Hair Control

Control is a recurring theme in my life of late.

Of late?
Oh who am I kidding. I've always had control issues.

I popped by my friend Tina's house last week to pick up some groceries.

What's that? You don't go shopping at your friend's house? Well I wasn't actually shopping. She had shopped for me. At Costco. A dish of chicken enchiladas for dinner and two large cans of coffee. Kirkland coffee is a bargain and it's quite good. I had also run out of coffee filters, so she supplied me with a short stack from her pantry. Yes she spoils me, my friend Tina.

As I was leaving, she asked if I had considered wearing a headband or using clips in my hair.

Ack!
Both of my hands flew to my head.
My crazy long hair!
Her first mention of it!
Was this a positive mention or one into which I should read a more sinister truth?

"Tell me the truth, Tina. Please. Does it look horrible?"

She paused as if considering a tactful response. "No, no. Not horrible. Just kind of fly-away."

I, of course, heard "wild" "messy" "crazy" "out of control" instead of fly-away. But then again, how else can "fly-away" be interpreted?

Our phone rang the next day. It was Tina, saying she had something for Wendy and me to play with. "Oh?" I queried, knowing with her that could mean just about anything. (If you know her, you know what I mean. It's all good.)

"Remember we talked about your hair? I picked up some things for you to experiment with."

Tina, the ultimate caregiver.
She's a mother hen with an expansive brood.

I've never really had enough hair to use clips or headbands or accessories of any sort. I'm oddly excited by the prospect. Is that my inner girly-girl peeking out?

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Through the Ages

There is a seven year age difference between Wendy and me. It used to bother me, but it doesn't any more. We're meant to be together despite the gap. Or because of the gap. I stopped thinking about it years ago.

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On our recent New Years beach trip, we were playing a trivia game about the 1980s. Our friend Marcie, the one who just celebrated her 24th birthday for the fifth time, said, "In 1987, I was eleven years old."

I followed with, "In 1987, I was a married suburban housewife with a two-year old."

We all laughed.

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Today is my friend Tina's birthday, the day she catches up with me and we are the same age for a few months. Happy birthday, Dirt. Don't stand too close to the cake or your hair will look like your husband's did after he ignited the yulelog this past Christmas.

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We had dinner Saturday with the only other lesbian couple we know locally. They are both 53. The conversation turned briefly to hot flashes. Wendy and I both posed interested questions. Then it dawned on me if they are having hot flashes and are 53, I'm closer than I like to imagine to hot flashes of my own.

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Folks I've known while I was an adult and they were children are now becoming adults themselves. Once they either graduate high school or hit 18, whichever comes last, I expect them to quit calling me Ms. *insert my last name here* and start calling me Suzanne. The transition is easier for some than others.

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Our neighbor is an older woman. She has children my age. No no, strike that. She has children Wendy's age. I want to be an old lady like her: sharp, capable, independent and caring.

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There's not really a point to sharing these tidbits. Except to say I'm fortunate enough to have the influence of friends of many generations in my life.

There's something to be learned from everyone, no matter their age. Best be sure you're paying attention.

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To Whom It May Concern

Subtitled: What Makes Strangers So Bold?

Yes, I am a lesbian. But I am not a know-all source of information for how to be a lesbian. It is pointless to ask me for advice on how to determine if you are gay, what you should do if you think you are gay, how to tell your husband you are a lesbian, or about the mechanics of making love to a woman. I am not an instruction manual.

On the flip side, if we are friends I'll share my personal experiences and opinions within reason, as friends do with friends. But still you must think for yourself and do what's right for you.

That is all.

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Cruise Control

I'm starting to re-think my entire philosophy about driving. Like maybe I should walk instead.

See, I got pulled over again last weekend. For speeding. I know, I know. I was all like "WTF?" too! I went seventeen years without even talking to a policeman. Well. Except the years I lived next door to one. But that was idle neighborhood chitchat. Those conversations never began with, "License and registration, please" or "Do you know how fast you were going?" These days I'm like a magnet for any cop with a radar gun.

We were tooling down route 33 in rural-ish Virginia on the way to my mom's. Midday, sunshine, no traffic. The posted speed limit was 55 mph. Ever since my recent license debacle, I've been uber-aware of how fast I drive. Or so I thought.

The state police car was parked in the median. In plain view. Still he snuck up on me. I could not believe it when he pulled out behind me, his blue lights flashing. "Was I speeding?" I asked Wendy incredulously, "How fast was I going?"

Oh yeah. That's me. Uber-aware.

The policeman told me he had clocked me doing 68 in the 55. He asked if I had a reason for driving so fast.

Ah ha! The same question I refrained from answering the last time I was pulled over! It didn't help me then to be meek, so this time I spoke up.

"Well Officer," I began hesitantly, "I am a bit surprised to hear that. I really thought I was paying better attention to my speed."

Oh yeah, baby. I'm one smooth talker. I wondered how much this one was going to cost me.

He asked if I had had my cruise control set. I said no. He informed me he would be issuing a citation for 68 in a 55 and, with my license and registration in hand, headed back to his cruiser.

I sat there, unable to even make eye contact with Wendy. This was completely humilating, moreso because it was again entirely my own fault. I sighed deeply as Wendy grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. Eye contact was easy then.

I snatched my hand back when I noticed the policeman returning. For some reason I felt it would not be a good idea for him to see us holding hands. For some reason, sure. We were in rural-ish Virginia. It would decidely not be a good idea.

"Ma'am, I don't usually do this," he said. "But I'm not going to give you a ticket this time. I think you were telling me the truth and too many people don't. We all make mistakes. But I do suggest you be more careful. And use your cruise control!"

Gratitude poured out of my mouth with assurances I would.

He didn't give me a ticket!
He didn't give me a ticket!
He didn't give me a ticket!

Yesterday on my way to work, I flipped on my cruise control while on the GW Parkway and set it for six miles above the posted speed limit of 45 mph. Cars flew by me at an alarming rate, their driver's necks craning to see what kind of fool was driving so slowly.

I just smiled at them and thought of the fellow who didn't give me a ticket.

Does this mean I'm reformed?

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The Ship Has Sailed

Okay well, it's not really a ship. It's a boat. Hal's boat. His pride and joy, the Pearson 424 ketch he christened Sea Duty.

My mom found a buyer. Or rather a buyer found her. He's a younger fellow who knew Hal and is quite excited about owning the vessel that belonged to my stepfather. Hal was rather a legend in his sailing community: well respected and knowledgable, active in teaching others how to safely survive a bluewater voyage.

My mom never shared his joy of ocean sailing, but she loved puttering around in the Chesapeake Bay or the Caribbean. For many years, Hal led sailing rallies to both Bermuda and the Caribbean, sometimes sailing his own boat or hiring on to captain someone else's. My mother would hop an airplane and join him once he had arrived in the islands. They'd spend the winter months island hopping and socializing with their boating friends. Rough life, yes? Believe me, they earned it.

Just about every room in their house boasts a beautiful view of the creek, the sailboat moored at the dock creating a picture of tranquility. This morning, Sea Duty sailed from that dock heading for a shipyard to be pulled from the water for her pre-sale inspection, called a survey in the boating world. There's little doubt she will be given a clean bill of health as Hal maintained her in tiptop condition.

My mother had been dreading that moment. That moment when the boat left the creek for the final time, another captain at the helm. Interestingly, when her gay-hating neighbor saw the boat leaving, she phoned my mom to make sure she was okay. They are narrow-minded bigots, yet they can also be kind. That shit confuses me.

Now to share something that feels creepy if I overanalyze it but also feels so right in other ways. While Wendy and I were visiting last weekend, my mother asked Wendy put some of Hal's ashes into a small watertight container. We sealed it tightly and labeled it "Captain Hal." It's now stashed in the chart desk aboard Sea Duty. The young man who is purchasing the boat enthusiastically embraced the idea of having a piece of her recent Captain remain aboard.

I think Hal would also approve.

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Just Jump

We've still got those snazzy boxes of pet ashes hanging out in our living room. Cosine and Detail are on the fireplace mantel, topped by this really cool prayer wheel my sister gave us. Figero is resting in my grandmother's secretary on a shelf behind the glass doors.

Eventually we'll release them. Those ashes. Back into the world. Did I ever share our plan for that? It's simple enough. We're gonna spread them in a park near where we used to live. The Boy and I used to take the dogs hiking and swimming there.

As a matter of fact, I used take The Boy there hiking before we even got those dogs. Eh, I'm not sure it's accurate to call what we did "hiking." Do toddlers hike? I'd say it was more like rambling, but nevertheless a great way to spend time. Fresh air. Nature. Exercise. Exploration.

Oh yeah. Exploration. One day he and I energetically set off together down a previously unexplored path through the woods. It had trailmarkers, but the markers on that particular path peetered out. But the path kept going so we did too. Then the path itself peetered out. Completely. To the point where I couldn't even simply turn us around to retrace our steps. I couldn't tell from whence we came.

Interesting sensation, that. Finding oneself lost in the woods with a four year old. How the hell did I let that happen? But hey, it was the suburbs. Sort of. I figured if we just kept walking, eventually we'd find civilization. Eventually.

Ah yes, me in my natural element: Suzanne, Suburban Woodswoman. I rallied to the occasion and employed the skills honed during my years as a Girl Scout to lead us authoritatively toward civilization. Oh sure. Truth is, we got really lucky and stumbled across a road. I vaguely recognized it as the one leading to the park entrance. I looked left. I looked right. I wondered which way we should go.

At that point we'd been hiking for about three hours. The Boy was tired. I was tired. The road, while paved, was narrow and winding with sloped shoulders and ditches, no sidewalks. Not a road I'd choose to walk on even if I didn't have a young child with me.

Alrighty then. I hoisted The Boy piggy-back style and set out to the left. He chatted observationally in my ear as I plodded. The sun shone, the breeze blew, I perspired. We stopped to rest briefly on a grassy expanse. One car passed us going the opposite direction. I still wasn't sure we were going the right way.

Then boom! A sign from above! Actually it wasn't from above at all. It was on the side of the road and indicated the entrance to the park was only a mile up the road. Miraculously I had chosen the right direction the first time! I was momentarily thrilled until I remembered I'd be walking that mile with a child on my back.

The concept of perseverance has been ruminating loudly through my head these days. Life tosses curves and leaves it to us to decide how to proceed. To dance. To flee. To stroll. To leap. To crawl when necessary.

One thing is certain: whatever a moment holds, good or bad, it, too, shall pass. It's good to absorb the view along the way.

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Meltdown, Mount Vesuvius Style

My composure evaporated this weekend. In the worst possible way.

It was over a piece of paper. Well. Not really. The paper was but the trigger. Not even the paper itself, just mere mention of it.

We have a family investment club. It is the brainchild of my recently deceased stepfather. Only one of us, my stepbrother, shows any deep interest. He really gets into it. But the rest of us keep plugging along because it is supposedly good for us to learn about the stock market and it helps our geographically-challenged family maintain regular contact. That's a good thing. But mostly we participate because it makes made Hal happy.

Much work is involved. Officers have administrative assignments and everyone is supposed to contribute to stock evaluations and tracking. Since his death, the club has been in a holding pattern. We tried to have a meeting but couldn't do any real business because the Treasurer did not produce the required reports. It was decided we should take a month off to give everyone a chance adjust to our new situation.

So everyone got a month off. Except for the Treasurer, who not only needs to catch up on the reports but also must file the club's federal tax return. The members cannot file their own personal tax returns until the individual K-1 forms, part of the club's return, are provided by the Treasurer.

(You folks bored yet? Still awake? Nothing like a dull recitation about taxes to turn off an audience, that's what I always say. I should hurry and get to the good part. And I would. If there was a good part.)

If you haven't surmised by now, I will clue you in that I am our club's Treasurer. When my mother asked me for the trillionth, quadrillionth, megazillionth time if I had her K-1 done because she absolutely positively had to have it immediately, well, I lost it. "The fucking thing is not even due until March 15!" I screamed with a quavering voice as tears threatened to overwhelm me.

Verbatim. From my mouth into my mother's one good ear. I used the word "fuck" in various forms several times during my diatribe, ignoring the alarmed warnings Wendy projected as she tried to catch my eye. I ranted at my grieving mother about that damned K-1 form for fifteen minutes before running out of steam. My face got red, my nose ran, tears leaked out. I paced. I threw my arms in the air. I think I even pounded the table with my fist.

Oh yes, me at my finest. A proud moment indeed. I should be shot.

It wasn't about the stupid form. It was about the toll the strain of the time and emotion expended to support my mother and be there for her has had on me. How was she to know that every time she asked about the form it inspired feelings that, although I have been doing my damnedest, I'm still not doing enough?

I'll make the deadlines for filing all the forms. But there will be little satisfaction of a job well done. It will be more like a sour note of finality because no matter when I get it done, Hal still won't be here.

It's finally sinking in.
He's gone.

I miss him.

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Going to the Chapel

We're going to my mom's this weekend. But Friday night, we'll be in scenic Lynchburg, Virginia. A diverse quartet of ladies is converging there to see RMWC's presentation of The Vagina Monologues. A certain senior, a young lady near and dear, is representing the Angry Vagina. Or so I'm told. While I hate to make stereotypical assumptions, odds are good that Wendy and I will not be the token lesbians in the audience at this all-women's college. Even in Virginia. Woot.

Vagina is not a word that comes up often in polite conversation. The mother of the acting Angry Vagina, my friend Tina, is a bit apprehensive. I think it's safe to say the V-word had never passed between us prior to this event. But we both have one, so what's the big deal? I dunno. But it is. Silly me.

The real kicker to this outing, the thing that makes me chuckle inside because I find it ironic, outrageous and fitting all at the same time, is that the performance is being held in the campus chapel.

Wendy and I have never seen The VM. (See? I'm not really even comfortable typing the V-word. I need to grow up and be more like Kristina. She's fine writing such words and oh, oh so many more.) I'm looking forward to the show. Breaking a barrier. Bonding with friends. Girl power and such.

Vagina vagina vagina.
Vagina vagina vagina.
Vagina vagina vagina.

Nice.
I'm more comfortable already.

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Teach Your Children Well

There are many things my mother taught me. There are many things my mother did not teach me. One thing she never taught me is the how when where why and what of cleaning dust from a lampshade. I had to learn that for myself.

You may exclaim, "Ridiculous! The how when where why and what of cleaning dust from a lampshade is always one of the first skills taught to a daughter by her mother!"

Or perhaps you may snicker, wondering why I think special training is required for such a simple task as cleaning lampshades. Is that pity in your eyes? Good. Because I kid you not. For the longest time I did not even realize lampshades were something that could be effectively cleaned.

Don't get me wrong. My mother's lampshades have always been immaculate. It's mine that were a mess. I lived for years in ignorance. I'd watch the dust and dog hairs collect as three dimensional sculptures emerged, angelic and fluffy yet with a diabolical air. The lamplight grew ever dimmer despite higher wattage bulbs. Oh sure, I'd dab at it here and there with the duster (not effective), apply a damp sponge (really not effective), I even tossed them in the tub with a splash of Woolite (seemed like a good idea at the time). Out of sheer apathy frustration, I learned to live with those layers, opting to call it part of my decorating scheme.

But I didn't like it. I mean, who would? I'm not a neat freak by any stretch of the imagination, but I do enjoy dust-free surfaces.

As an empty-nester, I finally had enough free time on my hands to address this important issue. I wrapped my logical mind around it and figured out how to effectively keep our lampshades looking presentable. No no, the solution was not to eliminate them from our abode. It also wasn't to wrap them in plastic. The technique I now employ has been deemed, by me of course, a family secret. It is simple and effective, perhaps the same technique passed down by mothers to daughters everywhere. Just not by my mother to me.

Now if I could just get a handle on practical upkeep for venetian blinds. Can anyone pass me a clue?

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Pimpin' for Trish

One of my regular reads, Trish at Busted Stuff, won $200 for submitting what was judged as the best Rant of the Day to Everyday Hogwash. Sweet! $200 for ranting. I heart America.

By virtue of that win, she's now in their weekly contest with a prize of $1,000. One thousand American dollars. Sweeter!

Let's help her win! Cast a vote for her rant entitled "Frustration in 18 Easy Steps". It'll only take a second. Voting ends at midnight on February 24. There's no time to waste!

Thank you and have a nice day.

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Intimacy Simplified

"Love doesn't always necessitate intimacy, and those we are the most intimate with are not always our partners. What does intimacy mean to you, and who do you find you are the most intimate with?"


Such a question is cause for pause and thoughtful rumination. Or is it? Perhaps it is as simple as the first thing that popped into my head upon reading it: if you've seen me cry, we're intimate.

Or perhaps it is even simpler, such as the second thing that popped into my head: if you and I are comfortable passing gas around each other, we're intimate.

Ayup. That's it. Farting and crying. It takes both. Preferably not at the same time. By that measure, I can count on one hand the people with whom I'm intimate.

They know who they are.
I'm damned fortunate they share my world.

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It's a Word Thing

I'm a bit late to the blogging bandwagon of the Johari window. But here it is, the Johari window of this Suburban Lesbian.

The concept is simple enough. Presented with a chart of descriptive words, I chose a handful of those I feel best describe me. Now it's up to you to do the same. Then we get to compare and contrast: who has the same perception of my personal qualities that I do? Or better yet, do you see something I do not?

The interesting part to me and why I'm asking you to play along, is that most of you know me exclusively through this blog. I am curious how much of what I consider the Real Me comes through.

So humor me please.
Click and pick.
It'll only take a minute or two.
No registration required.

Tip o'the hat to Jennifer and Cris, who almost simultaneously introduced me to this activity. Yeah baby. I hope it was good for you two, too.

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My Shallow Side

Allow me to present the 2006 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit models.

Of note, every single one of these women has long hair.
Why of note?
I dunno.
You know me.
I never think about hair.

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Mellifluous Baritone

The Boy's voice never fails to awe me. His songs in Urinetown showed off his low range, much to my delight. There is just something about a smooth rich baritone that sends shivers up my spine. Not to say I don't appreciate his upper range also, but I adore the low stuff. The Boy can sing. The show, brimming with social commentary and delicious satire, amused and delighted on many levels.

Performances ran for one weekend only which meant The Boy's father and stepmother would be in town the same time we were. That is only a problem because I am selfish. Wendy and I resolved that by arriving Friday night so we could have The Boy all to ourselves for a bit.

I've bemoaned the relationship "issues" The Boy and his father have had. So when my son informed me his father was taking him grocery shopping Saturday instead of us taking him, only a brief flash of envy washed over me. And the old man could foot the bill this time! It occurred to me grocery shopping with his father would be a bonding experience. The Boy's love of cooking mostly came from him. I don't know if they know it, but I do: they share culinary styles. I wish I could have been a fly on the wall in the Harris Teeter.

After the show Saturday evening, we saw his father in the theatre lobby. Surprisingly (why that is surprising is a tale for another day perhaps), he left his wife's side and came toward us. And there it was. The thing that had been missing the last few times we'd seen each other. Excited, his face was aglow with an open smile, pride and delight shining in his eyes as he exclaimed, "He was amazing!"

Not to say his father has not always been proud of him. He has. How could he not? The Boy is incredible. But pride is a multi-lane highway. It's easy to take the wrong exit and get lost on a side street.

But it seems they are both back on the freeway now. Maybe even travelling in the same automobile. That pleases me more than I can say.

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Nothing Says Love ...

... like a heart-shaped ribeye.

Heading South

Our weather forecast finally has a hint of snow in it. So what do we do? Do we do what we've been wanting to do since winter began? Do we hang around and wait with bated breath for the fluffy flakes to arrive? Do we anticipate with great joy staying snuggled in our living room with our pups and a roaring fire in the fireplace? Do we inspect our snowshovels to ensure they are ready for their first use this season?

Oh no no no. Not this time. Instead we'll get in the car and head south. It's show time for The Boy again.

He is appearing as Officer Lockstock in Urinetown, a musical comedy. Urinetown. Who came up with such a name? It's the first musical in which he has performed that the music will be unfamiliar to us. He burned us a CD over Christmas, but it promptly got scratched. One of life's mysteries.

With song titles like "It's a Privilege to Pee," I sense the humor will appeal to me.

Has anyone reading ever seen the show? For that matter, how many of you enjoy and attend live theatre?

We'll be back before the snow melts. Hopefully.
Maybe we'll even get to shovel!

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Hair Validation at the DMV

Hello and welcome to yet another edition of Suburban Lesbian Talks About Her Driver's License and Her Hair. We'll wrap up this week's theme by discussing how the individual threads running amok through my life, and therefore my brain and my keyboard, merged together into the same lane. They bumped, albeit briefly.

Wait! No! Don't run away! I promise this is the last post about my hair. Well. At least until the next time. Some people feel I'm a bit hair-obsessed these days.

This story starts at the DMV. That's the Division of Motor Vehicles for those unaware. No one I know looks forward to going to the DMV, but Virginia's DMV is fairly efficient considering the number of people it serves. That doesn't stop my whining about having to go.

First stop is at the info desk. There you state your needs, are provided with appropriate paperwork and issued a number. You take a seat in the vast waiting area, fill out the paperwork, and wait for your number to be called.

The info lady manning the desk smiled as I approached.

I confidently looked her right in the eye, smiled back and, like it was not something either shameful or embarrassing, boldly said, "My license was suspended and I'm here to get it back." I tried not to cringe as the words rolled out of my mouth. They didn't taste very good.

The smile melted off her face like ice on asphalt in August. She looked down her nose with a sneer and flung the appropriate paper and my number at me. I slunk off to join the other sheep in the waiting area.

Along one wall are stations which each have a display above them that flashes the number of the customer being served. A calm female voice periodically calls out a number and station assignment: "Now serving E606 at window number 10." It's almost soothing. For the first 10 minutes or so.

My number was called 45 minutes after I arrived. I hastened to my assigned station, sizing up the woman behind the counter as I approached. Would she sneer at me too?

She was of grandmotherly age, overweight with long gray hair. Except for her bun. The bun on top of her head was tawny. Yes, she had a bun and long hair hanging down. Her expression screamed "attitude" but exactly what attitude remained to be seen. She lackadasically applied her Neutrogena hand lotion and recapped the tube as she read her computer screen. Glancing up, she gave me the once over and said, "So what kind of trouble did you get yourself into, young lady?" Her wry sense of humor made the whole humiliating process more bearable.

The paperwork with my old license and passport clipped to it made its way to the lady at the photo station. She called my name and as I approached, she was looking at my old license. Then she looked at me.

"Wow," she said. "Your hair is so much prettier now than it was when this old photo was taken."

As I departed the DMV, I sported a large grin. Not only because I was legal again but because some stranger complimented my hair.

I am such a simple woman. A simple woman who is now done talking about her hair. Until the next time. You have been warned.

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Sports Void

We've arrived again.
Arrived at that time of the year.
That time of the year with no football and no baseball.

Damn I wish we enjoyed basketball.
*heavy, deep, long drawn-out dramatic sigh*

No, the upcoming Winter Olympics and that World Baseball Classic, while potentially entertaining, don't count. They're not what I want.

I'm cranky.
Just leave me alone to pout.

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Outlaw

Bet you didn't realize you're reading the blog of a Suburban Outlaw. But you are. Since December 7, 2005, I've been a renegade.

But I'm legal again so I will share the shame tale of my Outlaw Days. It's been a deep dark secret I've kept to myself. Well. Wendy knew. But I swore her to secrecy. We spit on our palms and shook hands to seal the deal. Swapping spit with Wendy is a favorite pasttime.

It all started back in November 2005. On my birthday. Remember the present I received from a kindly stranger? I did what I thought I was supposed to do: paid the fine by the due date.

Perhaps I should have been alerted my violation was special upon receipt of a letter advertising attorneys local to the county where I had been ticketed. Didn't tip me off, oh no it didn't. See I'm not really up on how legal things work. I had not had a traffic violation or even been pulled over for at least seventeen years. Seventeen years! I fly low on the radar.

Imagine my dismay when I received a notice from the court that I owed another $185 on top of the $181 I had already paid and if they didn't receive it by December 22, my driver's license would be suspended! What what what! But I'd paid my fine! I read all the fine print on the notice but it explained nothing.

It's important to note this was right after my stepfather died. I had no time or energy to question it. I quickly scribbled a check and mailed it posthaste, writing it off as a very expensive lesson.

Then came the notice from the Virginia DMV dated December 28. It was in our stack of mail when we returned from the beach.

"Suzanne, you dumbshit!" it announced. "As of December 7, 2005, your driver's license was suspended due to blah blah blah that damned ticket blah blah blah. The suspension runs through midnight February 4, 2006. After that date, you must present yourself at the DMV. Bring documentation proving you have a legal presence in the United States and Virginia. We will at that time gladly issue you a new license after we keep you waiting in a large loud room for at least an hour and take a horrible photo of you. As a bonus, you must pay a $115 license reinstatement fee."

Wow. After having held a Virginia driver's license for 26 years, I had to prove I have a legal presence in the United States and Virginia. Over a speeding ticket. Alrighty then.

So I was caught speeding. It's not good to speed. People should just slow the fuck down, especially me. The first check I wrote reminded me of that. The second check reaffirmed it. I know already, I know. My years of not getting caught adhering to the letter of the law and being a safe driver are evidently meaningless. One infraction brought the wrath of the system down on my head. Here in Virginia, we live in The Now. Sure we do.

And speaking of The Now, it's February 6. I did the crime and have done the time--which equated to letting Wendy drive when we went out together and being particularly careful when I drove on my suspended license. (Note to The Boy: do not follow my example should you ever find yourself in this position. Take the bus instead.)

I'm legal again and it feels good. Every citizen of the United States can rest easier knowing another criminal has been fairly punished and at least partially rehabilitated.

I hope you all sleep easier tonight.

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Long-Haired Freaky People Need Not Apply

I don't really mean that. The invitation is extended for all people---especially long-haired freaky ones---to offer me insight on hair.

See, I'm letting my hair grow. It started because this Suburban Lesbian could not find fifteen minutes to visit the Hair Cuttery. Fifteen minutes is all it takes. The same woman has been cutting my hair for years. She's one of the few people I let get away with calling me Susan. She's fast. She knows how to cut naturally curly hair. Not every hair professional understands the nuances and intricacies of natural curl. I've had the bad cuts to prove it.

Many folks spend a small fortune visiting a salon. Not me. My haircut costs $14 and I tip my stylist $8. For $22 I get a great, fast cut. Works for me.

When I was younger I wanted long, straight hair so bad I could taste it. I fought my curls with blow dryers, irons, hairbrushes. It just grew like dandelion fluff. Then I matured and my inherent laziness took over. I learned to embrace my curls and love it short. It was so easy. Quick wash in the shower, a few spritzes of gel, run my fingers through it and voila! Done for the day.

The hard part was getting it cut every six weeks. The last time I visited the Hair Cuttery was on November 7. You can do the math. Wendy has encouraged me to grow it out a bit. Merely running my fingers through it is no longer enough to style it. Luckily Wendy doesn't mind sharing her hairbrush. My usual gel is no longer enough to control it. Luckily Wendy has a penchant for hair product and gleefully allows me access to her supplies.

How's this for pathetic: I've been late for work every day for the past two weeks because I have not adapted to the additional time it takes to deal with my longer hair.

I'm not sure I'm cut out to be so high maintenance. But maybe I just need some perspective. How long do you spend doing your hair each morning?

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It's February 2nd

I know someone who still has their Christmas decorations up.
Yes. Even the tree.

Our rule is everything must be down before the new year begins.
Whatever it takes.

How can that person sleep at night?

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Do I ♥ Sirius Satellite Radio?

I have my stepfather to thank for my love of talk radio. I didn't always love it, oh no. Man, I hated riding in the car with him when I was a youngster because he always had a fuzzy crackly AM station tuned to some boring talker. Bah.

I have, however, developed over the years a propensity for listening to talk radio myself. It had evolved. Or more likely I had. Hal graduated to Sirius Satellite Radio. My mom passed along his Sirius hardware and subscription to us since he's not using it any longer.

I'm still familiarizing myself, wending my way through the plethora of stations, mining for gold and discarding rubble. There's gold there, but yes there is rubbish too. Plenty.

The Raw Dog Comedy channel: Have you ever heard Chris Rock's comedy skit entitled "Race Wars"? Oh my god, if I had a nut I would have busted it. Gold.

Then there is, of course, Howard. I've been a fan of his for a long time and I do enjoy listening to his show on the way to work. The rest of what is broadcast on his two channels I have not yet found of interest. Gold Minus. I reserve the right to reclass at any given moment.

The one gay station I've happened across, OutGayQ or something like that: blech, blech and triple blech. Maybe I just haven't caught it at the right time. Rubbish.

Court TV satisfys the crime junkie in me. E! broadcasting "true life" celebrity stories can be entertaining. Current event and political talkers are worthy of a pause depending on their topic. Gold.

The number of music channels in all styles, genres, eras, you name it. Bonus points for the artist and song title on the hardware display. Gold Plus.

All the sports news, talk and games a girl could want to hear: Gold. But I am quite chagrined that Sirius does not broadcast any baseball. Bah.

Not driving out of the range of any given station: Gold.

I briefly paused on the Martha Stewart Channel the other day, a gentle female voice broadcasting: "So your yams are baking in the oven but you'd really like to warm the dinner plates before serving your guests. What is a hostess to do? Take a hint from Colonial women: stack your plates on a rack by the roaring fire. Blanketing them in a soft towel will keep them clean and fresh. The towel will also serve as a tent to keep in the warmth."

On that station, my jury is still out.
Sure. Sure it is.

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That Pain In My Hip

Anyone else have one? I used to just refer to it as That Pain In My Hip. Recently I've graduated to calling it sciatica. Labels can be useful.

Before I'd be asked, "What's wrong with your hip?"
I'd say, "Oh, it's just That Pain In My Hip."
I'd get a nod with a blankish look.
(Except from Wendy of course.
She knows all about That Pain in My Hip.)

Now I say, "Oh my sciatica is flaring up."
I get knowing sympathic nods in response.

Having a pain with a real name seems to inspire more understanding than a random pain which hasn't even achieved the status of a real label.

Saturday, That Pain In My Hip was distracting. My mother noticed. She noticed because some mothers have that instinct. I'm not sure I have it, certainly to a lesser degree than my mother. She always has a suggestion for relief. She's prepared like that although I don't think she was ever a Girl Scout. Saturday was no exception.

"Does your hip hurt?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Stay right there! I've got just the solution!" She raced from the kitchen and returned waving a Thermacare HeatWrap.

"Here, strap this on."

I bit back all strap-on jokes because, well, it was my mother. Instead, I did as I was told because while not always having been the most obedient child, I am a fairly obedient adult. Plus my hip really hurt. I'd try anything.

We spent the day lifting and hauling and sorting as we cleaned out one of her storage rooms. My hip didn't bother me all day. That HeatWrap worked wonders.

My family is in a transition period. The one where the roles flipflop a bit and the children take on an almost parental role as their parents age. But my mother, bless her heart, still mothers even while being mothered herself.

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It Will Be So Fine to See His Face At Our Door

The Boy left for college in August 2003.

Summer 2004 was spent working in Manteo, North Carolina. He went straight there from school and had less than a week home in August before returning to school.

Summer 2005 was spent working in Bigfork, Montana. Again, straight from school and his schedule allowed no time at home before classes began again in late August.

Summer 2006 approaches. And this year? This year he surprised the hell out of us by accepting a job in Charlottesville. Virginia. That's right. Just two hours southeast of home. Add gravy: it's only a nine-week gig. Then he's coming home for over a month.

We raise our children to hopefully be independent adults. We urge them to take chances, follow their hearts, work hard, dream big. Not all of them leave the nest with enthusiasm. Ours did. That's when my split personality kicked in. And don't bother denying it, we all have split personalities. I'm told a good Southern woman is trained to hide the splits in public. But behind closed doors, all bets are off.

Fragment One cheers, "Whoo hoo! He's working hard, loving where he is and what he does!"

Fragment Two wails, "Waaaaaa! He couldn't wait to leave home and get away from us!"

Then there's Fragment One Point Five. Well no. It's closer to Fragment One Point Two Five. It resides squarely in the realm of missingness and reality. I've grown accustomed to Personality Fragment One Point Two Five. It fits.

The Boy has had logical, sound reasons for selecting each of his summer jobs. But, selfishly, this time I do not completely care what his rationale is. After the year our family has had, I am savoring the fact he will be nearby and then home for an extended period.

Equally uplifting is that he seems to be looking forward to being home.

Go figure.

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Working for the Weekend

We're off to my mother's for another long weekend. Someday I may blog about what fills our time down there, outside of the obvious keeping my mom company. There is work to do. Plenty.

This evening just as I was arriving home, an old friend pulled in the driveway. She had been the Costume Lady at the high school theatre. Her daughter graduated with The Boy. I had not seen her since the kids left for college. Two and a half years ago. But news of her came to me through the gossip chain. Like I'd heard her son, two years behind her daughter, had attempted suicide. Then I heard she'd survived a bout with breast cancer. Did I ever call? Hell no. I was too absorbed in my own pathetic empty nest haze. Some friend I am, huh?

She came in, we chatted. Or rather she talked, I interjected occasionally. It was nice. Wendy arrived home and joined us. My eyes gravitated to the scar on the top of our guest's right breast. Her scoop neck blouse did not quite cover it. She joked that her new boob had recently been installed.

Wendy and I received some news tonight. Not from our visitor, but from The Boy. I'm still absorbing it. I had no idea such simple news would inspire such emotion. Completely caught off guard, I am. In a damn fine way.

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Hiding from Myself

Things are pretty out of whack here in my corner of the suburbs. You may not be able to tell by looking at me, but the true state of my universe can quickly be determined by checking out the interior of our refrigerator. It's not happy place in there, oh no it's not. See what I mean?

That mess, with the exception of the pizza box, has been there since December. I haven't done any real grocery shopping this year. Ha ha ha? Yeah I know. This year is only about three weeks old. Still, it represents a long time between grocery runs. We've either been eating out or scrounging through the cabinets for a quick fix or not eating at all. Cook a complete meal? I did do that. Once this year. With Wendy's help. It was good. We should do it again sometime. Soon.

I'm hiding. I know I'm hiding.
It's how I cope when I'm really not coping.

My hiding comes in different levels. Sometimes I hide from my friends and/or family, which usually consists of not answering the phone. Other times I hide from work, which usually consists of not answering the phone. Sense a pattern?

But then there's the biggie: hiding from myself, which usually consists of answering the phone and faking my way through work while doing little else.

Me at my finest. I end up making my life harder while telling myself and others I'm peachy. Truth is, I know better. I'm a smart girl. I know what it means when I hide from myself.

Considering I'm such a creature of habit, why does it always surprise me that my routines are the first thing to break down when I'm feeling the weight of my responsibilities crushing the breath out of me like a boulder on my chest stressed? I haven't even balanced my checkbook since November. Is the earth still turning?

Thankfully even when I'm hidden, Wendy keeps my drawer well stocked with clean underwear. I mean, expired milk in the refrigerator is one thing but hiding while wearing less-than-fresh panties would just be wrong.

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Suburban Slipper Sighting

I wore my slippers to poker night Saturday. I figured what the hell. My feet would be under the table most of the evening. No one would even notice. And no one did. Except for Wendy who shook her head disapprovingly, "You're wearing your house shoes?"

Hey. I was in a house. Just not our own.

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Blog for Choice Day

Today is the 33rd anniversary of the pivotal Supreme Court decision Roe v. Wade. Today I'm Blogging for Choice.

I'm not going to discuss my personal feelings on the subject of abortion. My personal feelings are not relevant to anyone except myself.

Notice the key word there? It's personal. Personal choice. I neither need nor want my government limiting a woman's options based on some other person's moral dictates and religious beliefs. I want and need my government to support a woman's right to choose what is best for her.

I've seen a simple bumper sticker which concisely sums up my thoughts:

"Against Abortion? Then Don't Have One."

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Neighborhood, Suburban Style

We attended a neighborhood citizen's association meeting last night.

Not all people are born with the Public Speaker Gene. Some of those without such a gene take the long and winding road to their point, stopping to pause and smell the flowers while singing their praises to Mother Nature along the way. Others stumble and fall headfirst over a cliff. But bless their hearts. At least they're trying.

Meetings like that are not entertaining and one has to really focus to glean relevant information. Yet I've run meetings of a similar ilk and know it's not easy. Volunteer organizations are never easy. So I'm patient. The whole thing had a surreal air about it: the people, the personalities, the presentations.

I'd say 99% of the 75 in attendance, were white. About 50% looked to be of retirement age, 20% of those elderly. That about sums up our neighborhood which, while in a racially diverse area, isn't particularly racially diverse. My gaydar indicated no other lesbians in the audience. No surprise.

So the President-fellow, a soft-spoken yet passionate elderly gentleman who strongly presents as a stereotypical gay male but who could just as well be heterosexual, stood at the podium and, as part of his presentation, named and thanked the military members of our neighborhood who have either recently returned from Iraq, are still there, or will soon be deployed.

Then a thin, reedy soprano voice hesitantly sounded in the rear of the auditorium. It slowly gained strength as a teenage girl sang "O beautiful for spacious skies..." and so on and so on, a passable albeit somewhat grating rendition of "America the Beautiful."

A carefully scripted moment but to what purpose?
Whatever the purpose, I think I liked it.

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Feed Your Head

Liz of I Speak of Dreams has a another fascinating discussion on her site, this one entitled College Illiteracy. As the parent of a college student, it was an interesting read. On a broader scale, the state of higher education in America should be meaningful to every citizen.

I will confess to scurrying over to Rate My Professor to look up the university The Boy attends and scan the roster of rated professors to read what their students think of them. The students remain anonymous. Isn't that special? Reassuring because I'm shallow, the names of his professors I recognized were all rated with happy yellow smiley faces. And a few chili peppers.

But don't get me started on the grammatical correctness and, shall we say, the less than well thought out nature of some of the comments. Which takes me full circle back to the first part of her discussion: Just how educated are our college graduates?

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What's Wrong With This Picture?

Perhaps, just perhaps, it is obvious what is out of place. And I'm not talking about the leaves on the ground that have not yet been raked or the pine needles needing to be swept off the roof.

She Who Shall Not Be Named, aka Mistress of Strong Winds and Creator of Extra Yard Work for Suburban Lesbians, evidently felt Wendy and I needed something more to do.

We are so blessed.

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Like Mother, Like.... Me?

Home again, home again, jiggity-jig! There's no place like home. Home, home on the range. Home is where the heart is. Home, sweet home. Bet you didn't even know I was gone.

I was at my mother's, checking items off her list. Wendy was also to go, but I asked her to stay home to tend to our neurotic dogs. More about that later perhaps.

On the agenda was a Friday morning meeting with my mother's lawyer/financial advisor to discuss arrangement of her resources for maximum advantage. My mother, she worries. My mother, she needn't worry as much as she does. There's a lesson there for me, I think.

That morning, she brought me a piping hot cup of coffee before I got out of bed. My coffee karma is some powerful shiat. Somewhere, sometime, in another life I must have spent a great deal of time bringing coffee to people in bed because I'm surrounded with folks who bring me coffee in bed. Lucky me.

Showered and dressed, I joined her in the kitchen for breakfast. She burst out laughing when she saw me. I had on black slacks, a black turtle neck and a muted orange silk blouse. Nothing amusing about my attire, I thought. Is it my hair?

"I'm going to wear a jacket almost an identical shade of orange!" she chuckled. "We'll look like twins." I noticed then she also had on black slacks and a black turtleneck. Oh geez.

"Well you'll have to wear something else," I said logically. I had only packed one appropriate outfit. She had her entire wardrobe from which to choose.

"I can't," she protested. "I painted my nails to match the jacket!" She splayed her fingers out for me to see her nails. Indeed, they were a lovely muted shade of orange.

About my mother. Jewelry, make-up, clothing, shoes. She goes to great lengths to coordinate such things. Me? Not so much.

After breakfast she disappeared into her bedroom and returned carrying a rose-colored suede blazer. "Wear this instead of that blouse," she commanded. Resistance was futile as well as impractical. We're enough alike without dressing the same.

Why does that thought scare me so?

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Sunrise, Sunset

One morning on our New Year's beach trip, we dragged ourselves out of bed to watch the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean. Why? Well why not? I will confess the idea did not appeal to me at first. It's no secret I'm not a morning person. Yet when I peeked out the window early that morning and saw the amazing colors washing over the horizon, I was suddenly inspired. I poked Wendy and said, "Come on! Come on! Hurry up! Hurry up! It's time! We don't want to miss it!"

We all gathered on the dune deck bundled in our coats, sleepy time pants and slippers to drink a mimosa toast to the arrival of the new day. Oh yes, the party started quite early that day.

The Outer Banks of North Carolina is a somewhat narrow strip of land between the Currituck Sound and the Atlantic Ocean. The way I understand it, it's more sandbar than actual land. Along some parts a bit further north, the sound and the ocean almost touch. Where we were staying this time, the sound was not visible.

Later that evening, I captured the sun setting. It's right over the sound even though water is not apparent in this picture. You'll have to take my word for it. You can trust me. It's over there.

These photos are for Mel. She's had over 20 straight days of rain out in her part of the world. Since these photos are less than two weeks old, I thought a reminder that the sun actually does still exist would be uplifting for her. And perhaps you, too?

Cheers!

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WWTD?

Here in suburbia, we have a healthy population of squirrels. I consider them entertainment, enjoying their antics as they chase each other through the treetops. Truly it is amazing how even the thinnest branches serve as their highways and byways. They build enormous nests high up in the treetops, visible only during winter when there are no leaves to obscure the view.

Pixie adores chasing them. She'll stand just outside the doggie door, poised and alert, surveying the backyard for signs of motion. Then bang! She's off! She flies across the yard in hot pursuit. That dog gets some air under her! The squirrels have no trouble evading her. They run along the top of the fence, taunting her.

Squirrels are not trained by their parents to look both ways before crossing the street. We have a neighbor who takes it upon himself to scoop up the local victims and give them a proper burial. At least that's what I tell myself: he buries them with full honors and a prayer or two. I've blocked from my mind the time I saw him unceremoniously dump a corpse right from his shovel directly into his trashcan. Yet I'm grateful he does it. Whatever it is he does.

And then there is Thomas, the cat who lives next door. Squirrels mean something different to him. Here he is perched on his own personalized stump, relaxing on a summer morning. He's a beautiful boy, yes?

Thomas is a mighty hunter, a successful one. Gifts of dead suburban wildlife are often left in strategic locations to be discovered by his owner. Birds and squirrels and mice, oh my! He's so proud.

One day as I got in my car, I noticed him crouched alertly near the base of a pine tree in our yard. As he slinked toward the tree, I spied his prey; a squirrel was huddled at the base of the tree. It was evident Thomas had already caught up with him at least once already: the squirrel had visible scratches on his back. Ack!

Now far be it from me to interfere with Mother Nature at work. Cats kill things, it's what they do. Some of them. But damned if I was going to watch it happen in our yard! I got out of my car and chased Thomas to the other side of his driveway. But by the time I got back in my car and refastened my seatbelt, he was again creeping toward the injured squirrel!

Again I lunged out of my vehicle, this time waving my arms and shouting. Stop for just a moment and envision that. Yes, I looked as ridiculous as you just imagined. That time I chased Thomas all the way across his front yard into the next neighbor's zone. All my shouting and waving got him moving pretty quick. Run, Thomas, run!

As I backed down our driveway, the squirrel was still quivering at the base of the tree. Poor thing. Yet catching a squirrel and tending to its medical needs was just not on my list of things to do that day. I om-mani-pedme-hung'd him and drove off to work. There was no sign of either Thomas or the squirrel when I returned several hours later.

So take that situation.
We know WTWD.
And we know WIWD.
So the question becomes, WWYD?

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What's This?

Hey now, hey now. What's this I have here? A blog? How curious.

I have a vague memory of blogging. It's something I used to do before I became Suzanne the Glorious! Ruler of the World! Lord of the Lands! Celebrated Despot of Civilization! Master of My Domain!

Oh yes, how I have grown. Can you tell? While my friends, bloggers and otherwise, have been productive members of society, or at least communicative members of society, I have withdrawn into a fantasy world where I reign supreme. Fear me. My troops are most powerful, my culture most enviable, my cities most developed, my ruling hand fair whilst I hungrily conquer even the most distant of lands.

Civilization IV anyone? The Boy gifted me with this latest in the series of computer games we both played over the years. It is but one of many games we shared while he was growing up. He understands the obsession. Personal computers were just becoming household objects in his youth and we embraced the new technology as entertainment. Once hooked, one is never quite the same.

Soon I will extract my head out of my ass and remember there is a real world out there. But not just yet. My troops are poised on the brink of destroying the puny civilization of Catherine of Russia. From there, we will march onward to crush Julius Caesar of Rome and Genghis Khan of Mongolia! Boo-yah!

Suburban warfare at its finest.
Tributes in the form of comments are most welcome.
It's lonely at the top.

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It Was But a Temporary Respite ...

So we had that fantastic trip to the beach with our friends. My slippers and I had a great time.

I managed, by day five, to push to the back of my mind the racing thoughts of what 2006 will be like for my family. Actually the thoughts were more about what 2006 will be like for me. I'm selfish that way. Those racing thoughts have been desperately spinning through my head, a big wild blob with arms and legs extended, waving and kicking frantically, grasping for my attention no matter which direction I turn. There is no escape.

I keep hearing my mother sob, "I was supposed to go first."

Within hours of arriving home, those thoughts were pummelling me yet again following a phone call to my mom. Sometimes we can get through a conversation without her breaking down, but not often. I can't say as I blame her. I'd like to do the same.

I curse my sister for living so fucking far away. I don't really mean that. I think. I just feel crushed by the unbearable burden of being me. Of being the one on whom my mother is counting on the most.

Ah, histrionics. I should keep them to myself.

How can I possibly be so selfish? Of course I'm grateful for the opportunity to be there for her. But holy shit. Can I handle the responsibility? Each time we talk, she shares with me more items added to her "list." That goddamned list. It's a honey-do list with my name on it. Wendy's name is on it too, the lucky gal. Thank god for Wendy.

Someone pour me a drink.
A stiff one.

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These Shoes Were Made for Talking

Hey hey, it's Suzanne's Slippers checking in. My friends call me SS for short. Would you like to be my friend? Come on in. Sit right down. I've got some pics from our New Year's trip to share. Lord help you if you are still on a dial-up.

Aside from being stylish and functional, the Slipper Gods of Good Fortune smile brightly on me. I don't mean to brag but I perform an important role in the process Suzanne calls "rest and relaxation." I'm more inclined to call it complete and utter slothfulness but you won't hear me complain. I've got a good gig.

Yet I didn't spend the whole week propped up! We participated in group activities and pulled our weight. Yo! Alert! I think the keg needs to be re-iced.

Check out the nifty glass sitting between me on the stool. A benefactor brought one for each guest with their names engraved on little silver plates. Sweet! This group has evidently outgrown Solo cups and Sharpies. Who knew?

Man, I don't know what Suzanne is trying to prove here, but she got several other folks to try it too. They were equally as confused but good sports nonetheless. How about you? Stand right up and try it now. It'll be fun, I promise. Snicker.

We also ventured down to the beach. Here's where I will sing the praises of Suzanne's quick and agile grace. Sing! I encouraged her to walk right up to where the waves were breaking. She got us out just before the surf caught my toe. We're a good team, she and I.

I left the coolest track marks on the beach. No lie. My tracks are way cooler than any old sneaker or bare foot or dog or sandal or bird has ever left on the sand. I dare you to disagree.

Here I am all ready to get in the car and go home. We're waving our last goodbyes to the ocean. Until next time, ocean. Keep it real.

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Sleepy Time Pants & Downtime

We'll be driving late into the night because we want to wake up to the waves crashing on the shore.

Yes oh yes. Despite the weirdness of December, our annual year end trek to the Outer Banks is still on. Our sleepy time pants are packed, the car ready to load. The Boy has been dropped off at the airport for his flight to Atlanta. He's got a bit of traveling to do himself and will ring in the New Year in Florida by singing at a friend's wedding. Watching him stroll into the airport, his head bobbing to the tune on his iPod, his suitcase rolling along behind him, tugged at my heart. He's become so independent. What a marvelous visit we had this holiday.

I'm yawning as I type this blog farewell to 2005, but am certain I will perk up once we hit the road.

Safe and happy New Years wishes, folks.

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Thursday Thirteen

Thursday Thirteen is the brainchild of Leanne, but I picked it up via Jen. Go visit them, right now if you wish, and play along. Or not. But at least leave ME a comment. Even if it is Friday. Or Saturday. Or so on. And so on.

* * * * * * * * *

1. I hope it doesn't take me as long as it took Jen to complete thirteen items. If it does, it will be Friday before I post my Thursday Thirteen. There's probably a law against that. Somewhere.

2. The Boy is down visiting his dad for a day or two. I got a text message from him saying they were discussing their "relationship." It evidently wasn't going well. I hope they can find a way to come to terms with each other. Fathers are special, as are sons. They need each other.

3. Wendy and I went to the mall tonight. All the clerks and patrons were happy, full of smiles and have a nice day's and excuse me's. Except for one screaming toddler perched on Santa's lap. Can't say as I blame him.

4. We do not have a real tree this year. We do not have a fake tree this year. We have a tabletop tree my sister-in-law sent my mother. Evidently she sends my parents a tabletop tree every year. It is made of branches stuck in florist foam. My mom asked us to take it to our house after the funeral. It doesn't have ornaments or lights but we may add some. Later.

5. We bought my mom a body pillow for Christmas with a very, very soft cover made from Pima cotton. I adore Pima cotton. We thought it might be nice for her to have something to hold in bed since she now sleeps alone. Is such a gift creepy or kind? I hope she likes it.

6. Today was my last day of work until next year. Oh sure, I have a few phone calls to make and will check my email and such, but I don't actually have to do any real work-work. Envy me.

7. Uh oh. I'm only on number seven and I'm slowing down.

8. Did I ever mention that my office postponed our holiday party because I had to be out of town for the funeral? How cool is that?

9. Wendy and I will be spending New Year's in the Outer Banks with a bunch of friends. It's a no-bra and pajama pants kinda trip, a laid back way to end the year. We are the token lesbians of the group, although Wendy came home with an odd rumor today that has us believing two of the single heterosexual women who will be there have been hooking up. I'm all like "WTF?" People are strange. I'm too old for that shit.

10. My sister has given up her robes. She wore them for sixteen years. She's still a Buddhist, but no longer a nun. My mind has not yet fully wrapped around the change. I love her dearly.

11. I have a date with my friend Tina to go grocery shopping tomorrow morning. 8:30 am. Damn that's early. I'd take myself later in the day but I don't have a car (see number 2). But it will be fun. Hanging-out-with-Tina-time has been hard to come by of late. I miss her.

12. The Boy sang the Navy Hymn at his grandfather's service. He brought down the house.

13. *insert heartfelt holiday wishes here*

Peace on earth, goodwill to men.

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A Million Points of Light

Is there anything more delightful than a pencil with a nice sharp point? Such a pencil is a most marvelous thing indeed! I've got a bunch of thoughts floating through my head tonight, but no real point. Bear with me. I may find one by the end of this post.

We went to a gathering at a friend's house in Bumfuck, Maryland a few months ago. (No, Bumfuck is not the name of the town. It is a description of the geographic location. You knew that, but still your mind took you elsewhere. Beware! Santa's listening. You have been warned.)

The first time we trekked up there, years ago, we stopped in Damascus to pick up a six-pack. Wendy and I strolled into a 7-11 and surveyed the refrigerator cases, dumbfounded. There was not a beer in sight. A nice biker dude informed us Damascus is a dry city. A dry city? Oh the unmitigated horror! He directed us to a bar just across the city line, Lou & Boo's or something like that. That bar has a lot of biker-ish character and sells cold beer to go. We fit in like a glove on a foot. We grabbed our beer and left.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Have you ever been at a party and become trapped like a fly on flypaper by the person who has a reputation for being the Most Boring Individual Alive? Sure you have. There is one in every group. It's a rule or something. The Eleventh Commandment: Thou shalt endure dull people because dull people need friends too. The Most Boring Individual Alive lives up in Bumfuck, Maryland. I know him.

I bravely initiate conversation. Obviously I am an idiot, yet also intrigued by the challenge. I am determined to find something interesting about this fellow. I've been trying for years. For example:

Me: "Have you read any good books lately?"

He: "Why yes, Suzanne. I'm in the middle of reading The Ideaology Behind the Formation of Quartz Rock Structures and Their Long-term Effect on Wind Currents in the Northern Hemisphere."

Me (eyes rolling back in my head): "Oh. Gee. Well. I just finished a fun mystery, part of a series about a female caterer who lives with her family in the mountains of Colorado."

He: "Oh... fiction. I never read fiction." His chest puffed up with pride, as if reading exclusively non-fiction was the grandest achievement to which a man could aspire.

But I think it takes all kinds. Fiction and non-fiction. Biker dudes and church ladies. Dry cities and towns that sell beer. Straights and gays. Buddhists and Christians. You get the idea. Can't we all just get along?

Holidays really mess with routine.
None of my pencils have points either.

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In the Moment

Home, home on the range!
Where tampons get flushed down the drain!

Sing it with me, y'all.
You know you want to.
How can you resist?

Put another check mark on the "pro" side of living in suburbia: public sewer systems. I've never lived with a septic system and if I did, I might convert to using The Keeper. My parents, however, live in the boonies. So when insult was added to injury and my period started the day of my stepfather's funeral, I did not sing "Gloria!" in exaltation.

Tis a week before Christmas and all through our house not a holiday decoration is up, not a package wrapped, not a meal planned, not a holiday card sent. Unsent holiday cards are nothing out of the ordinary, but usually we've got the other parts well in hand.

But we are home. Together.
For right now, that's enough.

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♪♫ We Are Siamese If You Don't Please* ♪♫

I am sitting here reveling in the sheer delight of breathing through my nose.

It's been days since I've had such pleasure. This past week I've cleared gallons, yes literally gallons, of mucus from my nasal passages. Did you just get the same visual I did? A neat row of galvanized steel buckets brimming over with snot? Yummy. Let's try envisioning the interior of my sinus cavities: swollen, red, inflamed, frantically oozing mucus in self-defense. My throat has been raw, my chest wheezy. Can I blame my body for reacting so harshly to the very specific allergen to which it has been subjected? I think not.

I'm going to enjoy breathing clearly for today. Tomorrow my sinuses and I will be descending again into the Third Realm of Hell, the land of the Siamese cat, also known as my mother's house. Knowing we'll be spending more time there has me seriously contemplating suicide a long term solution such as allergy shots.

Meanwhile, share my joy.

Breathe in.
Breath out.
Breathe in.

Ah.



* Post title borrowed from a Disney song I remember from my youth. Can anyone tell me what movie it is from? My memory fails.

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You Better Watch Out

Doesn't everyone know at least one person who has been Naughty this year instead of Nice?

Personally, I think the whole lump of coal thing, while appropriate to humanity historically and deserving therefore of at least momentary consideration as a holiday offering to those who have earned such recognition, is outmoded.

A lump of coal for a naughty person at Christmas is as out-of-date as my grandmother's size ten mink coat had become. My mother had that mink coat transformed into something equally as impractical as a size ten anything in our family: a teddy bear. I kid you not. Somewhere in the good old US of A is a place where new life is breathed into old furs coats that we larger modern relatives never have a hope of fitting our larger modern selves into. I think it's just across the bay from the Island of Misfit Toys.

The mink teddy bear sits on a couch in her formal living room. While it may seem a teddy bear in a formal living room is entirely out of place, Winston fits right in.

Yes. My mother named her bear Winston. It's a family thing.

I came across the ShizaGram, that is, I think, an acceptable modern gift alternative for the Naughty people in our lives. This gift item has the added appeal of being completely impractical, unlike a lump of coal that can be used in a variety of ways by a Naughty person with imagination. It can be burned for heat. Or used to write on the sidewalk. Or launched as a projectile at an unsuspecting stander-by.

Then again, the ShizaGram can be used those same ways. But it sure shouts "Naughty!" more than any old lump of coal ever could, doesn't it?

I'm making a list.
Should you be on it?

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I Am So Selfish

Yes, yes, it's true. Despite selfishness being a quality I quashed when I became a mother. Who has time for it with kids at home? The quash was only temporary. Having kids at home is only temporary. In the years since The Boy left for college, my selfish spirit has reawakened with a vengeance.

Wendy and I drove home from my mother's yesterday evening. All the way, delightful fantasies of long stretches of time with no one asking anything of me danced joyously in my head. I selfishly thought of the things I would do upon arrival at our comfortable little suburban paradise.

I thought of sitting quietly in my recliner in front of a fire with dogs in my lap, drinking cheap beer, reading quietly for as long as I wanted to do it.

I thought of sitting in our office at my computer catching on up All Things Internet via a connection that wasn't a primitive dial-up in a house that doesn't make me sneeze, wheeze, itch and blow snot everywhere. Goddamn Siamese cats. (Hell, I shouldn't complain. The view from the office is spectacular. Achoo.)

I thought of snuggling in our king-sized bed with Wendy and our two dogs, reveling in puppy kisses, a pile of warm bodies and familiar pillows.

I thought of waking up at my leisure in the morning, showering in our own shower, driving my car down familiar roads to spend quality time pushing paper around at work and reconnecting with my friends there.

I did all that.
It was good.
It was very, very good.

Except in the back of my mind was the disconcerting knowledge that I have to go back there. That I have to go back and spend my weekend there. My precious weekend will be wiped out in a haze of doing what other people need. Not that helping others is a bad thing, but in this case the things that will be asked of me are hard things, things on par with stabbing myself in the eye with a sharp pencil.

But I'll go. I'll do the things that need doing. And I'll keep doing them to the best of my ability until the needs are fulfilled. I'll even be grateful for the opportunity. Because I'm fortunate to have people in my life to love and who rely on me. Even though I'd rather bury my head in the sand and pretend the real world isn't really as real as it really is.

But you folks here now know the truth.
I'll be selfishly wishing I was somewhere else.

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The Gay Haters Make Good Chicken Salad

I was laying in bed Monday morning, not quite half awake, when our phone rang. Wendy glanced at the caller ID and said "Suzanne, it's your mom's cell phone. Want me to get it?" My sleep-fuzzled brain briefly wondered why the hell she was calling so early and I said, "No. She'll leave a message." I snuggled deeper into the covers.

Somewhere else in the house my cell phone started ringing. I pretended I didn't hear it. Then Wendy's cell started ringing. Guess who? That's right! My mom. Wendy answered.

My stepfather, Hal, had had a heart attack while sleeping. She didn't know if he was going to survive.

This is, of course, a lesson to unplug and turn off all phones before going to bed. Kidding of course. Sort of. It's not been a week for many jokes. Hal was probably dead before my mother began CPR. Definitely by the time EMS transported him to the hospital.

So began a most bizarre week for my family. Well. It's going to be more than one bizarre week, I guess.

Wendy and I drove the few hours to where they live and found my mother ensconced in a living room full of caring neighbors. It is a tight knit community in a small town. (Well. Small is relative. I know someone who calls the town in which my parents live the New York City of Virginia's Northern Neck. I call it a quaint village.)

My mother introduced Wendy as her "bonus daughter," which always warms my heart more than words can say. She's a peach, my mom.

So was he.

It's been a long week. Eating was the only normalcy so we did a lot of that. I've gained weight grazing on the plentiful bounty the villagers are showering upon the grieving household. That bounty is the source of the title of this post. I may explain it later. Or not. It's a bit of levity we've leaned on often this week. No disrespect intended. Really.

We had just celebrated his 70th birthday: the day after we ate Thanksgiving dinner together, the same day we all spent raking leaves, and the day before I hugged him goodbye for what was to be the last time.

Argh. Just argh.

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We Could Use One for Our Shoes

Parking garages are some of the creepiest structures around. Even when they are well-lit, there are still dark spooky corners, dead ends, and menacing columns. The film and television industries do not contribute to a healthy image for parking garages. Someone's always getting attacked or found face down in a puddle of blood or some equally as icky fear fodder for an imaginative mind such as my own.

My employer provides parking in our building's garage for the three days a week I am in Old Town. It is self-serve and has more "compact car only" spaces than it does regular spaces. That's fine for me, but many of the other patrons take up two compact car spaces with their humongous gas-guzzling SUVs sporting "W the President" stickers. (Not that there's anything wrong with that. We live in America after all. Please plaster your car with any stickers you deem fit. Just don't ask me not to mock them.) It beats the hell out of street parking in Old Town where one has to be vigilant and move their car every two hours or risk facing the wrath of the chalk-wielding ticket automatons. Those people have no souls.

The stairwells in that parking garage are sparkly clean enough to eat lunch off the steps. No one actually does, but if they did, they'd live to tell the tale. The same cannot be said for the stairwells in the parking garage at the Huntington Metro where I park several times a month. I will walk way, way, way out of my way to avoid those stairwells. Like miles-uphill-in-a-snowstorm-naked way, way, way out of my way. People pee in those stairwells. Closed Stairwell + Pee = Massive Olfactory Overload Possibly Leading to Dry Heaves. I'll risk the frostbite.

The best of the best is my favorite parking garage in DC, the one off the alley. I park there twice a month. I've never seen the interior. I drop the car at the entrance, toss the attendant the key, return several hours later and off they scramble to retrieve my car from the depths of wherever it is they stash it. Those attendants have memories like steel traps.

About two weeks ago I had been a major bedslug was running a bit later than usual. I zipped into the alley and was chagrined to see a large sign proclaiming "Garage Full. Monthly Parkers Only." There was quite the flurry of activity around the entrance: people, cars, more people. I caught the eye of one of the attendants, who shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. I pouted as I turned my car around and headed to my second garage of choice.

It costs $13 to park in my favorite garage: $12 fee and $1 tip for the attendant. The next closest garage, literally at the entrance to the aforementioned alley, charges $15 to park which morphs into $16 with a tip. How does that make sense?

Last Friday found me turning into the alley again. The attendant waved me into the garage. As he handed me my ticket, he said, "Hey, the next time the garage full sign is out, don't pay attention to it. Don't ask me anything. Just pull on in. I'll find room for you."

Who knew I had friends in such high places?

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Potato Talk

Last night we had dinner out to celebrate Wendy's birthday. That's right. My woman is now officially a year older than she was the day before. Funny how that works.

She ordered first. An eleven ounce Delmonico, medium rare, garden salad with Thousand Island dressing on the side, a loaded baked potato and a vegetable medley.

Ah, the good old vegetable medley. Our server, when asked, said the medley consisted of steamed broccoli and cauliflower. Oh, and carrots, he added as an afterthought. Wendy and I both made a face because neither of us has an appreciation for cooked carrots despite the nice splash of color they add to a plate. At least they don't taint the whole vegetable medley like green peppers taint whatever it is with which they are cooked. Cooked carrots are easily pushed aside, leaving not a trace of their ever having been a part of things.

I was still perusing the menu having trouble deciding what to eat. Then I did something I have never done before. I slapped the menu closed and told the waiter, "I'll have exactly what she's having." Boom. Decision made.

Wendy raised her eyebrows and said, "You want a loaded baked potato?" I just smiled and nodded. I'd never had a loaded baked potato before. Usually I eat them with just butter. I eat the skin too. It's the best part.

"What comes on a loaded potato anyway?" I queried.
Wendy said, "Butter, sour cream, cheese, and bacon."

Our dinner was served. Wendy and I exchanged a quick high-five because not even one carrot from the medley found its way to either of our plates. As for the loaded potato, well, it was buried beneath a mountain of artery-hardening toppings. The combination of tastes and textures was interesting and not even slightly unpleasant.

We never eat baked potatoes at home. We rarely eat potatoes of any sort at home. The potato display is something I breeze right past at the grocery store. I have been known to serve instant mashed potatoes every now and again, but I never eat them myself because mashed potatoes are yucky.

Time for a survey of sorts. Let's talk potatoes, people. What is your favorite way to prepare them? What toppings do you prefer on your baked potato? Do you eat the skin? Do any other people deprive their families of the joy of mashed potatoes simply because they themselves do not like them? I know I can't be the only one.

Or can I?

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♪♫ All I Can Say Is That My Life Is Pretty Plain ♪♫

An old house I sometimes drive past is home to a palm reader. A large white, blue and red sign affixed to the roof proclaims "Fortune Telling --- Psychic Readings --- Palmistry." The words are positioned around a large red hand in the center. Every so often there is an "Under New Management" banner hanging outside, but the name of the psychic reader never changes. She always goes by Annie.

I've never even considered stopping there, despite the tantalizing lure of another large sign posted in the window shouting "Special! Palms Read $10!" I mean, sure it sounds like a great deal and all. And who doesn't love a bargain? But I just can't see myself strolling in there, slapping my $10 on the table and requesting Annie's version of the future she sees written on my palm.

I've never had my palm read. Frankly, those folks scare me. Well. It's situational fear. I'd not be afraid to pass them on the street or stand in line with them at the grocery store, places within my comfort zone. My fear is of the unknown. The mystical. The double-hex-triple-whammy. What if my palm really has something to say? The secrets my palms must hold! I'm not ready to unleash such things on my conscience.

Oh who am I trying to kid? I'm far too practical to indulge in things of such whimsical nature. I'm a bookkeeper for pete's sake. It goes against my nature. I'll save my $10 for a case of cheap beer.

Across the street from Annie's House of Palmistry is one of the ancient motels that still operates along Richmond Highway. Years ago, it was named the Harry Smith Motel. I kid you not. The good old Harry Smith. Evidently, a weary traveller could get much more than just a room for the night at the Harry Smith Motel. The police shut them down but it has since reopened with a different name, Cedar something. It's not nearly as interesting without rumors of drug dealing and prostitution.

Where was I going with this anyway? Oh yeah. I remember reading something somewhere sometime that the lines on one's palms change through the years as one experiences life. I read it long enough ago to have since forgotten the details. But evidently not only can a palm reveal the future, it also speaks of the past.

Do fortunetellers read feet? The reason I started thinking about palm readers is because I've got these new lines on my foot. On the bottom of my right foot. Across my heel. Three of them. Parallel. What could they possibly mean? Curiosity abounds.

Yeah. My life is pretty plain. But I like it that way.



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Post title borrowed from the lyrics of Blind Melon's No Rain. It's echoing in my head after hearing it on the drive home from work this evening.

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Golden Boy

He's human and far from perfect and I do so adore The Boy.

In his high school years, Wendy and I referred to him as Golden Boy. A combination of hard work and talent combined with a healthy dose of charm and plain old good luck earned him that nick. That and his blonde hair.

I am loathe to jinx him. Can I be too proud of him? I superstitiously worry about repercussions of my unadulterated adoration. Yet it's no secret, that adoration. Nor is it blind. When he screws up, which all of us are wont to do now and again, my adoration does not lessen. It actually grows as I see him take responsibility for his actions, make amends when possible, and rebound from the experience. It grows as I see him out in the world, making reasoned decisions, mature and thoughtful yet maintaining youthful exuberance, free to be silly when silly suits.

He never was one to complain or whine about chores although he would procrastinate and require reminders. As an adult he pitches right in, usually volunteering rather than waiting to be asked. Remember my adventures in lumberjacking? There was plenty left to split. Not so much anymore because The Boy put a big dent in the work to be done. Muscles are amazing.

I can't even complain that he left his stuff all over the house or made a mess in the kitchen while he was home over Thanksgiving. Because he didn't. He cleaned up after himself. See? You mothers of younger children who have not yet mastered such fine skills can stop worrying. They grow up, leaving us scratching our heads wondering, "Where did this person come from?"

Wherever he came from, I am blessed. The world is his oyster and he is the pearl in my own.


(And with that statement, my friends, I believe I have just become the reigning Queen of Sentimentality, the crown snatched right off my own mother's head. This week's sign the apocalypse is upon us? Be afraid, be very afraid.)

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I'm All About Ritual

Well. Maybe not all about ritual, but I am quite attached to certain traditions. It's not like I'll go postal or even a tad postal if circumstances dictate a particular tradition cannot be observed. A pout, however, albeit momentary, is always possible. I remain civilized, flexible even, not unyielding to the winds of change. Yet I am a hell of a lot happier when things are as things are supposed to be. As things historically have been. Traditionally.

Take, for example, Thanksgiving dinner. I want turkey. I want cornbread dressing made from my grandmother's recipe. I want plenty of creamy rich gravy to pour over them. I want the cheesy asparagus casserole my mother has made for as long as I can remember. I want smooth cranberry sauce from a can, not that horrible stuff with orange peel and cranberry chunks in it.

I adore my mother. She humors me while pleasing herself. She likes the same things I do on our Thanksgiving table. She adds a menu item or so to those mentioned above but she never substitutes. Me, I usually don't eat those interloping visiting dishes. There's just not room on my plate.

My friend Tina and her family host a Thanksgiving After Thanksgiving gathering. While attendance is becoming traditional, I have no food rituals guiding what I consume at the event. This year, they served a turducken. As you can see from the photo, it resembles a deflated mass of boneless bird. Tucked inside is another boneless bird inside yet a third boneless bird. Who thinks of these things? It was tasty.

All hail the mad MS Paint skills employed to carefully mask the woman in the Vanna White pose. Her beauty is such as to blind you. Blind you, I say. You'll have to take my word for it. Word.

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