Flounder Fest

The definitions of "flounder" from my friend and yours, dictionary.com:

floun·der² (floun' dur)
n. pl. flounder or floun·ders

Any of various marine flatfishes of the families Bothidae and Pleuronectidae, which include important food fishes.

No, no. That's not the definition I'm looking for. Not that one. It's nowhere near what I've been feeling. How about this?

floun·der¹ (floun' dur)
intr.v. floun·dered, floun·der·ing, floun·ders

1. To make clumsy attempts to move or regain one's balance.
2. To move or act clumsily and in confusion.

n. The act of floundering.

That's more like it. I've been doing that kind of floundering. Or maybe I've been procrastinating. Or goofing off? No, no. Not goofing off. I've kept busy, yet I'm easily distracted. The end result, no matter what I call it, is the same: spinning wheels, constant changing of my mind, floundering. Has adult ADHD set in? Such distractability has inevitably played havoc with my NaNoWriMo word count.

The Boy arrives home this evening for the first time since April. I don't know if he is as excited as we are, but it's possible.

The Boy is coming home!

Oh my.
I find that worthy of repetition.

The Boy is coming home!

My goal for this Thanksgiving weekend is to not multi-task, to live in the moment. To just relax, feel thankful and enjoy our family traditions. To non-flounder. Thanksgiving and fish don't have much in common anyway. Not in our little world.

Oh my.
The Boy is home!

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
See you next week!

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Life Lessons

Dear She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named,

There was no rhyme or reason to why I fell for you. You came into my life at such a pivotal time for both of us, not that we realized it then. I sure didn't. I may have run the other direction if I had.

Thanks for teaching me the valuable lesson that just because I love someone doesn't mean they will love me back. Thank you for breaking my heart. Yes, seriously. Thank you for ripping it out of my chest, batting it around like a badmitton birdie, leaving it out in the rain, and playing hopscotch with it until it was barely beating. Oh yes, yes, yes! Thank you for introducing me to emotional agony as I figured out how to rebuild said heart. Good times, good times indeed. Everyone should try it at least once. Thanks for making sure I got a turn.

I'm running the risk of sounding like a Celine Dion song here, but before my experience with you I had no real comprehension of the power of love, the depth of emotion my heart could feel were I to but let it. I am quite sincere when I say thank you for that. I would be a much different woman today if I'd never learned.

But most of all, thanks for leaving me. If you hadn't, my life as I know it now would not exist. And oh how I love my life now! More than I ever loved you, I can confidently say.

Sincerely,
A Grateful Woman


PS: Remember that humongous macaroon you sent me on my birthday two years after you left? Obviously I do. What a great touch that was. Bitch.




November Collab

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Sharing

A Spoonful of Sugar?

During my sister's recent visit, the subject of taking pills arose. Specifically, the evidently bizarre and unusual habit I personally have of swallowing tablets or caplets or capsules or whatever one at a time when I need to take more than one.

My sister swallows pills in a bunch when necessary. I polled Wendy who concurred with my sister: she just opens wide and tosses them all back in one fell swoop.

So now I am, of course, curious.

Do those two employ the most common multiple pill-swallowing methodology or do I?

Do tell.
How do you do it?

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Squash

"How did your weekend go, Suzanne?" a co-worker inquired.

"We got to take The Boy grocery shopping!" I replied enthusiastically.

Why the hell do I derive so much satisfaction from that activity? Although The Boy seems to enjoy it too. Shocking, I know. A college student excited about a well-stocked pantry. Doh. Our mutual satisfaction with the activity certainly has differing origins. Matters not. It was good for me, baby.

One of the items that ended up in the cart was a squash.
It was as large as his head.
"What kind of squash is that?" I asked.
"A green one," he replied, "I'm going to steam it."

"I wonder if this stir-fry sauce is any good," he pondered.
"Try it," I suggested.
Into the cart it went.

"Are you still eating yogurt?" I asked as we were exiting the dairy aisle.
"Yeah!" he said, making a beeline for the display.

Ah, those little things.
$111.42.
The best money I've spent in ages.

What little things bring you joy?


Clarification addenda: It was not the spending of money that brought me joy. The Joy with a capital "J" was the act of shopping with The Boy. Simple, yes? Why do I feel the need to add such an edit? Well, that's between me and, well, let's say the proverbial fencepost. Or something like that.

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Sproinged

I sproinged my giraffe neck on Sunday. If you've ever had a sproinged neck, you should be cringing sympathetically unless you are a completely heartless and merciless individual. If you've never experienced sproinging, count your blessings.

It happened out of the blue, without rhyme or reason. I was working in the yard, corralling leaves, then SPROING! The muscles at the base of my neck spasmed and twitched, sending bolts of pain in all directions. I dropped my rake and froze. Tried turning my head. Mistake. Tried lifting my arms. Another mistake. Tried taking a deep breath. Strike three. Carefully, oh so carefully, I tiptoed gently across the yard and into the house.

Wendy is familiar with my neck sproings. She's nursed me through this condition before. The real bitch about it is that there is no way to get physically comfortable. Lay down in bed? Forget it. Do you realize how many muscles in the neck and shoulders are required to assume a supine position? Or worse yet, to get up once you've made it down? All of them I think. Sit quietly? Forget it. Heads are heavy and require quite a few muscles to keep them erect. I chose to perch carefully onto the couch and immobilize my head upright with pillows. There I sat in my sweaty dirty yardwork clothes because removing them was absolutely out of the question.

Yet something good has come of this spriong. I've always just taken anti-inflammatories and suffered through my day-to-day activities. I'd endure at least a week of misery before I felt good again. This time, however, I had the luxury of sitting quietly, swallowing megadoses of anti-inflammatories all afternoon and evening. By the time bedtime rolled around, I was actually able to comfortably get there.

This morning? Still a bit tender but nothing like my previous sproinging pain marathons. I wish I had learned to sit still years ago.

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Fitting In... Or Not

There's this hole-in-the-wall restaurant near us that serves Salvadorian food. Truth be told, there are many hole-in-the-wall restaurants near us that serve Salvadorian and other Central and South American cuisines. But this particular place is one Wendy and I frequent. We adore the food. Papusas! Fajitas! Tamales! Authentic recipes created from scratch adorned generously with sour cream and guacamole as appropriate, the food they serve is an excellent means of sating our periodic cravings for such fare. Quite tasty, portions plentiful, and the salsa always divine. Plus it's cheap. Great cheap food is sacred in my book.

The physical plant of the restaurant could be called shabby. No, strike that. It is shabby. It's located in a fast food restaurant building that is older than I am. A mish-mash of colorful paintings on the windows announce their fare. The tables are covered with vinyl table clothes sporting white and green checks, the booth benches sink. There are always at least two tables in the dining area littered with used dishes, empty cups, and balled up napkins. I would have never gone in there at all if a co-worker hadn't taken me there once about fifteen years ago. That first trip hooked me. Oink tacos rule.

It's sort of a combination of fast food and sit-down eating: place an order at the counter and they serve the food at the table. A man we think is the owner is usually at the register taking orders. Wendy and I have been going there together for years. He doesn't smile at us in recognition, but nods politely, with reserve, when we greet him. I've never really seen him smile at anyone. A young lady who also works there regularly and the ladies in the kitchen will smile if smiled at first. Still, even though he doesn't smile, I'm certain he recognizes the two female gringos who come in together at least once a month.

The clientele is racially mixed, but mostly hispanic lightly sprinkled with caucasian. There is more Spanish spoken than English, but not by me. I can't speak much Spanish although I keeping thinking one day I'd like to learn. My vocabulary is limited to words like "hola" and "gracias" and "pollo."

Anyway. Wednesday evening we had dinner there. The place was really hopping, which was rather unusual. Usually there is a slow but steady stream of customers in and out, but not a crowd hanging out in the lobby like there was that night. Waiting for carry-out orders, perhaps.

Some long, lean hispanic dude rode up on a bicycle about the same time we got out of the car. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt and had a red bandana tied around his forehead. I'm going to call him Creepy Guy from here on out. He was loudly talking to another fellow in Spanish as they followed us into the restaurant.

That's when it got weird.

As we gave our order to the nice old man behind the counter, Creepy Guy first stood very close to Wendy staring at her, speaking a stream of Spanish of which I, ignorant American that I am, could not understand a word. Then he scurried over and stood over my left shoulder and stared at me, his continuous stream of Spanish indisputably directed at the two of us. From his tone and the way he was looking at us, it was anything but polite. I doubt he would have been saying it if he thought we could comprehend whatever it was he was saying. I silently cursed my inability to understand the language.

The old man taking our order glanced briefly over at the man, didn't say a word, and looked quickly down to the register. His eyes didn't move from the keys as he took our order and gave us change. Meanwhile, Creepy Guy was still standing at my shoulder, his eyes boring a hole in my head as he spoke a language I did not understand. I finally turned slightly, raised my eyebrow and made eye contact with Creepy Guy. My look was neutral but far from friendly, more like "wtf, dude?" He raised his hands and said in English, "Oh sorry, miss, sorry," as he backed away a step or two. He looked anything but sorry, more pleased that he had gotten a reaction.

It was disconcerting. Quite. I had never felt uncomfortable, almost threatened, like that before, certainly not in a place so familiar. I didn't like it. But it also bothered me knowing the old man behind the counter certainly knew what Creepy Guy was saying. He speaks his language. But he didn't stop him. I wondered later if he was afraid of him. Maybe he was. I know I was. At least a little. Which pisses me off even more.

The pupusas, as always, were divine that evening.

We ate them surrounded by an hispanic couple with two toddlers, a four pack of older hispanic women, a group of hispanic men, and two hispanic fellows eating solo. Of the Creepy Guy, we saw no more. Still, I'm ashamed to admit I didn't really relax until a white man sat down in the dining area.

I'm not sure what that means. Or maybe I am sure, and I just don't like what it says about me. I'm sure I don't like feeling it about a place we adore eating.

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Innocent Question?

This past weekend, we stayed at what is our favorite hotel near The Boy's school. The staff is friendly, accomodating and efficient. They always have cookies and coffee available in the lobby. The rooms are spacious and clean. Such cannot be said for all hotels in the vicinity.

I do so adore a nice clean hotel.

As we were checking in, the desk attendant was type-type-typing into her terminal as she chattered to us. She looked up at Wendy and asked, "You're sharing the room?"

Wendy nodded yes.

The young lady looked at her computer screen again and said, "There is only a king-sized bed in this one. Would you like me to change y'all to a room with two queens?"

I spoke up, smiling, "Well, no. King-sized is perfect. That's exactly what we want."

The other desk attendant, who was reading a newspaper nearby, gave a muffled snort. The one who was helping us looked down quickly and mumbled, "Oh... ummm... okay... I see..." as she nervously shuffled paper from one stack to another.

As many years as Wendy and I have been checking into hotels together we'd never been asked that, although I've always half-expected it. I wondered how I'd react, whether I'd get all stuttery and turn red and babble. Such a situation does, after all, proclaim to the clerk something rather personal about ourselves, doesn't it?

I'm pleased to announce I didn't even come close to blushing or stuttering. Can't say the same for the desk clerk though. Wonder if she'll ever ask two women that question again?

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Randomality

The fall yellows on the trees this year are quite intense. The leaves have finally started to come down in earnest.

I'll be pleased when the vast number of political signs are removed from the medians, yards, highways and byways. The elections are over. I wonder who is responsible for picking those signs up: the campaigners who put them there or the regular County clean-up folks my tax dollars help pay?

Our dog Pixie balances on three legs while pooing. It's hilarious to watch. She raises up one of her back legs, kinda tucks it under her stomach. Tripod girl, she is.

Virginia elected another Democratic governor. Talking Heads are saying Kaine's victory is a certain sign of deep discontent within the GOP because Bush campaigned heavily in our state for Kaine's opponent. I don't know if it really means anything other than the Republican lost. Yesterday I was talking to my mother who also lives in Virginia. She said, "Well, I broke down and voted your way." Alrighty then.

Blondie's One Way or Another was just playing on the radio. Haven't heard that song in years. It's still perky.

Our neighbor has been picking up sticks and stuff from our yard and hauling it to the curb on yard waste day. Is this an indication she thinks our yard is a mess and that we are completely lazy? I'm slightly paranoid. But really I think she's just being kind. How fortunate are we?

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He Didn't Even Wish Me a Happy Birthday

I received a traffic ticket on my birthday. A moving violation. Lord knows I deserved it, but damn. It was my birthday. I didn't even try to talk my way out of it. I played the polite, well-mannered law-breaking citizen. I knew I deserved that ticket. I am so ashamed.

It was the first time I got caught speeding ticket I've gotten in about 16 years. I hadn't been stopped for speeding since I got rid of the bright red car I drove back in the 80s. Oh my that was a sweet car, my cherry red 1983 Mustang GT. I couldn't help but speed while driving it. Zero to 60 in second gear. With a purr. It was the 5.0 litre engine. It comes with a built-in lead foot. Yes, all the speeding tickets I received while owning that car were destiny.

But now I drive a 1999 Toyota Camry with a four-cylinder engine. When the kind officer told me how fast he had clocked me, I was somewhat relieved. You see, I had just slowed down a bit. Who knew my car would go that fast?

It'll only cost me $181.
Yeesh.
$181.

But I am The Queen of Finding Silver Linings, lest you need a reminder. $181 aside, we arrived before the curtain went up.

It was worth it.

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♪♫ I Feel Pretty and Witty and Gay!* ♪♫

It's been far too long since I have gushed about The Boy, hasn't it? Oh yes yes, I know you have missed hearing all about his exciting activities and what a fabulous young man he is.

Strike that. I'm not completely insane and deluded. I know you are not missing him, but I miss writing about him. Quick! Let me remedy the situation!

This weekend is my birthday weekend. The actual day is Friday, but I'm claiming the whole weekend as mine. After all, one only has so many birthdays in a lifetime. Might as well stretch them out and really enjoy them. Not to mention I'm special and therefore deserving. Ask my mother. She'll tell you.

So what does that have to do with The Boy? For the past eight years or so, The Boy has been on stage for my birthday. When he was in high school that would mean Wendy and I were working the front of the house at the theatre. Now it provides a convenient excuse for a road trip. And what better birthday present could a mother ask for than to see her offspring doing something he loves?

This year, The Boy is appearing in West Side Story as Riff, the leader of the Jets. Riff suffers a tragic demise at the end of the first act, but he sings a couple of great songs before taking a knife in the belly. A bonus: his girlfriend is playing Rosalita. Double bonus: his dad attended last weekend so we don't have to compete for attention. That's a good thing.

I recall renting the movie back when he was younger for some high school class assignment. The three of us stretched out on our king-sized bed to watch it. Evidently spoiled by modern special effects and such, it wasn't long before we were all complaining about what a horrid movie it was, dull and uninspiring. And we like musicals. We didn't finish watching it. I have no idea how he completed his assignment.

But back to this weekend. We'll be accompanied on our road trip by my sister, who is flying in today. My mother will meet us in North Carolina. As icing on the cake, two friends of ours who are alumni of the university he attends will be there for the show Saturday night. The only thing better than seeing The Boy on stage is having friends and family around to share it.

As a gift to myself, I'm going to try to do something I normally don't do: give up the reins and just go with the flow. There will be excitement in the air, yet I will be Everything Zen.

Believe that? I'll report back and let you know how it goes.
I haven't been this excited about a weekend in a long time.




* For those of you who don't recognize the lyrics, they are from a song in West Side Story, unimaginatively entitled "I Feel Pretty." I don't necessarily feel pretty or witty. But I do feel gay!

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Why Oh Why? Oh My.

Why oh why do I surf the internet?
Why oh why do I click those links?

Is it purely curiosity?
Sometimes.

It usually starts out innocently and then wham! My clicking exposes me to things to which I did not need exposure.

No, I'm not talking about p0rn. I think even my mother is savvy enough to avoid that unless she's actively seeking it. (Oh. Nice. My mother seeking p0rn. How's that for a thought that should never have been thunk? I need to go wash my hands or something.)

I'm talking about links such as this one to a product innocuously named The Keeper.

Please. Click the link. Read all about The Keeper. Digest the information. Imagine The Keeper as part of your own life.

Please. I need to know.
Come back and leave a comment.
Just a yes or no will do.

Would you?
Could you?
Do you?

Go Anonymous if you must.
I'll understand.

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November 1

November 1 signifies the start of NaNoWriMo.

Am I doing it again?
Why yes, yes I am.
50,000 words in 30 days.

I have a new approach mapped for this year that may result in a bunch of short stories instead of one long one, unless of course I come up with a thread to weave them all together. We'll see. Either way, the words will hit the page.

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'Tis the Season

Since we snubbed our friends maintained what shreds of our dignity still exist and faked having a cold politely declined the invitation to the sex toy party, Wendy and I eagerly looked forward to the next event on our busy social calendar: a Halloween party. Costumes mandatory. Whee.

Dressing up and looking silly has never been a problem. The problem is ideas. Ideas for dressing up and looking silly. Who do we turn to when we need ideas for costumes for any occasion? Why, our friend Tina of course. The last time we consulted her for Halloween, she dug through her bag of goodies and dressed us as Catholic nuns. Yes yes, sacreligious I know. Lesbian nuns smoking, drinking, and playing kissy-face in full habits? It doesn't get much better than that.

Unfortunately for us this year, we planted the seed but did not till the garden. This resulted in the day of the fete arriving without decisions being made on how we would attire ourselves for this grand event.

I wore my black jeans, black tank and orange silk blouse with three-quarter length sleeves. So where's the costume? I had a bag and a half of Smarties candies pinned to my pants.

Get it? Yeah. Lame. But simple.

Wendy's costume was even more subtle: a leaf tied to a thread attached to her wrist. Every so often, she'd raise it up and blow on it gently.

Get it? Okay good.

Halloween and all the spooky sweet goodness that goes along with it are really just a blip on the radar of that which truly is Fall: The Season.

Right now I'm feeling the pressure of The Season. It's a burden of living in suburbia. It's when many of the aspects of the suburbs I so adore conspire against me: expansive lawns, mature trees, and leaves falling in innumerable quantities combine to create the need to rake and bag and haul and rake and bag and haul. Did I mention raking, bagging and hauling? By the next weekend, however, the yard looks as if we hadn't removed a single leaf.

And with the chill in the air, the fire in the fireplace, the football games on TV.... oh how the alluring siren song of my Lazy Boy calls to me: "Suzanne! Psst... Suzanne! Come to me, my sweet. Come and nestle comfortably in my soft cushions, put your feet up. Ah yes, add a dog or two. Grab the TV remote, a good book to entertain you during commercials, perhaps a crunchy snack at your elbow. We'll all snuggle warmly as the fire crackles and the hours flow by in heavenly bliss."

It's far too much to resist.
The leaves will wait until we are ready.
I'd hate to disappoint my Lazy Boy.



October Collab

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There's a New Kid In Town

It just happens. It's the way I do things. It results in panties on the floor by my side of the bed.

I arrive home after a long hard day of enduring the cold harsh realities of life in the real world. I know I'm home for the evening, so I immediately dive into the pajamas that have been patiently awaiting my return, having been tossed carelessly folded neatly on my pillow that morning. The clothes I had been wearing are then either (a) hung neatly in the closet, (b) folded neatly in a drawer, or (c) draped neatly over the dresser.

Except, that is, for my underwear and socks. Those I discard in a small heap on the floor next to our bed. Who can blame me? The laundry basket is all the way on the other side of the room, for pete's sake. So there they accumulate, awaiting the moment when I finally gather them up and put them where I was supposed to put them in the first place.

By the time Saturday rolls around, there typically is a variety of panties and/or enough socks to field a baseball team in my pile.

Saturday morning as Wendy tripped to the kitchen to fill our weekend coffee mugs, she called up the stairs to me. "Suzanne, did you take your panties off in the living room last night?"

"Ummmm.... no.... no, I don't think so," I replied.

"Then why is there a pair of your panties on the dog bed?" she queried.

Wendy, being the ever-so-patient and thoughtful woman that she is, picked up those stray panties and put them in the laundry basket where I was supposed to have put them in the first place.

We sipped our coffee while doing lazy Saturday morning things. After awhile, I went down to refill our mugs. As I passed the doggie bed in the living room, I noticed my panties were still laying there. I called up the stairs to her. "My panties are still on the dog bed!"

"What?" she said, "I picked those up. Are they pink?"

"No, these are white."

It would appear our new resident is one of those. One of those panty pooches. I do wonder why it took her exactly a week to begin her collection. Is this an indication Pixie is feeling at home? Or is it something more... sinister?

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Cell Phonage

My folks finally allowed us to add them to our cellular phone plan. I think they were among the last two people in the free world to get cell phones.

These are not technologically backward individuals. They are computer and internet savvy, well-educated, busy adults. They travel a lot, are active in their community. How had they managed to exist without the modern convenience of a phone in their pocket? I also selfishly wanted to be able to reach them whenever I desired. (In hindsight, I hadn't considered the reverse would be true also... silly me.)

My mom would say, "Honey, we just can't justify the expense!"

I'd remind her of something her own mother used to say, something that has become somewhat of a family joke. My independent on-the-go comfortably endowed widowed grandmother would say, "I can't afford to eat meat anymore!" It was her state of mind, not necessarily all bad, but there is a point when practicality precludes frugality.

Finally they decided that, yes, cell phones would be useful to them. Then it was like pulling teeth to get them to allow us to absorb the expense. Adding lines to a cell plan these days is, for me right now, such a small thing. We easily spend more than the monthly fee on one meal in a restaurant! I swear I had to beg. I can't count how many times in my younger years they helped us out financially. Surely they could let us do this one little thing for them!

The first month my stepfather made no calls and my mom made six. All of them to me.

During one of those calls she said, borderline whine, "No one ever calls me on my cell phone."

"Well, Mom, have you given your number to anyone?"

"Uh, no. Not yet."

I do so love my mother.

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Don't Laugh Too Hard

Thanks in part to eb who pointed me in their direction, I received a cheap thrill in our mailbox today: this quarter's volume of the journal Sinister Wisdom. The theme is lesbian mothers and grandmothers. (I'm one of those, you know. The mother part. I'd like to wait a good long while for the other.)

While I always enjoy getting new things to read in the mail, that's not the half of it. The real thrill is that my words are part of it! And my name! In print! Bound into a real book! People may even read it!

The ultimate cheap thrill.
I'm so easy.

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Internet Disconnectivity

We've been experiencing connectivity issues with our DSL for the past two days. It has seriously crimped my blogging activity. How rude.

The connection cuts in and out, the middle bright green on the modem flashing slow and then fast and then steady, repeating the sequence over and over. We've done the usual: power down, unplug and replug everything, smack the modem, curse, waste 30 minutes of life on the phone with technical support, give up and do something else.

This evening, I unplugged the one phone we have to see if that had an effect. Sweet success! We've had a great internet connection all evening.

But now what? Is it the phone? Is it the cord? Is it the DSL filter? Is it the phone jack? Is it something else I'm not yet thinking of?

I'm not much in the mood for the tedious process of elimination required to track down the problem. I'm more inclined just to keep the phone unplugged. It's actually rather peaceful.



PS: I'm not the only one who is smitten!



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I'm Smitten

I've never been one to fall in love quickly.
Our little Pixie Stick is an exception.

We knew before Cosine passed away we were going to get another dog. Wendy and I had often discussed the type of dog we would look for.

Suzanne: I want a little dog this time, small enough to bathe in the kitchen sink.

Wendy: Hrumph. That's not a dog.

Suzanne: I want a snuggly little dog who will sit in my lap.

Wendy: Hrumph. Dudley is a snuggly lap dog.

Suzanne: Ooooookay. Let me be a bit more specific. I want a snuggly little lap dog who won't crush my internal organs as she turns circles getting comfortable.

Wendy: Hrumph. You are such a wuss.

We found Pixie on the internet via a local rescue organization. A lengthy application was completed then we all trapsed out to meet her. The application included a diverse set of questions ranging from "Why do you want a dog?" to "How is heartworm transmitted?" to "How long do you expect housebreaking to take?" Wendy and I were interviewed twice by doggie rescue people and deemed to be acceptable potential pet parents. Doh. Another volunteer came out to verify our home was acceptable. It passed. Doh.

Friday evening we drove 60 miles in the pouring rain through the fabled Northern Virginia nightmare known as rush hour traffic to sign the adoption contract, write a check, and bring Pixie home.

We awoke Saturday morning.

Suzanne (both eyes closed): What time is it?

Wendy (both eyes open): 8:00.

Suzanne: Are they awake?

Wendy: Yes.

At the sound of our voices, Dudley began thump-thump-thumping his tail. Pixie, who somehow ended up snuggled between us, rolled over playfully.

Wendy: Ouch. Pixie just kung-fu'd me in the face.

Suzanne: You are such a wuss.

When Dudley jumps off the bed or couch, the THU-THUMP of his landing can be heard throughout the house. Pixie, on the other hand, moves like a feather and makes about as much noise. She gets so excited on her leash that her hind end catches up with her head as she dances down the sidewalk, earning her the nickname Sidewinder. She races around the backyard in circles of varying sizes, impressing us with her speed and agility. I stand there clapping and laughing, urging her to go even faster.

What kind of dog is she? Who knows. One set of paperwork says "boxer mix" and another says "min pin mix" but we don't see a resemblance to those breeds at all. She looks like a miniature greyhound and barks like a terrier.

I can go on and on about how cute she is, how graceful, how dainty, how smart, how adorable. I already have and certainly will again.

Sure wish all things in life were as simple as falling in love with a dog.

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Faster Than a Speeding Bullet

When she unfurls her legs, it reminds me of unfolding a paper clip. They are ridiculously thin and long. Her skinny frame gives the illusion of daintiness, but don't be fooled. Rather than daintiness it represents speed and agility. She moves gracefully and bolts sharply like a fawn at an unexpected noise. She's a head taller than Dudley but weighs less than half as much.

She came equipped with at least two vital skills: how to politely share a bed with humans and how to do her business outside. The rest we'll help her figure out. She's quite adept at dispensing snuggles and puppy kisses. I'm not a major fan of the puppy kiss, but Wendy adores them.

Meet Pixie, the spritely sweet girl who has adopted us.
She fits right in.



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Recordkeeping

Dudley had his annual trip to the vet for vaccinations and such recently.

Our vet keeps the records for all the family pets in the same file folder. Ours had become quite thick as Cosine, Detail and Figero grew old and had issues. But the day I took Dudley in, I noticed our family folder now only contained a page or two.

They had purged the records for our dead pets. Practical and reasonable, of course. But for some reason it made me sad to think their histories ended up in a garbage can somewhere.

We're working on fattening up that file.
Adding a page.
That'll fix things right up.

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I'm Just a Soul Whose Intentions Are Good....

Trish over at Busted Stuff has been known to call kettle corn her own personal crack. Crack being, of course, that ever-so-addictive derivative of cocaine. I enjoy the occasional snack of kettle corn too, but not nearly as much as she does. She hasn't mentioned it recently. Perhaps she kicked the habit.

I told a lie to a friend about my own form of personal crack, although it wasn't a lie when I told it. Truly I intended to avoid it, to not purchase any more. Truly I intended not to ingest any more. Truly I intended to avoid even the sight or smell of any more of the lusciousness that creates such a gluttonous craving deep within. Out of sight, out of mind. That's the ticket.

It started this year with one little bag. One little eleven ounce bag. "Just this one," I rationalized, "I'll share it with Wendy." Then I blinked and before I knew it said bag was empty, the goodness inside vanished as if it had never existed, gone like a puff of smoke. I was physically ill, oh yes I was. How could I have let such a thing happen? I hadn't even shared.

The friend I lied to suffers my same addiction. I'd just confessed to him my experience with that little eleven ounce bag. He nodded his head knowingly. Then I lied. I said I was through with it, that I'd not expose myself to such temptation again. I just didn't know it was a lie at the time.

Foolish me. Foolish endcap in the drug store brimming with the irresistably bright packages filled with what evidently is my own personal crack. Foolish sign proclaiming them a bargain at 99¢. Foolish way my hand mindlessly reached out and added a sack to my basket. Foolish way there are now but a handful left.

At least I managed to share with Wendy this time.

Perhaps I should dip them in mustard.
Maybe that would cure my addiction.

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Encounter In the Checkout Aisle

I recall reading a blog entry recently about someone trying to avoid someone she knew in the grocery store. Was it you? If so, I've done the same thing you did and will certainly do it again.

But how about when you run into someone who knows you but you don't remember you know them and as such are not aware of the need to employ evasive maneuvers? That's what happened to me last week. Friday afternoon. I was stocking up on requisite items for our sports-watching-stay-at-home weekend: chips, cheap beer, salsa, bananas and spinach. Oh, and mayonnaise.

As I transferred my items from the cart to the conveyor belt, a little old lady got in line behind me. I glanced at her and smiled. She practically gushed, "Why hello, Suzanne! Haven't seen you in years! How are you?"

I am, of course, quite used to old women gushing at me in the grocery store and other places all around town. My gray hair leads them to believe I am one of their own. I also must have that air of "it's fine to talk to me, I'm ready and willing to be patiently bored by the trivia you have such an obvious need to share." It's a curse, I tell you, a bloody curse.

But this one knew my name. I tried to keep my face neutrally pleasant, concentrating on not letting my eyes clue her in to the fact I had NO idea at all who she was. I replied with another smile, "Oh just fine, just fine. Beautiful day, yes?"

Could I have been any more generic? I think not. Meanwhile my little brain was working in overdrive. "Maybe she looks familiar," I thought, "A teeny tiny bit. But who the hell is she?" I tried to keep my brow from furrowing with consternation. What is up with little old ladies who have memories like steel traps?

Thankfully, her next words gave me a humongous clue: "We're working with the marching band this year. How is your son doing?"

Click. Boom. Ray of bright light. A partial identification! Obviously I knew her from the high school. My mind spun. Did she have a student in the theatre program? I met so many people while volunteering copious hours as the Chief Dorkette In Charge of our cadre of theatre parents. Some became fast friends, others I really miss, many were as easily forgotten as the date my library books were due.

But damn it. She was really too old to be a parent of a person The Boy's age. Then she offered another hint, mentioning someone named Chris and suddenly it dawned on me who she was. Not a parent, but a grandparent. I still didn't remember her name, but at least I could make reasonable conversation. And believe me, she was dead set on making conversation.

I'm handling those blasts from the past much better now. I feel like I've crossed a threshold of sorts from my place in the world then to who I am now. I'm certain y'all are all glad to hear it. I know I am.

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Walking Before Midnight

Cosine and Detail learned early on how to walk politely in tandem on their leashes. Detail always assumed the point position because it was his place and we all knew it. He didn't need much of a lead, just for his nose to be further along than Cosine's. I liked to hold both leashes in one hand, the two of them trotting out in front eager to see what was there to be seen. Every so often one of them would stop to sniff or pee, our orderly procession interrupted but for a moment until we all jockeyed back into our usual formation.

During their older years, there was not much walking on leashes. It got to be where the only time they even wore their collars was for a trip to the vet. I've always called their collars and leashes their "clothes," as in "let's get your clothes on Pupperinos, it's time to take a walk!" Heaven forbid they go out naked in public.

We've been walking Dudley daily of late. It makes him happy, distracts him from his single dog status, and the exercise isn't going to hurt any of us.

Our neighborhood looks different when walking because different things matter when one is afoot. Sidewalks run haphazardly, squares of connected concrete that abruptly stop at random corners necessitating crossing the street to continue. Some streets don't have sidewalks at all. Others have asphalt paths. We are a mish-mashed kinda neighborhood. I like the irregularity.

This came from a tree along our route. Wendy carried it home for me. These bizarre looking fruits are strewn around the base of the mother tree and the surrounding lawn. Others have rolled into the gutter and some are smooshed in the street. There are a ton of them! The covering is very hard; I can't bruise it with a squeeze like I could with a peach. It's a bit larger than a softball and has quite a heft to it. The texture reminds me of a brain. I want to dissect it to see what is inside. Maybe I should just stop in the street and check out a smooshed one.

Meanwhile, does anyone know what it is? Do you have them in your neighborhood?

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Sports Haze

I'm in one. A sports haze. I have a blister on my right forefinger from pushing buttons on the remote control. Baseball. Football. Back and forth, forth and back.

Beautiful weather?
Who cares.
Leaves to rake?
Who cares.

I ♥ October!

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Oh Morning Wood?

Several weeks ago, Wendy and I went out to dinner and a movie with friends. I proposed seeing The Constant Gardener and offered to purchase the tickets online in advance. But I discovered a $1 service fee is added to each ticket for the convenience of buying them online. That irritated me and I was too cheap frugal to pay said fee. Unfortunately by the time we arrived at the theater, the movie was sold out. We ended up seeing The 40 Year Old Virgin instead.

Left to my own devices, I would never have picked that movie. My friend Mel didn't like it much because they say "fuck" a lot. And they do. But it didn't bother me because I'm a heathen and use the word rather frequently myself. My enjoyment of the movie surprised me; I laughed out loud often and absolutely adored the ending.

One scene Wendy and I both viewed with skepticism: the Virgin wakes up with an obvious erection, shuffles across the hall to the bathroom, sits down to relieve himself and immediately pees straight up in the air like a fountain. (Okay yes, real potty humor. I chuckled anyway. I'm mildly ashamed.)

But from my limited understanding of the intricacies of male plumbing, I thought urinating with an erection was physically impossible. But really, what do I know? So we turned to a source who actually has male plumbing and therefore is familiar with the in and outs, so to speak, of its behavior.

And what better male to ask things of this nature than The Boy? Yes yes, we do have that type of relationship. It's a good thing. The subject came up during our visit over parent's weekend. I said conversationally, "So, you know how males typically wake up in the morning with an erection?"

He didn't skip a beat.

"Ah yes," he replied smoothly, "Morning wood!"

Then to our utter amazement, he burst into song: "Morning wood, oh morning wood..." I kid you not. He sang at least one full verse, but the other lyrics have been purged from my mind. All that is remains is the memory of his rich baritone voice lyrically immortalizing the condition that is known, evidently, among the males of our species as "morning wood."

Ayup, parenthood is quite educational, quite educational indeed.

Oh, and for the curious among you, we also learned it would be extremely difficult to urinate with said morning wood, and to do so accidentally is most unlikely as such action would require great concentration and effort, were it to be possible at all.

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Along Came A Spider

Of all places, a spider has taken up residence in our shower. (Yes, the same shower that Wendy and I built all by ourselves. Feel free to oogle the lovely tile job, although this photo does not come close to doing it justice.) Mr. Spider is dwelling under the attachment for the towel bar opposite the shower head. We did not invite him.

I saw him for the first time during a shower several weeks ago. A few of his black spindley legs waved menacingly as he peered out from beneath the fixture. Instantly on guard, I kept a sharp eye out for further encroachment while I finished my shower. I even washed my hair with my eyes open, no easy feat, but I wanted to leave nothing to chance. Being naked and wet, I was extremely vulnerable to a sneak attack by the itsy-bitsy spider such a terrifying predator!

The next morning, there was no sign of Mr. Spider. I decided he had moved on to a more comfortable place to spend the winter. After all, there certainly is not much space to weave a web where he was. What type of food could he catch without a decent web? Not to mention there just aren't any other bugs hanging out in our shower for him to trap and devour. I didn't give it another thought, feeling certain he had relocated.

This past weekend, however, we saw his creepy legs poking out from the same place! He is still there! Has he been there all those weeks since I first glimpsed him? WTF does he do all day in there? What is he eating? Is he some sort of mutant voyeristic spider who enjoys watching middle-aged women shower?

Wendy attempted to lure him out but only succeeded in driving him into the depths of his sanctuary. I guess he'll leave when he's ready. Meanwhile, I remain attentive while showering.

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Urban Ruins

If, like me, you enjoy history, allow me to recommend this site, Opacity: Urban Ruins. This fellow, a photographer with an interesting eye for composition, has documented abandoned buildings and places in various stages of deterioration.

One of my favorite galleries is the Staten Island Boat Graveyard.

Utterly creepy yet fascinating, as are the old mental hospitals and "schools." Oh the stories those places must hold!

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Early Morning Rambling

I should be in bed. So why did I just get out of bed? Because I can. Because I don't have to pop up and be at work first thing in the morning.

The Yankees are done for the season. Yay! By "yay" of course, what I really mean is too bad for all those Yankee fans. Because I'm compassionate that way. Of course I am. Poor suffering Yankee fans. But this year again, despite their incredible payroll and enormous wealth of talent, they didn't make the cut. Yay!

Along with baseball, we were watching Monday Night Football because that's what we do on Monday nights during the football season. How does Drew Brees thread the needle so finely that even when his intended receiver is a club sandwich, somehow the ball is caught? Amazing and fun to watch. Almost as fun to watch as the expressions on Bill Cowher's face. He has the best ever football coach face.

I'm 80 pages away from finishing the first book in a series by Juliet E. McKenna, Southern Fire. It didn't really grab me until about 40 pages in, but then it hooked me good. Unfortunately for me, Wendy just started reading book two, Northern Storm. My timing is off. I wonder if we can read the same book at the same time. I hate waiting my turn.

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Is Frosting Only for Cake?

My hair started turning gray the minute The Boy popped out of that special place from whence babies pop. And yes, he did pop. I had a nice short labor, only cursed once or twice, and truly do not remember any of the what certainly must have been extraordinary pain and discomfort whilst said popping occurred.

But back to my hair. I was 23 when The Boy was born. Slowly but surely over the years since, it's gone grayer and grayer at a steady pace. I used to like it. Really. When one is young, gray hair is more of a novelty than anything else. At least it was to me. But now. Now that I'm of the age to have honestly earned my gray hair, it irritates me.

Nevermind that folks tell me "Oh it's such a lovely shade of silver!" Silver my ass. I look in the mirror and see gray old gray old gray old gray.

Wendy nods patiently as I often say with complete conviction that I'm absolutely positively going to have it colored. I talk about it endlessly, but take action? Ummm. Not yet. I so adore change, after all.

I'm afraid of the ongoing effort dyed hair requires. I prefer to remain a low maintenance kinda girl. I've seen too many women who color their hair and have roots showing that scream to the world "I color my hair and don't care enough to maintain it properly." Plus I am loathe to make a change that every person who knows me will immediately notice. There is nothing subtle about a sudden switch from gray hair to something else.

Which brings up another problem. How does on go about choosing a color to dye their hair? It's been gray for so long I don't really remember what color it started out as. It was blonde when I was a child but morphed into a blondish-brown briefly before it betrayed me by turning gray.

I've considered compromising and having it frosted. Or reversed-frosted as the case may be. Less drastic, less margin for error, less obvious need for maintenance. It'll be a fun trip back to the 1970s! My mother always had her hair frosted back then.

Egad. I'm considering doing to my hair something my mother used to do to her own?! That's quite a sobering thought, isn't it?

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Downpour

Friday night we went to sleep to the sound of raindrops pitter-pattering on the roof.

Our area has gone so long without rain, this storm was a delightful novelty. Friday it rained off and on all day. By evening, the clouds had settled in over us, predicted to stay for the majority of the weekend.

We awoke Saturday morning to a steady downpour.

Normally, by our newest and most current definition of normal, such weather on a Saturday would find us snuggled in bed for most of the day. Reading, watching sports, napping. But not yesterday. Yesterday we had to get up and out and about. We had an appointment to meet a dog. So we hustled Dudley into his harness and all piled in the car.

The rain was still steadily falling. The air was heavy and humid, the temperature rather warm. The clouds hovered low, a soft foggy feeling enveloped the neighborhood; colors muted, edges blurred. Not even a slight breeze ruffled the trees. Water ran in rivers down the gutters and puddled in low spots on the pavement.

We took the back way toward the highway via our suburban streets. Movement caught my eye as two little boys clad only in swimming trunks came flying out from behind a house. They raced across their front lawn, bare feet slipping on the wet grass. Huge grins lit up their faces as they dove headfirst, sliding across the saturated lawn and coming to a stop near the mailbox. Pine needles clung to their wet bodies and stuck up from their hair, their faces expressions of pure glee.

At first it seemed odd these boys were playing outside in such a heavy rain. But other than the torrents of water falling from the sky, the weather was calm and warm. Why not play outside?

I can't remember the last time I walked in the rain unmindful and uncaring of getting wet. I should rectify that.

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Don't Even Bother to Ask

Don't even bother to ask. I don't know how so many large plates ended up stacked on every horizontal surface in our office. Even if I did know, I believe I'd invoke the "don't ask, don't tell" clause. It is my right, nay, at times my duty, as a homosexual.

In fact, I'm hereby declaring such to be so. Henceforth and hereinafter if any homosexual should knowingly admit the reason so many large plates ended up stacked in our office, said plates are to be immediately be smashed upon the floor into a kazillion shards, never again to assume a useful form in this world.

Perfectly reasonable, yes?
I think so too.

What a heinous week it has been.

I re-stacked the plates into one super-sized stack, flexed my muscles and toted it down to the kitchen sink. I turned on the hot faucet. My pre-rinse, if you will. Our hot water is hotter than any hot water I've ever had in a house before. We like it that way. Squeeze of soap, then careful adjustment of the temperature until it was just right. Rhythmical wipe, rinse, then into the dishwasher. Grab next plate. Lather, rinse, repeat. Literally.

Imagine my surprise when I looked at the next plate and saw a check I had recently received via mail. A big check. Well. Big enough. It was floating among the soap bubbles, soaking wet. The ink was starting to run, a teeny tiny bit of blur.

Now it's stretched out on a soft bed of paper towel, almost dry. I wince when I consider the consequences if said wet check had stuck to the back of the previous plate. I might have missed seeing it entirely, running it instead through the dishwasher into oblivion.

I can imagine driving myself insane searching for it later and never finding it, all the while knowing full well I had put it where checks all rest until it is time for a field trip to the bank.

See, that's why there is a place for everything and everything has its place.

You heard it here first: keep your checks away from your plates.
Your future financial security may depend on it.

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Eating Crap

That's exactly what I've been doing all week.

We were gone last weekend and, it being the first of the month, I've actually had to work-work every day this week. I've not mustered the energy to go grocery shopping.

I've just been eating crap.
No usual banana for breakfast.
No balanced meal for dinner.

But lunch, oh lunch I've been eating. But did I make reasonable choices? Why would I do that? It would spoil Eat Crap Week. That's one thing about working in Old Town Alexandria. Whether you are in the mood for a great meal or just some good ole bad-for-you crap, satisfaction can be found.

The little ball burning in my stomach is easily explained.
Obviously I've earned it.

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Cringe Factor

I cringed when I saw the evite appear in my inbox this afternoon. I’d heard a rumor it was on the way. I cringed then too. It is an invitation to a toy party. A sex toy party. I cringed again as I scanned the rather lengthy list of women invited to partake in the festivities. Why oh why oh why oh why?

A while back, Wendy and I managed to avoid the party featuring a male stripper. While it’s nice to be included, I truly wondered why we were even invited. Turns out our friends think Wendy and I are fun at parties. Okay, great. But a male stripper? No offense intended to you males out there. I know many of you are quite proud of your bodies and equipment, some of you even rightfully so. Far be it from me to diminish that pride. But really. Who invites lesbians to watch a male strip?

The hostesses of this upcoming sex toy party are good friends of ours, dedicated heterosexuals. We’ve gotten wild and crazy with them over the years. We talk about sex, sure. I’ve even demonstrated my expert bra removal skills to them. No, not my own bra. Theirs. Now that was an interesting gathering that solidified my reputation as a lesbian extraordinaire among our heterosexual friends. Everyone needs a party trick, right?

I try to imagine what this gathering will be like. Will there be demonstrations? Testimonials from satisfied users? Free samples?

I’m not a prude. I adore sex and sex toys are not a foreign concept. I’m certainly confident enough to sit around with other women, fondle dildos and imaginatively discuss how they are best used. I could contribute to said discussion in a very clinical and matter-of-fact way as well as in a more, shall we say, abstract manner.

Yet some of the invitees I barely know and others not at all. It’s one thing to address such… um... personal matters with close friends. It’s another thing altogether to do so with strangers.

I don’t know if I want them to know that much about me. I know I don’t want to know that much about them!

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Montana Memory

Imagine the exchange with the clerk when returning our rental car. "Damage? Missing front fender? Broken window? Uh, well, you see, it's like this. We were lured in by a big yellow sign, paid $10 per person for the privilege of driving into the wilderness via an unpaved road to get up-close and personal with all different types of bears native to the region! Sure, there's a few dings where a grizzly got a little frisky. I'm certain those claw marks will buff right out."

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Observation

It is easier to get people in neighboring automobiles to return a smile on local roads than on the interstate.

I've done the research. All scientific and whatnot. Charts, graphs, and carefully created timelines in full living color bound neatly in a notebook await your perusal should you doubt my methodology.

I'll smile at anyone. Usually because I feel like smiling but sometimes to get myself back to that place where I feel like smiling.

It all starts with eye contact. While sitting at a local red light or ignoring the speed limit while cruising down the freeway; smiles can be traded during any and all phases of stop-and-go or stomp-and-go road travel. Without eye contact, however, there can be no returned smile. It's rather like that whole hearing the sound-of-a-falling-tree-in-the-forest thing.

My smile got a workout on the highway this weekend on our way home. I was already in the place where I felt like smiling so it was practically effortless. I smiled at innumerable unknown faces, a variety of ages, colors and sizes driving or riding in a plethora of vehicle types, colors and sizes. Not quite a grinning idiot was I, but close.

Of all the folks I smiled at on the interstate, I only got acknowledgement from one. This fellow was riding in the open bed of a beat-up white work truck. On I-95. Doing about 70. He sat, his back to the cab, hunched in a lawn chair. Somehow I caught his eye as we passed him. In that brief moment I flashed him one of my most sparkling smiles. In return I received an acknowledging lift of his chin. His wispy long hair whipped wildly across his face and he quickly dropped his chin back to his chest.

Not long ago while stopped at a traffic light at the intersection of Lockheed Boulevard and Richmond Highway, the deep bass and rap beat emanating from the car in the lane to my right caught my attention. It was a beat-up Chevy Nova occupied by a quartet of young black men. The fellow in the front passenger seat was bopping his head rhythmically to the music. A white bandana was tied around his head, a lit cigarette dangled from his lips.

He looked at me looking at him, and I smiled. He rewarded me with an open grin, lots of teeth and good humor.

"So what?" you may think.
So go smile at a stranger.
I highly recommend it.

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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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