I Craved, Therefore I Created

It had been months since I made a batch of spaghetti sauce. Spaghetti just doesn't fit my image of an appropriate summer meal. Who wants to eat a heavy pile of pasta drowning in deliciously divine meat sauce on a hot summer evening? Not I.

But I craved, therefore I created. Perhaps it is a sign of autumn impending. Where the hell did the summer go anyway?

I've been making spaghetti sauce the same way ever since my mother first taught me how. I think I was around 12 years old. It's not a recipe I've adapted or changed in any way.

Well. Except for that one unfortunate era. A certain someone, a certain woman, concocted her spaghetti sauce using tofu and carrots. Therefore, obviously, it was imperative to craft my own in a similar fashion.

Carrots I knew about. But tofu? New to me. This was long before one could Google their way to expertise on a topic. Could I ask the woman I was gaga over to teach me? Oh hell no, that would never do. Then she'd know I was a tofu novice! How uncool! I was such a dork. I vaguely remember a trip to the library to read up on the every nuance of tofu.

Somehow I must have figured it out because I do recall batches of spaghetti sauce bastardized with diced carrots and blobs of bean curd. I even convinced myself it tasted good. What was I thinking? Who the hell was I back then?

Mercifully I eventually got dumped regained my senses and returned to formulating my sauce as it was intended: the way my mother taught me.

Good stuff, my spaghetti sauce.
It always brings me home.

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Tis the Season!

Biting into a peach can be such a crap shoot. Oh sure, it may appear to the quasi-educated eye to be a fine specimen. Yet the first bite reveals it to be but a fake, a fraud, a horrible pithy parody of what had been so eagerly anticipated.

But during the height of peach season, every one is a winner! Still, I select carefully. I give the fruit a quick once-over. Is the surface relatively unblemished? Check. Color? Looks good. I squeeze it carefully, gently gently. Does it give ever-so-slightly to the light pressure of my thumb? Good, good. Is the scent delicate yet fragrant and distinctively peachy? Excellent.

The reward is sweet juice flooding my mouth as my teeth rip through the delicate skin of the Perfect Peach. The texture is soft, gently yielding to my bite yet possessing a fleshy firmness that nonetheless melts in my mouth as the rich succulent flavor indulges my every sense.

The prepared partaker of the Perfect Peach always secures a napkin before indulging. Even so, one can be hard-pressed to avoid juice running down one's chin and over one's hand, making fingers ill-suited for anything except holding a peach. Somehow I never mind the mess. It's part of the Perfect Peach Experience.

Few things in life are as sweet as eating a peach in the height of peach season. That time is now, my fellow Earthlings. The season is upon us. Go forth and be fruitful. Eat a peach!

Don't forget a napkin.

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Soon It Begins....

This past weekend was all about prepping for fantasy football drafts.

Our money league, the one in which I won $200 last year (yes I know, yesterday's news, but I cling to victories great and small), has a live draft. All twelve team owners gather at the appointed place at the appointed time. Some clutch reams of printouts with notes scribbled in the margins. Others tote laptop computers. One shows up with nary a scrap of paper or even a pencil in hand. That guy, history has proven, hasn't a hope in hell of ever making the playoffs.

A humongous whiteboard imposingly stands at attention at the front of the room. A large color-coded grid delineates drafting rounds and owner names. Usually there is a Hot Chick to record the player names in the appropriate slot as they are drafted by we owners. Invariably, the Hot Chick never accurately spells certain complex player names like "Houshmandzadeh" and "Roethlisberger" but then again, who does? When she trips over spelling "Smith" and "Jones," however, I'm glad she's got her looks to fall back on.

One may think the atmosphere would be relaxed. But no, oh no. Our fantasy football draft is serious business. A nervous tension hangs in the air. There is little banter, less laughter. There are no snacks or adult beverages. There will be plenty of time for all those things later.

I haven't quite decided what to wear to the event. I'm not sure it matters, but can it hurt to dress for success? I think not.

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I'm playing in another league this year too, no money involved. An online league. A league full of bloggers! The excitement is verily palpable! These owners are so laid back, we've already had someone volunteer to finish in last place. No, it's not me. I plan on winning.

In the interest of full disclosure, there are two non-blog team owners. We have room for two more teams if anyone wants to join us. Drop me a line.

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Eyes Open

" ... Watergate does not bother me.
Does your conscience bother you? ... "

I blame it on Gina. Late again for her Pointless Points game, I departed with my points appetite unsated and I was cursed with Song Lyric Stuckage™. A Lynyrd Skynyrd song lyric no less. It's been days. Days! Still stuck. Eh, it could be way worse. At least I like the song. It could have been something by those Wiggles she mentions from time to time. Those dudes scare me.

The lyrics are bouncing around my mind completely out of context to anything else bouncing therein. They bounce. Independently. It's like a big rubber room in there.

I'm conscious of conscience these days. Does mine bother me? Why yes, yes it does. But only when it should. The key is paying attention. I try to heed its signals. My conscience gives out plenty of signals. Life is copacetic when I heed and act accordingly. It's a good thing. Obviously that's the major role our consciences play. Otherwise what good are they? As useless as a key drawer devoid of keys.

It pays to not fool oneself.
One's conscience rarely speaks without reason.
It's best to make time to listen.

Do you?

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Transposition

"Suzaaaannnne! Come look at this." Wendy's voice rang out from downstairs. I found her in the dining room, dancing from foot to foot, hugging herself tightly.

"Pixie brought us a present." She pointed toward the back door. Together we peered out to the porch and observed a body lying spread-eagle face up on the step.

"It's a squirrel!" I cringed.
"No, it's a frog!" she squealed.

I peeked again, more closely.
"No honey. It's a squirrel. A baby squirrel."

She peeked again herself.
"You're right!"

We both made sad pouty faces and her dance escalated to spasticity as she herky-jerkily fled the dining room.

I'm not used to such girlish behavior from my partner. Typically when a dead creature is discovered on our property, I squeal while she gets all up close and personal, scientifically curious, making relevant but weird comments like, "Definitely a boy. Look at the size of his scrote!" At times my mind has whirled considering preventative options should she suddenly decide to do a full autopsy.

But today, it was me behaving scientific and un-oogified.
"I'll need to take a picture!" I said impulsively.
Perhaps all the crime TV I watch has had an effect.

I grabbed the camera and got to work. As I photographed the unfortunate and quite dead baby squirrel I observed nary a mark on him to indicate the manner of his demise. No blood, no guts, no gore. I noted his not-yet-bushy tail curled almost artistically away from his body, his babyish ears, his disproportionately large feet, his delicate whiskers and, yes, his package. I imagined Pixie carrying him softly in her mouth like she does with her stuffed toys: trotting around the yard, through the doggie door, onto the porch, gently depositing him on the step.

My scientific curiosity fled as did my photographic zeal.

Wendy, by then, had joined me on the porch. She seemed more herself and offered to dispose of the body.

I mumbled an om mani pedme hung and left her to it.

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A Saturday Evening Stroll with Grandma

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Suburban 21, Tuesday Night Special Edition

What did you do to celebrate your 21st birthday? Personally I can't recall my own. Way back then, turning 21 wasn't a big thing. Eighteen was the big deal as it represented becoming a legal adult for all things great and small.

About the only new thing when one turns 21 these days is the ability to purchase and drink alcohol legally. That's not to say youth of today wait until they are "legal" to imbibe, but turning 21 is a coveted landmark in that regard.

Then there is, of course, the whole symbolic passage into Real Adulthood. I am reminded of a Pink Floyd lyric: "Welcome, my son, welcome to The Machine." Yet life doesn't have to be that way. I hope for my son it never is.

We hosted a party for The Boy on his 21st. A kegger. Yes yes. I'm not sure what that says about us as parents but obviously we don't think it says anything too terrible because we have no regrets. You, dear readers, may feel differently.

We were welcomed to be part of the festivities. We knew the no-longer-kids who had been friends of The Boy in high school and his newer friends from college. Other guests we were meeting for the first time.

The picture exhibits me about to partake of a Peppermint Patty administered by The Boy: a shot of pepper- mint schnapps and a squirt of chocolate syrup introduced simultaneously to my mouth. I was also initiated to the intricacies of a game called Flip Cup, in which, I am pleased to report, it is easier to achieve competence than is Beer Pong. The members of my team raucously supported my burgeoning skill.

(Truly I'm curious: would you have played along?)

The Boy wanted his party on his actual birthday despite the fact that it was on a Tuesday, smack dab in the middle of the Real World Work Week. Partying during the work week is evidently not anathema to young adults. His friends came from far and wide, north and south, east and west. I'm only exaggerating a little. They arrived toting pillows and sleeping bags, prepared to crash on our basement floor or wherever else a clear spot could be found. The extravaganza unfolded over three days, Monday to Wednesday. It was a very satisfying parental experience.

A satisfying parental experience? A keg party? Ayup. Quite so.

Wednesday morning, Wendy and I slept in and left the house together around 11:00 am. We tiptoed around so as not to disturb the bodies slumbering in the living room and in the basement. Dudley, our indiscriminate snuggler, curled up with the random body asleep on the couch as soon as it was apparent to him Wendy and I were not going back to bed. The house appeared messy, but not terribly so: Solo cups scattered around, discarded glow necklaces, a paper plate or twelve, a few partially consumed bottles of water.

Until I turned the corner into the kitchen and looked beyond. Home to the remnants of the buffet, the dining room was a disaster area. Our screened porch looked like a hurricane had hit. I closed my eyes to the disarray and headed off to work.

By the time we returned home, The Boy had gone to drop his last guest at the airport. Our house was clean. Not spotless, but damned near. The only obvious evidence of the party was a thank you note one of the girls had slipped under our bedroom door that morning and the empty keg on the porch.

Ayup. Satisfying. Quite so.

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QueerCents: Money & Mates

Wendy and I were recently interviewed at QueerCents for their Money & Mates series.

I love their by-line: "We're here, we're queer, and we're not going shopping without coupons."

Check it out. They post on some interesting topics.

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I'd Forgotten

The first night The Boy was home for his summer vacation, I cooked up a big welcome home dinner. I prepared what I thought was enough for an army. There were no leftovers.

An hour later he announced, "I'm about ready for my after-dinner pizza."

He was serious.

And so it has been during his visit. He's the white male equivalent of the proverbial bottomless pit.

When he first left for college, I struggled to adjust to cooking for two. My grocery shopping and meal preparation routines have since evolved, what and how much I prepare modified to suit the new family circumstance. I've found it challenging to revert to my old ways, even temporarily.

After feeding him for the past few weeks, I now wonder how he ever finds the time to nourish himself adequately while away at school. I no longer wonder why his grocery bill is so high.

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21 Years

Twenty-one years ago today, August 15, 1985, I gave birth to a bouncing baby boy at 1:07 a.m. Seven pounds six and a half ounces, 21" long. My labor was short, a mere seven hours from the first faint "was that a contraction?" until he took his first breath of air and scored consecutive perfect 10s on his Apgar tests. It seems like yesterday.

He and I had a little tiff recently when I asked him a question he'd already answered. Three times prior. My memory can suck, yet his birth statistics I have no trouble remembering. The same holds true for many other memories of our lives in the decades between his birth and now. Things that clutter my head, warm my heart and, at times, bring unexpected tears to my eyes.

Today he stands before us at 170 pounds, 6'-0" tall. Handsome, fit, self-assured and kind, his ready smile framed by incredible dimples mirrors the mirth dancing in his green eyes. The dimension he brought, rather, brings to our lives is more amazing than anything I ever imagined.

Happy birthday to my baby.
And yes, he'll always be my baby.

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Chivalry Lives?

Place: Our local Home Depot
Time: Saturday, noonish

The Boy and I were purchasing drywall, eight 8'x4' half-inch sheets. We had one of those nifty rolling carts, designed for carrying such product vertically, strategically positioned nearby.

Sheets of drywall are, for reasons unknown to persons such as myself, stacked in two-sheet groupings connected by a paper tear strip at each end. Since we were buying an even number, we were loading it much as Noah loaded the Ark: two at a time.

The first two sheets were clumsily maneuvered onto the rolling cart. Sheetrock is heavy, but not impossibly so. More cumbersome and awkward as anything of that size tends to be.

The Boy said, "Mom, if you can lift just a bit higher we can slip them on the cart this way." He motioned in the air indicating a path over the bars of the cart into the center section rather than sliding them from the end of the cart as we had with the first set.

"Well, I can try. But I'm an old woman," I said laughing.

Just as those words exited my mouth, another shopper was passing by. He continued on a few steps then stopped and turned around. He said, "Would you like some help?"

That kind stranger and The Boy had the cart loaded in no time.
I'm a much better supervisor than grunt laborer.

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Scarce

I'm gonna be scarce.
So scarce you may even forget who I am.
Oh nos!

But The Boy is home for an extended visit.
Extended in this case being three weeks.

Wow. Three weeks.
I don't think I could handle a three week visit with my mom.
Guess we'll see if he can.

So I'm gonna be scarce.
Gotta soak him up while he's here.

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Out With the Old

Several weeks back, my mother said to Wendy and me, "I want to do something nice for you girls. You've done so much for me. I've decided I'm going to buy you a new microwave."

My first thought was, "But we have a microwave." Never mind that it is a dinosaur taking up a huge amount of space on the kitchen counter. Never mind that it was purchased before The Boy was born. Never mind that it has a broken door latch that evidently can cause operational difficulties for people with long fingernails. Never mind any of that. It worked fine and I felt no strong desire to replace it.

But once my mom makes a decision, argument is futile. She had decided we needed a new microwave and that it should be of the over-the-stove variety. Preferably with a turntable. My mom has very strong feelings about the need for a microwave turntable. Mother knows best.

A quick aside about our kitchen. When we purchased this house, there were no upper cabinets. Yes that's right. Just bare walls, stark white tile, countertops to ceiling. There is a story there, an almost reasonable and logical explanation for the cabinet deficiency. Yet we had equally as reasonable and logical explanations for why we needed them. We filled those bare walls with cabinets all the way to the ceiling.

The cabinets look great. Except for over the stove. It looked unfinished, like something was missing. The stove exhaust vents through the floor, so we had no hood. Once the idea was planted, the desire to fill that void with a sleek modern microwave was compelling. I decided yes yes yes! Such an appliance would be a wonderful thing indeed!

My mother came to visit and we went shopping. It didn't take long for us to choose the new appliance. She insisted on paying for installation also. "It's a gift, Suzanne. A gift shouldn't create more work for you two." I caved in easily. We do have enough work to do around here.

I had two concerns I shared with the salesperson.

"Our kitchen walls are tiled."
"No problem," she assured me.

"There is no outlet in the cabinet above, but there is one near the stove."
"No problem," she said.

I took off from work to meet the installers at our house.

"We can't install it," said the short one. "The walls are tiled and there is no outlet in the cabinet."

I just shook my head and sighed. His supervisor explained via telephone that they couldn't accept the responsibility of drilling holes in tile. He was very apologetic. "If you have someone drill the holes, we'll come back and install it." Yeesh. I was reminded why I tend to mistrust what salespeople tell me.

After I hung up, the short one started talking again. He said, "Hey lady, I can go ahead and install this for you. The outlet and tile are no problem. I'll do it for you right now, on the side. You can pay me the same amount you would have paid the company I work for."

Oh lovely. Just lovely.
I showed him the door.

I hesitated to share the installation debacle with my mom. But the subject could only be avoided for so long. I had to spill it. By then I had read the instructions and knew it was an easy job. I have no qualms about accepting responsibility for drilling through tile. Wendy and I had also decided we'd be happier with a new circuit run for a cabinet outlet. After a visit from the electrician, the installation itself took us all of an hour to complete.

In an odd coincidence, our old microwave, the one that had been plugging along for over 21 years? It died about a week before we installed the new one. Almost like it knew it was no longer needed.

Kismet. Or something like that.
Mother did know best.

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Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow

You're not paying attention if you are unaware much of the country is being fried by a heat wave. We're broiling out here on the east coast. Not only do we have intense temperatures, we have humidity. Humidity so thick it is like a living force pressing one into the ground and sapping all strength as it causes sweat to bead the moment one ventures outside of air conditioned spaces.

A wonderful time for our company picnic, yes?

The Powers That Be thought so.

I, not being a Power That Be, had little say in the matter.

But I did bring along a cooler of water balloons. Those delightful little gems brought me a little power of my own.

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If....

... I blogged about work I'd be typing until my fingers were nothing but bloody little nubs. But since I don't, my fingers are safe and I'm not typing much at all. Instead, I'm adjusting in virtual silence as the swirling emotions about the ch-ch-ch-changes that have been looming on the horizon for months morph into what will become the New Normal.

Normalcy, some say, is overrated.
Yet I crave it.

Don't you?

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Ever Had One of Those Days?

* image scanned from some greeting card, props
to the artist and author whomever they may be.

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This Post Brought to You by the Letters "W" and "O"

Before our recent NYC adventure, I'd never stayed at a nearly $300 a night hotel before. At least not having to pay for it myself. I'm a rube, remember? Actually, I've just been a middle class suburban parent for so long, indulgent hotel expenditures never made it into my budget. My list of "Things That Are Grand About One's Children Being Grown Up" is becoming extensive.

Familiar by proxy with how expensive NYC can be, I didn't even twitch as I made our reservation for the W New York, The Tuscany.

The name put me off. It irritates me no end how the current POTUS has tarnished the letter W. The Boy's middle name, over which I'd agonized endlessly so many years ago, begins with W. Wendy's name prominently features the letter. The letter W should be fun, respected and honored, used judiciously to demarcate people and places that live up to the beauty of all a W can be. I'm pleased to report the Hotel W passed the test with flying colors.

Contemporary, clean, cool, staffed by perky young people who never failed to smile and were eager to serve. And the bed! Oh the bed! Oh the sheets. Oh oh oh those soft enveloping silky sheets and blankets. I could die in that bed and be perfectly happy.

Actually I did die. But it was one of those little deaths, not the permanent kind.

I received an email from the hotel a few days after we got home.
The subject line read "How was it for you?"

Obviously the walls don't talk.

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Out of Sight, Out of Mind?

I cleaned our home office today. It was time. Actually it was past time. Way past time.

See, I live by the stack. A stack for everything and everything in a stack. Periodically the stacks get unruly and start misbehaving. They mingle with their neighbors or slouch to occupy more room than initially allocated for said stacks. I have little patience for slouching stacks.

I filled the round file to overflowing. Three times. Anything remaining was officially designated a Vitally Important Paper and placed neatly in the pre-existing appropriately labeled files nestled in a precise row in the lower drawer of the filing cabinet. Filing is fun. When it's done.

I don't alphabetize my home files, I categorize them. While searching for wherever in whichever category I had seen fit to file the folder for "Pet Stuff," I came across a manila folder bearing a label written neatly in my best block print: "Mental Health."

"Huh," I thought. "So that's where I put it."

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♪♫ I Shall Call the Pebble Dare ♫♪

We recently went to see our friend Jackie perform in Godspell at a local community theatre. (She is not one of the butchers, a comment you will understand should you choose to read this entire post. Jackie is a Shining Star and rarely, if ever, sings off-key.)

That musical holds a special place in my heart as it was The Boy's final high school show. He played the role of "Jesus." (We also had "Judas" living with us that year. Life in the suburbs can be weird.)

As recently as this time last year, I don't think I could have gone to see it again. That whole empty-nest-fucking-with-my- head-and-heart mess was still too real, too happening. I've come a long way, my friends. Only took me three years to figure out how to be the parent of a grown-up child. But hey, I did it. Sort of. Yay me?

So anyway, since I am so emotionally mature these days I could attend the show. As each song began, fond memories of students who performed them at The Boy's high school filled my heart. Jenna. Albert. Whitney. Megan. James. Caitlin. LaVonia. Will. Greg. Mandy. Brandon. Karen. (Well, Karen not so much.) I swear I could hear their voices. (Have I always been so sappy?)

The title of this post has been stuck in my head ever since, as it often was back then. It's from a song titled "By My Side" which speaks to me of forward movement, of embracing personal challenges, of finding peace.

In other words, it's about growth. Or so it speaks to me.

The song is a soft female duet filled with delightful, lyrical harmonies. Or I should say it's supposed to be. The two women who sang it that night butchered it.

Thankfully I had Megan and Whitney singing in my head instead:

I shall call the pebble Dare
We will walk, we will talk together
About walking Dare shall be carried
And when we both have had enough
I will take him from my shoe, singing

"Meet your new road!"

Motherhood, I have discovered, is much like being the pebble.

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What's in a Name?

When I was born, my parents, in their great sagaciousness, opted to give me just two names: a first and a last. Whatever profound inspiration guided their decision, I was forever destined to leave a blank when instructed to fill in either my middle name or middle initial.

I'm sure they meant no harm. Don't get me wrong, I am truly grateful for the names I was given. But being known as "Suzanne (nmn) SecretSurname" is a terrible fate for a child to endure. Yet I kept on keeping on. What choice did I have? Akin to A Boy Named Sue, the lack of a middle name made me stronger, thickly calloused to the stigma heaped upon me by those more abundantly name-endowed.

My eighteenth birthday rolled around. My father, knowing by then how I mourned my dearth of name quantity, offered as his gift the opportunity to choose my own middle name with all the inherent legal folderol.

I was unprepared for my mother's reaction. She was decidedly displeased. But I was almost 18 and, typical of a teenager, more focused on my own desires rather than those of my mother. I accepted my dad's offer.

My search for a middle name began. It was arduous. It was intense. I mean seriously. Think about it. I was to choose my own name? I tried on thousands, from the ludicrous to the mundane. I made lists and crossed things off. I said them outloud and practiced signing them. I asked the opinion of others in my family. I did not ask my mother. She was not of the mind to be a fair judge.

In the end I chose a new first name instead, scooting my former first name over into the no-longer-vacant middle name slot.

Now you know: "Suzanne" is my middle name. My first name is rarely used, most often as merely an initial perching authoritatively in front of "Suzanne." It adds, I tell myself, an aura of panache to my signature and confuses people who know me only as "Suzanne."

My name experience naturally came to mind when I became pregnant. Being in the era prior to routine ultrasounds, we didn't know The Boy was going to be a boy. But since I really wanted a boy, I upped the odds in my favor by telling everyone I really wanted a girl. (Isn't that the way it works? It was for me. Tell not my true desire or it won't come true. I'm certain my strategy influenced the end result. I have since outgrown that approach.)

So certain was I of my success in producing what I secretly desired, I didn't spend too much time thinking about girl names.

But oh how I agonized over a boy name! It must be strong. It must roll off the tongue with a pleasant cadence. It must not lend itself easily to mockery and unpleasant nicknames. It must reflect his heritage and tie him inextricably to his familial genus. An added bonus would be for the first and middle names to be easy to spell and pronounce, considering his SecretSurname was predestined to be butchered in both oral and written forms throughout his lifetime. (Trust me on that. It is an unavoidable reality.)

Now, with wisdom only maturity can bring, I completely understand why my own name dissatisfaction had wounded my mother. If The Boy were to change his name or express displeasure with the one chosen so carefully for him, I would surely snivel and whine.

I don't really know if The Boy likes his name. He's never said one way or the other. Truly he must, as it is perfect for him.

Perhaps I'll ask some day.
Then again, perhaps I won't.
What if I don't like the answer?

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HVAC 101

When we arrived home late Sunday evening, the temperature inside our house was uncomfortably warm. Oh sure the whole northeastern portion of the United States had been experiencing stifling heat and humidity, but geez. Our home is our indoor oasis and should offer a cool respite from the whims of Mother Nature. It was almost as if the house was punishing us, distressed at having been left behind while we gadded around the big city.

As I hauled our bags up to our bedroom, I glanced at the thermostat. It read a balmy 79°. Felt warmer than that. I knew we raised the setting a bit before we left, but not to 79°. Maybe our housesitter, wonderfully frugal woman that she is, had adjusted it in our absence. I doubted it.

I pushed the little arrow down two degrees and listened for the system to kick on. Nothing but silence. I scowled and decided to give it a few minutes to catch up to itself. (Time fixes many things. Maybe it would fix the A/C too. I am an eternal optimist.) As I unpacked I kept a sharp ear out for the happy sound of the compressor turning on. I'd like to say I waited patiently, but truth be told I was feeling pissier by the moment.

Wendy wandered upstairs. I said, "I don't think the A/C is working." She looked alarmed. I shared the sentiment. We investigated the thermostat together. I switched it off. I switched it on. It stared at me with resolute defiance. I childishly stamped my foot in frustration. Heat makes me cranky.

"Let's go check out the unit in the basement." I shrugged as Wendy looked at me doubtfully. Like we'd even know what to look for. I envisioned us standing there gawking at the machinery, scratching our befuddled heads. Eh, no harm in that. At least it was cool in the basement.

We flipped the circuit breaker. Nothing. We contemplated. I scowled. We scratched our heads as I knew we would. I'd been meaning to change the filter for several weeks, so we decided to do it then. Eh, couldn't hurt. I could at least cross an item off my to-do list.

We have a mega HEPA filter on our HVAC system. The filter gets changed once every four to six months. The furnace folks charge $90 each for replacements, but I found them on the internet for $40. Guess where we buy ours?

As soon as Wendy slid the filter's bulky housing out of its designated position, bam! The unit kicked on and cool air began flowing. Hmmm. Whadda ya know. Clean filter installed, we brushed off our hands, high-fived, and vowed to take our filter-changing responsibilities more seriously in the future.

Have you changed yours lately?

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Sporks In New York

The day before we departed for New York City, a package arrived in our mailbox. A present! The two titanium utensils gifted from a lady on a mission to spread Spork Love to the world. Far be it from me to stand in her way.

Our shiny new sporks traveled with us on our weekend adventure, in effect bringing yet another blogging couple, sporks and scout, along for the ride. How cheesy is that? Wonderfully so.

We tried to show those sporks a good time. We didn't have any firm ideas of what we wanted to do while in the city and the sporks didn't express an opinion at all. What I really wanted was an icebreaker, an introduction to the city. I got one.

We met eb and Max at the hotel, dumping our suitcases in their room because we had arrived well before check-in time. Off we went, first to breakfast at Penelope. I ate eggs scrambled with asparagus and feta cheese, along with toast. Sourdough toast and a mimosa toast. (Don't worry. I'm not going spell out every meal. Those eggs were just some damn fine eggs and worthy of mention. Simple! Easy! Make them at home! Go. Now. Cook some. You know you want to.)

Suitably fortified, we then explored. On foot. Via subway. A taxi or two. Don't ask me where. The geographic specifics were too much to absorb. It's a blur. Chelsea. The Village. Times Square. Soho. I was too intent on the atmosphere. Enthralling. I'll connect the dots on the map the next visit.

eb challenged Wendy to a thumb war over some random comment and I, as I often am called to do in such thumb-centric circumstances, stood in as my gal's proxy for the conflict. My thumb kicked eb's thumb from one side of Manhattan to the other. She didn't stand a chance.

Wussy thumbs aside, she's one hell of a pathfinder. She didn't even need a compass. Led around like an absorbent little sheep with her happy head in the clouds, I didn't have to worry about what train went where, crossing against which light, when to transfer or turn left and right. I was free to observe, listen, smell and enjoy. To newcomers, such guidance was a true upgrade from making a cold call.

We walked miles, visited the MoMA, entertained sporks, gawked and clicked, observed a plethora of diverse people and places, laughed, ate fine food washed down with appropriate liquid refreshment, slept well and did it all anew the next day.

Oh and we gossiped. Yes that's right. About you. All of you. Don't you feel special now? You should.

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♪♫ One Night in Bangkok Makes a Hard Man Humble ♪♫

Much in the same way one crazy weekend in New York City will breed more than one blog post. Especially since it involved a tangle of bloggers uniting from three different states. Toss in Max's hilarious niece from a fourth state and two titanium Sporks newly transplanted from the west coast and wow. Just wow. There's a novel in there somewhere.

I'm wiped out. Wiped out like a bug on a windshield. But unlike the bug, I'll recover. Kudos to Elizabeth. Her skills as a travel planner and guide are unsurpassed. As I noticed the first time we met her over a year ago, she's shy and much more demure in person than when she's lurking behind her keyboard. I could be lying but I'm not. Or am I?

For now, I leave you with Bloggers Brunching at Zoë. From the bottom left corner, clockwise: eb and Maxine, me and Wendy, weese and her lovely wife.

There is more.
Oh yes.
Much more.
But first, sleep.
Oh yes.
Sleep.

Ladies, y'all are awesome.

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Seems Appropriate

via Overheard in New York, Jul 16, 2006:

Hobo #1: Back in the day, lesbians were forced to get married to men.
Hobo #2: So what happened?
Hobo #1: They got jobs and can afford to have girlfriends.

--53rd & 5th
Overheard by: Victor C.

More on New York later.
Right now, I've got job to go to.

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I Won a Prize for Having a Dirty Diaper

Recently.
I was excited yet mildly ashamed.
Dirty diapers can have that effect.
Even when a prize is involved.

Last weekend we attended a shower in honor of one of the many buns in the ovens of Wendy's co-workers. The specific bun was the short woman clothed in the green shirt. It was an afternoon filled with conversation among old friends and small talk with virtual strangers. And, of course, celebration of the widdle-bitty baby's imminent arrival into the world.

We are spending this coming weekend in NYC. New York City! The Big Apple. I've never been there, a fact which is, I admit, unreasonably humiliating to divulge. My boss has been mocking me unmercifully ever since he found out. Today as I was leaving the office, he said, "Make sure you pick the hayseeds outta your teeth before you get off the plane, okay?"

We'll be hanging with friends, meeting virtual friends and, it's been rumored, a few strangers. I anticipate new experiences, delightful conversation, cocktails with brunch, and tired feet.

I am more than a little excited.

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Lost. Must Be Found.

I looked all over for it the weekend we were working on the shed. It was absolutely perfect to wear for that job. The last time I saw it, it was tucked into the toolbox I packed for a trip to my mom's. Hey. Don't look at me like that. Don't you pack a toolbox to visit your mother? No? Well count your blessings while I count mine.

I must have left it there. At my mom's. Because I sure as shit can't find it here. Despite searching high and low, in and out, up and down, thither and yon, here and there.

When working on projects, it's a good idea to have handy pockets. Such pockets should be large enough to easily accomodate an adult human hand yet shallow enough to avoid contorting to retrieve the contents. They should be easily donned and removed, and perch comfortably just below my waist. Such pockets should hang within easy reach in any posture and be constructed of tough material with fortified stitching to withstand pointy objects, intentional pocket overcrowding, and other inevitable physical stressors.

I'm speaking of a work apron of course. Mine is ecru canvas. It has pockets such as those described above. Three of them. It ties with long strings behind my back. It's currently M.I.A.

It was a gift from my friend Tina. The occasion was the opening of the first (of four) high school musicals we produced together. The Boy was a freshman, Tina's eldest daughter a sophomore. The story of how we ended up as High School Musical Producers is long and convoluted with high, high peaks and low, low valleys. But Producers we were, with the scars to prove it. (Oh sure, of course I'm being dramatic. I'm speaking of theatre here! A bit of drama is permitted... Nay, required!)

That evening, we met in the lobby of the high school. The place was abuzz. We were abuzz. Opening night!

That was when she gave it to me. A piece of tape across the front labeled me as Producer in her neat penmanship. Tina had filled the pockets with items she knew we would need to have handy that evening: safety pins, advil, pens, bandaids, rubber bands, masking tape, scissors, markers, and other stuff I've forgotten but she probably remembers. I was prepared for anything.

I've gotten a lot of good use out of that apron since that night. I wear it often. It doesn't look as pretty these days, paint-splattered and dirty. But so, so practical. Oh yeah baby. That'll never wear off.

I must find that thing!

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Why Ask Why?

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Anywhere But There

Our hometown bank is Burke & Herbert, a family-run institution that just celebrated their 150th anniversary. Most of the other smaller banks in this area have been sucked up by the monsters. But not good old B&H, friendly service with a smile.

I frequent the King Street branch, usually twice a week. I was there on the fifth of July making a deposit. The manager smiled at me and asked how I was doing. We exchanged pleasantries as the teller processed my transaction.

"Did you go to DC for the fireworks?" she queried. "Everyone there got so wet!"

"Oh heck no," I said. "My parents took me and my sister downtown for the Bicentennial Celebration. It scarred me for life!"

And it did. Scarred me. Talk about hellacious crowds. Talk about heat. Talk about lines for the porta-potties. Talk about overused porta-potties in the heat. Need I say more?

It was 1976. I was 13 years old. Our family parked our car at the Pentagon and rode our bicycles from there to the National Mall. We staked out a place in the grass, using our bikes to frame off a little area to encourage people to walk around us instead of stepping over or on us. It mostly worked.

Yes the fireworks were spectacular. I do remember that. But it was a long day. The bike ride back to our car after the show was downright terrifying. Mass exodus: pedestrians, bicyclists, buses, motorcycles, planes, trains, automobiles..... it was crazy insane.

I haven't been back since. That's right. I deprived The Boy of experiencing fireworks in the Nation's Capitol. He should thank me.

Where did you spend July 4, 1976?

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Tools of My Trade

I just finished up the prep work for tomorrow's job. This particular client is a waterfront restaurant and, of historical note, is the first job I landed when I started working for myself way back when. It is a testament to their likeability that I still work there. Outside of the people, what I really enjoy is that they run their business in a businesslike manner. I was truly shocked to discover such is not always a given, particularly in the restaurant business. Oh, what a naive little bookkeeper I was way back when.

Usually I'm at that job site the first or the second of the month, but the holiday delayed my visit. Do I always wait until the night before to do the work? Typically yes. I have procrastination issues. I'm working on that. (Yeah. Sure I am. As soon as I finish doing something else.)

The scope of work includes bank reconciliations. Reconciling accounts greatly appeals to my sense of order. I especially get a kick when everything comes out right on the first pass, although it can be fun to track down errors when something goes awry. Yes yes, I'm a simple woman.

But the best part is that I get to play with what I consider the tools of my trade: colored pencils, highlighters and spreadsheets. I prefer my pencils to be sharpened to a needle point. My keyboard number pad and I have a special relationship. A rather zen-like feeling wafts over me as my fingers click rapidly over the keys and figures fill columns. It's all very soothing.

How about you?
What do you consider the tools of your trade?

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Of Birds and Automobiles

Years ago, Wendy and I visited her parents in southeast Texas. It was my very first trip to her home state outside of layovers at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. While there, the four of us set out on a road trip, spurred on by my burning desire to see the Alamo.

I am irrationally fascinated with historical places that earned their historical status because of war and death. Particularly death. I am warped that way. It's a dirty little secret. Don't tell anyone.

I made sure to read up on Texas history, particularly the Alamo and surrounding environs, before our journey. No way did I wish to appear ignorant of the state history. Her mother adores history. Must impress her mother. Must impress her mother with how wonderful I am. Must impress her mother to prove Wendy had landed herself a Worthy Woman. I think I succeeded, but who can really tell with in-laws?

We also visited a part of Texas referred to as the Hill Country. It lived up to its name: rural winding roads and glorious green rolling hills. We stopped for lunch in the quaint town of Fredericksburg. It was peach season. Lots of peaches are grown in and around the area. We scored some luscious juicy orbs. I do so adore sweet fresh peaches. So does Wendy's mother. Much bonding occurred while selecting fruit. She also turned me on to mayhaw jelly.

It was in Fredericksburg I saw a sight both fascinating and horrifying. I regret to this day not pulling out my camera and documenting it.

A Cadillac was parked at the curb by the sidewalk. As we strolled past it, something caught my eye. I turned to look again. I stared and blinked. I removed my shades, shook my head and stared some more. It was the back end of a bird. Well. It used to be a bird. But it was just a bird carcass at that point. The front half was imbedded deeply in the grill of the car. I'd never seen anything like it before and rather hope not to see anything like it again. But still. I wish I'd snapped a photo.

Fast forward to last week and a phone call with my mother.
"You won't believe this!" she said before I'd even said hello.

She entered her garage that morning and was greeted with what she described as a horrible stench. Seems a fews days prior she was out on the open road. A bird flew smack dab into the front of her Crown Vic ("Impossible to avoid it, Suzanne. I felt sooooo bad.") She had no idea what had become of that bird before the odor began. Then she opened the hood and discovered what was left of it lodged in the engine compartment.

She tripped on over to the local Ford dealer and a thoughtful grease monkey removed the carcass. No charge. She tipped him five bucks. I said to her, "A measley five bucks to remove a smelly dead bird carcass? I'da tipped him twenty." At least. Maybe even taken his picture and gotten his autograph for my scrapbook.

Shit like that doesn't happen in the city. Or the suburbs. At least not that I've ever heard. I've never seen a bird carcass imitate a grill ornament where I live. Are our birds smarter? More fleet and agile? More savvy to the dangers of Cadillacs and Crown Vics? Do they eschew close flyovers of the freeways and crowded urban roads, content to stay safely near their cozy suburban nests?

More importantly, why do thoughts such as these clutter my mind?

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Hear Us Roar?

One thing I adore about Wendy is her willingness to be part of a team. Our team of two. As individuals we are strong, but together we are a serious force.

I blogged months ago about our shed project. I was jovial and in high spirits, as I often am at the start of a new project. We spent two days digging in the dirt, hauling and compacting crushed gravel, leveling, adjusting, tamping, squaring, blocking. At the end of those two days, all we had to show for it was a shed foundation.

Two days.
One foundation.
No sheds.

Time flew as time tends to do. The foundation mocked me from the backyard and the boxes containing our shed kits did the same from the carport. Weeks ticked by. An available block of time with cooperative weather was elusive. A friend said (more than once), "Y'all got those sheds up yet? Why don't you just hire Pedro and Carlos to do it? They'd have them up in no time and you can sit and watch them work from the comfort of your porch!"

Our friend doesn't get it. That approach would defeat the purpose. The process of home renovation has not been about hiring folks to do the work. It been about learning, doing, discovering our limitations and working through them. Yes, there are things we will pay to have done, major electrical and plumbing top the list. But grunt work? We'll do it. Installation? We'll do it, be it ceramic tile or ceiling fans. Repairs? Bring it on. Sometimes we get to do things more than once because we don't get it right the first time. Despite the learning curve, the end result always brings a sense of satisfaction.

The financial aspect is not one to be ignored. We can spend more for quality elements when we save on labor by doing things ourselves. Take this shed project. We priced sheds installed on site. By doing the work ourselves, we are getting twice the building for literally half the cost. And the dollar savings translate into opportunity to challenge ourselves. To get off our asses and, as Nike suggests, Just Do It.

The price is physical labor and mental gymnastics. That which doesn't kill us will make us stronger. Or so I've heard. It's held true so far: we are stronger in mind, in body and as a team.

Was the result of this particular project worth the gallons of sweat and agony? (And of course there was agony. There is always agony. We must like it.)

But it was worth it.
Hell yes, my friends.
It surely was.

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Fire & Rain

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

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

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

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Abracadabra! Open Sesame!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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NIMBY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Rainy Daze

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Thwarted

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

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

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Wiggle When You Walk?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I leave that to my sister.

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My Stepsisters and Their Children

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

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

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

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

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

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

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It Happened on a Monday

I accidently ate a lima bean today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My mother would be so proud.

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Doggie Treat Distribution

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Magic Eight Ball, Anyone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Git Yer Own Sorry Ass Up!

On the Metro, I listened to two women converse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Take a Walk on My Dark Side

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

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

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

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

Go on.
You know you want to.

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Out & About

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

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

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

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

Favorite sticker of the day: Mind your own marriage.

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

*
*some restrictions apply

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Things One Just Shouldn't Do

Dear Lady (and I use that term loosely) ,

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

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

Signed,
Nauseated woman in the seat facing yours

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Shove Me In the Shallow Water

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

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

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

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

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

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

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My Woman's Work

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

Go on. Read it.

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It's Ancient History, But History Nonetheless

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our wedding party was small.

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

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

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

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

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You Better You Better You Bet

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

I adore you.
*smooch*

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

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Undoing the Laces

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

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

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

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

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

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Articulate Passion

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

"The lyrics are stupid," I said flippantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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