really focus, is questionable and at times non-existent. Attention to detail? Forget it. Multi-tasking? Not today! All that effort I made to get through the empty nest trauma phase? At times it feels like The Boy departed yesterday rather than six years ago. And all I want to do is sleep, even if it is a sweat-soaked sleep. Am I depressed? Am I losing my mind? Why no, I'm perimenopausal! So nice to meet you.

A new pattern has emerged. No longer is my cycle as regular as clockwork, oh no no no. Now it turns in some twisted dysfunction of its former self, crippling me with inventive hormonal agony until my body decides to give me a break.

A friend nods and says with a caring tone in her voice, "Oh dear, someone needs to bleed."

Yes. Please?

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"Don't You Fret"

I stared blankly at my computer screen as my mind wandered off as my mind tends to do. Worrying I was, as wont I am, this time contemplating whether The Boy will pack enough Immodium AD to last his entire trip. It's the one medication everyone agrees is essential for traveling in Asia. But how much is enough? I repeatedly attempted to devise a reasonable equation. The variables are too many and I obsessed with no success.

I thought of my sister. She offers a strategy for anxiety management I call the bubble technique. When something is worrying me, I imagine it tucked comfy-cozy inside a buoyant bubble. My bubbles are translucent with shimmery changing colors, prismatic soap bubbles on steroids. Often the size of my fist and never smaller than the average green grape, the bubble, once burdened with my worries, is imagined floating off into the netherland. I wave farewell. The worries, along with the bubble, disappear in the distance.

I've sent a lot of worries floating off via bubbles this week. The title of the post is advice from my son. I'm working on taking it.

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Hair Today

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I Have a Long Neck

The average temperature here is in the 20s this week. We have snow on the ground. And in the trees and bushes and all other things outdoors. It's not melting. I'm okay with that. The scenery is glorious.

My turtlenecks, the staple of my winter wardrobe, all of them, are still in storage in our attic. I'm not okay with that.

I cannot be the only one who feels it: truly, is there anything more comforting as one dresses on a frigid winter morn than pulling on a fresh-smelling turtleneck as the base for what will layer into pleasing and seasonally-appropriate attire? My turtlenecks. I wear them everywhere. My winter foundation.

Yet now, when I need them most, they languish in the attic.

See, it's rather a production to retrieve them. My winter clothes are heavy; the container, loving packed last spring, is unwieldy. The attic stairs, while expertly installed, are more like a ladder and, as such, are fraught with peril should one attempt to navigate them bearing heavy loads. It's a job for Two and I never seem to think about it when Two are home.

Our storage systems are less than perfect.
We make do.
Or do without, as the case may be.


Note to self: Next house, bigger closets.

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I Turned 40 and Lived to Tell the Tale

People do it every day, right? I don't get why women freak about turning 40; I consider them late to the party I guess. My own "crisis" birthday was when I turned 30.

The year was 1992. My best friend Kerry baked me a cake. It was in the shape of a coffin, the icing gray, the perky sentiment "Happy 30th Birthday Suzanne!" whimsically lettered in black. So very festive! So apropos. The cake inside was bright white, moist and delicious.

As much as turning 30 seemed a death of sorts, turning 40 felt more like coming into my own. What a difference a decade makes.

I had cake that year too, the year I turned 40. It was a surprise. I thought Wendy and I were going out for a romantic dinner. Turns out she had arranged a party at a local restaurant with friends from all corners of our life. A surprise party. Wendy. That Wendy. My shy, quiet, quasi-anti-social girlfriend. I never suspected a thing. Why would I? I loved it even more because she strayed so far out of her comfort zone. For me.

The allure of age 40 sparkled early in my life: "40," I planned, "I want my kid(s) to be grown by the time I'm 40." And so it was The Boy graduated high school and headed off to college when I was 40. By then I knew 18 years did not a grown man make but he was well on his way.

I hadn't thought much about what my own life would look like at 40. Just that the kid(s) would be grown. Thinking back, I marvel at my lack of concern. And at the fortunes that landed me where they did.

I am now halfway through my fourth decade. The slopes of my life have taken on more definition, my vision is clearer. Could be my eyesight is going bad, but some lessons are plain. I've learned the best laid plans can go awry and that can be a good thing. I've learned to trust my heart. I've learned being kind is always worth the effort.

My friend Teresa turns 40 today.
I hope she eats cake.

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That's the Sound of My Brain Cracking

According to some who know me, I am the ultimate hypocrite. In this case, I can't help but agree as they make a good point.

Here's a story. Well. Sort of a story. My hypocrisy will be highlighted while other emotional investments that may or may not be swirling like mad whirlpools threatening to drown us all will be omitted. Right here it's all about me. Being a hypocrite.

On occasion, The Boy hosts overnight visits with his girlfriend at our home. Wendy and I revel in such events; we truly enjoy having young people around. Young voices, young appetites, young muscles, young spirits. Oh, and young love. Good energy, that.

It's never been up for discussion. It matters not what I may or may not know about their sleeping arrangements when they sleep elsewhere: The Boy and his girl are assigned separate bedrooms. For now it remains that simple.

We have friends, peers with children, young adults rather, friends in their own right, around and about the age of The Boy. Family friends. Friends who have become family. One of the daughters is a lesbian.

**carefully skirt the enormous deep hole where all the gory details that comprise the understory are crouched attempting to remain unnoticed and unaddressed. do not look down as you pass, I beg you.**

On occasion, said lesbian daughter spends the night at our home with her significant other. Here's where my hypocrisy, like cream, rises to the surface: I've got no problem with them sharing a bed under our roof.

To recap:

The Boy + his girlfriend + visit = separate bedrooms
Good friend's daughter + her girlfriend + visit = pillow talk

Is anything ever simple?
Of course not.

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The Number One...

.... thing I don't want to hear my girlfriend say while she's waxing my eyebrows: "Whoops!"

There will be no pictures.

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100 Things 2007

I re-read my 100 Things.
Circa 2004, it's grown stale.
Imagine that.

So here ya go.
Fresh.
100 Things 2007
Just in time for 2008.

1. Children go off to college.
   
2. They come back different.
   
3. That's a good thing.
   
4. Our nest is officially empty.
   
5. I survived the transition.
   
6. Who knew it would be so hard?
   
7. My money still comes from the same people for doing the same jobs.
   
8. Eh, it's a living.
   
9. Family can die.
   
10. Suddenly.
    
11. Death really sucks.
    
12. I only know from the perspective of the ones left behind.
    
13. So far, anyway.
    
14. That's humor folks.
    
15. Go with it.
    
16. We're still working on our house.
    
17. The end, believe it or not, is in sight.
18. I can see for miles and miles.
    
19. We've learned a lot.
    
20. About a lot of things.
    
21. Sometimes we remember it when we need it.
    
22. I've often said that being a parent just gets more satisfying as each year passes.
    
23. That still holds true.
    
24. Being a daughter has become challenging.
    
25. I'm still in training.
26. Who knew?
27. Watch your back.
28. You could be next.
    
29. We have a five year plan.
30. It began on January 1, 2007.
31. It's a good plan.
32. More on that later.
33. Maybe.
    
34. I now own a hairbrush.
35. And other hair management tools.
36. I have bands and bows and clips and ties.
37. My hair is longer than it has ever been before.
    
38. It has become a fashion statement.
39. I have no idea what it says.
    
40. I'm okay with that.
41. George Bush is still POTUS.
42. Yeah, I can't believe it either.
43. Soon, my friends.
44. But not soon enough.
    
45. My son urges me to take calcium.
46. Sometimes I actually remember to take it.
47. Not as often as I should.
48. I like it when he nags me.
49. I've quit smoking three times since 2004.
50. I need to do it again.
51. Yeah, I know. WTF?
    
52. I recently turned 45.
53. A friend told me I was acute.
54. Then she gave me a lesson on angles.
55. Good stuff, angles.
56. Beer is the nectar of the Gods.
57. Gods with a capital G.
58. Bless their little Godly hearts.
59. All of them.
60. Who sings that song "Harden My Heart"?
61. Wait. I'll go look it up.
    
62. Oh nevermind.
63. I asked Wendy.
    
64. It's Quarterflash.
65. She knows things like that.
    
66. It seems like something to avoid.
67. That heart hardening stuff.
68. It's a good song though.
    
69. I'd like to learn how to make pupusas from scratch.
70. Plus the spicy cabbage stuff to accompany.
71. Plus the salsa.
72. Gotta have the salsa.
73. The Boy is now a working actor.
74. He is the most beautiful person I have ever known.
75. Warts and all.
76. Eh, we all have 'em.
77. May as well give 'em a nod every once in a while.
    
78. I have a collection of lolcats.
79. I may share them with you some day.
80. Maybe I already have.
    
81. Need a smile?
82. Look at lolcats.
83. I dare you to resist smiling.
    
84. I'm a simple woman.
85. For that, I am grateful.
86. Wendy and I still can't agree on what date our anniversary is.
87. We know we have one.
88. We just don't know when.
    
89. We'll figure it out someday.
90. Meanwhile, we're in love.
91. Maybe you knew that.
    
92. I drive a boring car.
93. I'd like to drive a hybrid.
94. It'll still be a boring car.
95. But a healthier one.
    
96. I just am not that excited by cars.
97. They are merely a means to an end.
    
98. It's football season.
99. And fire-in-the-fireplace season.
100. Life is good.
     

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One Fine Morning

I woke up cranky. I don't much like being cranky. It's far too much work.

My face assumed a thoughtful yet cranky expression. My brain mulled a mix of Get Happy Behaviors.

The question was posed: "Self, what's the best way to relieve this crankiness?"

My Brain: Let's don our favorite pajamas and get back in bed.
The Rest of Me: Not an option today. Try again.

MB: How about we don our favorite pajamas and get back in bed?
TRoM: Can we please move on!?

MB: More coffee.
TRoM: That's better. A good start.

MB (with a flash of clarity): I've got it! Dress fabulous!
TRoM: Brilliant!

And so the crankiness was banished.

Sometimes it's just that simple.
Caffeine and the right outfit.

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She Must Love Me

I am joyful. Fall has arrived, bringing with it, among other things, cool temperatures and close-toed shoes.

It began on a Wednesday. Opening my sock drawer, I dug through the neat rows of socks in various colors looking for something in basic black. I'd already worn black socks both Monday and Tuesday. My sock drawer contains a third and a fourth and a fifth pair of black socks, but one has a hole in the left toe, another is just too short, and yet another not what my feet had in mind.

My brow furrowed. I briefly considered, then rejected, alternate colors.

The little angel on my shoulder encouraged me to settle for the pair with the hole in the toe. "Just wear those and keep your shoes on all day," she counseled.

My little angel is ever the practical one.

The little devil on my other shoulder whispered urgently, "Yo Suzanne. There's another whole drawer full of socks in that other dresser!"

I perked. My little devil can be practical too.

My angel gasped. "But Suzanne! Those are Wendy's socks!"

My devil smirked. "Oh come on now. She won't even notice."

I inched closer to the other dresser, intending just to take a quick peek. My angel tsk-tsked.

The drawer slid silently open revealing a wealth of soft, dark socks nestled inside. My hand slid into the mix, my fingers automatically reaching for the blackest pair. I caressed the soft marino wool from which they were crafted.

"Oh my," I sighed. Extracting them from the drawer, I took note of their composition. Knee socks! Divinely soft and not too thick. Blacker than coal. My heart pitter-pattered in response as I rubbed them against my cheek, breathing in their fresh clean scent. Perfect. That pair of socks was exquisite!

My angel tsk-tsked again. "Put those back before you do something you'll regret!"

I ignored her. My decision had been made. I sat on the corner of the bed and pulled on the first sock. (My left foot. I always sock my left foot first.) A shiver went up my spine. That soft marino wool snuggled my skin from the tips of my toes all the way up my calf. I wriggled my toes joyfully before slipping on my shoes.

The devil stuck her tongue out at the angel, who fluttered her wings in dismay. All day long my feet were cozy, there was an extra lightness in my step.

And so it was that, come Sunday, my efficient and adorable Queen of All Things Laundry questioned how so many of her black socks ended up in the basket when she had worn none that week.

Oops. She noticed. How could she help but? You see, I hadn't stopped with one pair. The next day and the next after that my feet had been clad in black socks purloined from my lover's stash.

Sometimes it's good to listen to my devil.
Sure, Wendy noticed.
But she didn't seem to mind.

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There's a bunch of lunatic lesbians out there who are responsible for a silly grin I can't seem to wipe off my face.

Y'all rock.

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The Sound of One Pin Dropping?

When a blogger takes an extended break, characteristic or not, do blog readers like to hear about why said extended break occurred when said blogger finally does return? Or would they just prefer to jump back into the routine of regular posts?

More importantly, perhaps, are they thankful when a blogger who took an extended break finally does re-grace them with her presence? Is anyone still out there? (Yes, of course I know. That's a flagrant request to hear that someone missed me. I can be a whore that way. But not a cheap whore. Be kind. Don't forget I bake a mean pan of brownies. I may bake some for you one day.)

It's been a frenzy here in suburbia. A frenzy of family. The Boy came home. Then the in-laws arrived.

Our home. It has been full.
In all the right ways.

Now it's kinda quiet again.
In all the right ways.









(btw, how do you people with resident families ever find time to blog?!)

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