Baking with The Boy

Guess what? It's peach season again!

The church in our neighborhood holds an annual Peach Festival. We've never attended because, frankly, church people can be scary we are homebodies. Saturday morning as I sipped coffee on the porch, I could hear the strains of musical entertainment waft through our suburban neighborhood. It was the festival! I started thinking about peaches and couldn't stop.

My mother periodically shares with me her copies of Cook's Illustrated magazine. I adore that magazine. Not only does it offer tantalizing recipes, but in the process of crafting the recipes, the writers document the methods they tried that didn't work and why they didn't work. The most recent issue contains an article entitled "Improving Peach Crumble."

Peach Crumble? I'd never made it before, had never even heard of it. Yet the thought of delicious warm Peach Crumble topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream haunted me throughout the day. After dinner, I could no longer restrain myself. A late evening trip to the grocery yielded a sack of ripe peaches and a carton of vanilla ice cream. "Peach Crumble, you will be mine!" I chuckled madly as I drove home.

Often the joy of preparing a dish is equal to the joy of eating it. Such was the case with our Improved Peach Crumble. The Boy, no slouch in the kitchen, joined me in this culinary endeavor. The sheer delight of working with him lightened my heart and brought a silly smile to my face. Soon the house was filled with rich scents as the topping baked while the peaches macerated. The finished creation exceeded my expectations.

Tomorrow we'll celebrate The Boy's 22nd birthday. Sunday he'll be leaving on a jet plane and we don't know when he'll be back again. Instead of getting all maudlin, however, I will choose to focus on the sweetness of the times we do have together. And just like peach season, I know he'll be back.

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Suburban Mystery

Dudley started scratching in earnest late last week in a manner unmistakable to any dog owner. Pixie followed suit, albeit in a more dainty and lady-like manner.

Evidently it's flea season.
Color me flummoxed.

Back in the day, fleas were an integral part of the rites of summer. They were a seasonal certainty, much like stifling humidity yet infinitely more unpleasant. Fleas just were. They appeared, they reproduced, they drove dogs and humans alike mad with their presence.

Sure, I did what I could to keep them at bay. My efforts weren't always successful despite using every tool at my disposal. I'd spray the yard, bathe the dogs, bomb the house, over and over and on and on. I had a special line item in my household budget for flea combat. From July until the first hard frost, serious battle was waged. (Is it any wonder winter is my favorite season?)

Advances in science brought us wonderous veterinary products like Frontline and Advantix. Fighting fleas became as simple as applying a few drops between each dog's shoulder blades. Summer life was revolutionized.

Then one year, spring became summer became fall with nary a sign of those nasty little biting buggers. The next summer came and went and, again, no fleas. I began to believe the little bastards had all moved out of state, or better yet, disappeared altogether off the face of the earth. It's been at least five years since I've seen even a vague sign of a flea.

So, yes, now I'm flummoxed. Why after years of absence have they returned?

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A Hypothetical Question

Let's say you have a child.

Let's say said child is all grown up.

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

Do you:

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

Thank you for your time and have a nice day.

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Something About Turtles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can hardly wait.








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

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Stealing Hearts

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

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

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Our Yard, It's Calling for One

I've been plotting where to put it.

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

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

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

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

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

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Channeling SK

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

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

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

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

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

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"Makes Me Wanna See The Exorcist"

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

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

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

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

Wendy's comment became the title of this post.

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

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Overheard on the Metro

I was sitting in my usual seat on the Metro heading downtown. My usual seat is faces forward with nothing between it and the exit but legroom. It's the best seat on the train, bar none. I choose sides based on the time of day and which direction I am riding. I prefer not to sit in the sun because I can't wear my shades and my reading glasses at the same time. The Yellow Line runs from Huntington Station in Virginia past Mount Vernon Square in the District and is above ground almost as much as below.

Anyway. I was plugged into my iPod and reading a book. It was a hot day, a very hot day. The humidity made walking outdoors akin to breaststroking through a vat of the thick, rich shrimp & jalepeño bisque we adore from Roseina's. (Yes, I'm hungry right now. And they make a kick-ass bisque at Roseina's.) The cool interior of the train was a pleasantly stark contrast to the swampy outdoors.

Bing bong, doors closing, yada yada.

They got on a few stops down. I didn't see them, but I instantly became aware of the two women newly seated directly behind me. They conversed loud enough for me to hear them clearly despite my iPod. Of course I had to listen.

Woman1: Hey, I've been on this train before!

Woman2: Oh?

Woman1: Yeah, when the kids were in town I wanted to take them to see George Washington's house.

Me to Myself: Huh?

Woman1: When we got off the train at Mount Vernon Square, we found out it wasn't there.

Me to Myself: Did she really just say what I think she really just said?

Woman2: Isn't George Washington's house in the country?

Woman1: Yeah, it's somewhere out in the country.

Me to Myself: It's not in the country, you dumbasses, it's in the suburbs. The SUBURBS! About 20 miles from where you are right this minute and two miles from my home in guess where? That's right! THE SUBURBS. Yeesh. Doesn't everyone know where George Washington's estate is? Or at least in what state? It's in Virginia, not the District. Crack a history book once in a while or even just a newspaper, there's good shit inside!

I'm usually not that harsh with strangers, even in my head. Apparently I am a little sensitive about our local historical sites. This is not news to me.

The two got off at the next stop. I glanced up to see what they looked like. They were both brunettes with long silky hair, wearing flip flops, shorts and tank tops. Woman1 had a rack and a half. Nice. Very nice. I didn't get to their faces.

Yes, evidently I am that shallow. That's not news to me either.

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Ever Owned a Teen?

We have, but we don't any longer.

See, he's grown up. Adult-style, albeit with glimmers of the teenager he used to be. Much like the rest of us.

Sometimes one must dig deep to find the good parts of teenagers. But those not-so-surface parts are the ones I hold most dear and, delightfully, are the pieces that tend to stick around as they mature. To preserve perspective, the memory retains some less-positive parts too. It's much like fondly remembering the delightful scent of a cuddly infant fresh out of the bathtub instead of focusing on that leaky diaper and the subsequent artistic use of diarrhea.

It is not uncommon for newly-minted adults to take charge of old furnishings and such from their parent's home to outfit their own residences. The Boy did that for us two years ago when he got his first apartment. But now he doesn't have an apartment and he most likely won't for a while. There's travel in his future. So where do the fairly minimal possessions he retained get stored? Why, our house of course. Hey, at least we get to use his spiffy blender until he settles down. I've had worse trade-offs.

We put The Boy on a bus yesterday, off to his summer job at the Hangar Theatre in Ithaca, New York. The musical is Hair, his role is "Claude," and yes, he, along with the rest of the cast, will be naked on stage at one point or another. The last show we saw him in was The Full Monty. I'm sensing a dangerous trend.

The past four weeks were the largest chunk of time he'd spent at home since leaving for college in August 2003. I didn't really know what to expect and, due to a certain circumstance, was slightly apprehensive. Turns out it was the most comfortable we've all been with each other since his journey to adulthood began in earnest as a teen. Not that we were uncomfortable before, it's more like we've reached a new plateau. Something has shifted in the family dynamic. It feels good.

So should you find yourself near Ithaca in July, go see the show! Afterward, buy "Claude" a sandwich or something. The Boy may be a man, but he still eats like a teenager!

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Help Mel Win Money

There's $500 on the line.

Hop on over to this site and click on the picture of the skinny lady and her adorable smiling daughter holding bowl of Fruity Cheerios (aka the photo labeled Melodee H.). Each click brings her closer to the $500 prize. Honestly, their photo is the most adorable and deserving of your vote. Go. See for yourself.

$500!
Come on now, get busy.
Vote early. Vote often.
The contest ends this Saturday.
There's no time to waste!

Thank you and have a nice day.



PS: Mel didn't ask me to whore her out. I figure it's the least a fellow blogger can do. There's $500 to be won!



UPDATE: She won! Thanks for helping out, y'all!

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Other Duties as Assigned

Did you know I am a professional party planner? No? You thought I was a bookkeeper, didn't you? So did I.

Speaking of being a bookkeeper, I was snoozing to a cheesy Lifetime movie recently. Snoozing and TV-watching are perfect companions on a suburban afternoon. I can't be the only one who feels that way. Why else would there be so much crappy crap on TV if not to help an afternoon snoozer snooze?

So anyway, that cheesy Lifetime movie. Here's the scene: a pathetic young woman who still lives at home and her overbearing mother are having a heated conversation in the kitchen. "But I applied for a promotion at the restaurant, the hostess job!" the daughter whines. "You don't think I want to be a bookkeeper for the rest of my life, do you?"

My drooping eyes snapped open. WTF? How rude. What's she got against being a bookkeeper!? And she thinks a restaurant hostess is a step up? Yeesh. I groped for the remote, found it near my right hand and switched the channel. Ah. Baseball. That's good for napping too.

I like being a bookkeeper but I'm not much of a party planner. However since I was given the assignment, I am doing my best to rise to the occasion. Since it's work-related, I shouldn't really talk about it. The office is hush-hush non-blog fodder after all. Let's simply say it will be a rather formal affair at a fancy hotel in Old Town.

The party planning hasn't been as odious as I initially anticipated. Turns out fancy hotels in Old Town have great staff to help folks like me plan a party. Don't tell anyone, but I'm almost enjoying it. Next thing you know, I'll be tossing aside my red pencils and applying for a job as a restaurant hostess. Sure, sure I will.

Coming soon: Just what will this suburban lesbian wear to a rather formal affair at a fancy hotel in Old Town? And whatever will I do with my hair? I'm not quite sure yet, but I've got two weeks to figure it out. Wish me luck.

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12-Hour Turn Around

That's one reason it's been so quiet around here.

Here being here, of course. It hasn't been quiet there, as in our home, at all. Wendy, The Boy and I have been reveling in the joy of each other's company while bonding in the wide open spaces of our suburban habitat. Nothing like a little blood, sweat and tears to forge fond familial memories. It's a bonus our landscape is being rehabilitated in the process.

Wendy just read this and called me a sap.
Good thing it's true because I don't have the energy to deny it.

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Informal Poll

While brushing your teeth, do you usually:

A. Wander around multi-tasking, or

B. Remain stationary at the bathroom sink?

Thank you for your time and have a nice day.

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The Ostrich and the Sand

At times I feel like I live my life with my head stuck far up my ass.
At times I like it that way.

I've been excitedly blathering about our accomplishments at home, completely avoiding the topic of turmoil to the south. This is graduation week but The Boy will not be walking with his class. Surprised? Us too. The what-where-when-why-how of that are his and his alone. I am but a hanger-on, albeit with a heavily ve$ted intere$t.

It is an interesting exercise to let go without letting go. Of course, this circumstance is fucking killing me not the end of the world. The show will go on, the fat lady will (eventually) sing, blah blah blah. Blech.

If he were a helium-filled balloon I'd grab his string and knot it tightly around my wrist, all the while chastising myself for losing my grip to begin with. But that's not my job anymore. Instead I get to watch him bob erratically across a cloudy sky, my heart in my throat, as he finds his bearings. I do so love that boy.

This parenting stuff.
Oh my.
It's humbling.

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Suburban Quest

We're growing grass.
Well.
It's actually more than that.
We're crafting a lawn.

A lawn is not just a ragged mishmash of green whatever.
A lawn is an even, lush expanse of pure and glorious green grass.
Soft. Cool underfoot.
Always the perfect shade of green even on a gray day.

Visualize such a lawn.
Oh my, I can already feel it between my toes.
I want it.

It takes a lot of water to grow grass.
It hasn't rained much of late.
So we sprinkle.
Twice a day, every day.
With quasi-religious fervor.

We're growing grass.
It's serious business.
I'm expecting water bills even higher than when The Boy lived at home.

I've never before had occasion to grow grass from seed. I am completely enthralled. We have germination! These blades, thin as thread, stretch confidently upward.

Such a lawn as the one we desire is not a single year project. I'm thinking three years. I'm thinking in three years, with all due diligence, we'll be dancing barefoot in the backyard across our lush green lawn, our toes singing songs of happiness in tune with the landscape around us.

Another exercise in patience.
Can a person have too many?
It feels good to have begun.

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Got Her Done

The Laundry Room Smackdown was a rousing success.
Schmeggle (us) and Gafunge (them) no more.
Yes. Rousing! Quite.

Go. Here. Now. Go here now. See the finished results!

We started in late March and finished in early May, say six weeks. I originally projected three. My optimism often gets run over by reality.

eb and I checked in with each other every few days: "How's it going?" "It's coming along." "We had this idea." "We're not done yet." "What would you do?" "Oooo, guess what we did?" "We need an extension." "So do we."

Ayup, we're the same brand of lazy. We share common interests and, evidently, work ethic. Yet what we did to our Laundry Rooms is quite disparate. Is anyone surprised?

One of the best parts of this project? We had the tools and knew how to use them. Costs were reasonable, kept low by reusing leftover supplies from prior work. The learning curve didn't kick our ass. Well. At least not as hard as she used to.

We survived tolerated enjoyed five consecutive Sunday sojourns to the laundromat while our suburban Laundry Room was out of service. (Yes, we still call it the Laundry Room. Wendy vetoed a name change. Interestingly (perhaps only to me), the furnace no longer seems to mind. Go figure.)

Have I mentioned we're done?

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Garden Goes Gone

This morning it was there.


By afternoon it was bare.

Much like the dandelion field, that blob of foliage garden stood in the path of progress. We saved the rocks. And the hosta. We have plans for them elsewhere. The rest we neatly bundled for curbside pickup.

Wendy excavated an assortment of oddities buried in the dirt, among which was a four foot tall iron mailbox post, a beach ball, a handful of old school pull tabs, two croquet balls, a hammer, a green & white glass marble, and a seemingly endless coil of fat rope that resembled an enormous earthworm as she tug-tug-tugged it out of the soil.

An ancient shrine to suburban living? Usually ghosts from the past have something more interesting to say. The marble is pretty.

The next few weeks will be all about the yard. We'll be digging holes, moving some plants, eliminating others, spreading dirt, weeding and feeding, growing grass. Can you feel the excitement? I'm all aquiver.

Meanwhile after today's labor, Wendy is on the couch with her knee iced and I just swallowed three Aleve.

No pain, no gain. Repeat three times, have another beer and call me in the morning. That's good advice on any given day.

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Making a Point to Waste My Time

Here's Dudley tiptoeing through a large dandelion patch. Such a healthy crop we have this year! Unfortunately for them, they sprouted directly in the path of progress. This time next week, our backyard drainage will have been installed; the route cuts directly through where those dandelions now grow.

Today was one of those weather days that compels a body to be outdoors. I have a body. I was compelled. Situating Wendy's lawn chair in her favorite spot, I was offered a pleasant unobstructed view of the backyard expanse. I settled in with my creature comforts. I've been reading Animal Dreams and wanted to finish it (the ending held few surprises but it's a worthy read).

Sitting in the sun makes a body sleepy, even moreso when one is stretched out in a comfortable chair being caressed by a gentle breeze and lulled by the whisper of the trees. The sounds of the suburbs are a symphony. I soaked it up. Such was my lot this beautiful day.

Terribly self-indulgent, yes? To snooze in the sun for hours? On a weekday? One might think so, but I was busy. Busy letting my mind clear.

Sometimes what appears to be wasted time isn't time wasted at all.

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Lunch with Lisa

I have lunch with my friend Lisa one day a week, usually Monday.

This week she picked the place, La Piazza, a favorite in our lunch rotation. We both have a fondness for Italian food and their pasta is good eats. For $8, I get a nice salad, fresh garlic bread, and stuffed shells florentine. The place smells divine. It's a feast, particularly welcome since Wendy and I have not been eating well at home. As soon as Lisa proposed the location I agreed, despite being attired in a white blouse. A white blouse that now has one tiny spot of tomato sauce that somehow avoided my bib. It was worth it.

A woman occupied a nearby table. My casual glance took in a frumpy middle-aged woman wearing frumpy middle-aged woman business attire: mid-length polyester skirt, blouse with a ruffled neck, panty hose and sensible shoes with a moderate heel, all in earthtones. A bottle of red wine and a glass kept her company as she nibbled on her salad, a paperback book held open in front of her. I couldn't see the title.

As we lunched, Lisa regaled me with tales from her recent trip to Italy, a two-week sojourn she took with her mother to visit their relatives.

Lisa and I can be loud. Just a tad boisterous. Yes, yes, I know how odd that must seem. Me? Loud? Boisterous? Well. It happens. Sometimes we don't whisper. We were happy to be where we were and enjoying our conversation. Several times during our meal, the woman with the wine joined us in laughter. She finally said, "I don't mean to eavesdrop, but we are sitting so close!" We smiled and laughed, nodding in understanding. The more, the merrier.

I'm not sure what gave it away. Her mannerisms? The way she held her head? The timbre of her voice? All of the above? Whatever it was, I was reminded that outward appearances can be deceiving.

Soon she finished her bottle of wine and left, waving farewell.

I looked at Lisa and said, "That wasn't a woman, was it?"

She just looked at me and said, "Duh."
We smiled.

It takes all kinds.

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Taking Odds

I haven't been inside a grocery store in nigh on two weeks.

Our freezer is almost empty. Our stash of canned goods and dry staples is depleted. Fresh vegetables? Fruit? Milk? Eggs? Opening our refrigerator I see only beer and water. And the door full of condiments with nothing to put them on.

The cupboards are bare. We haven't prepared anything close to a meal since we had muffins (made with our last two eggs and water instead of milk) and bacon (from the freezer) for breakfast two Sundays ago. I'm sick of carryout. We need a personal shopper for times like these.

The other night we eagerly snacked on stale Goldfish crackers, cheddar cheese flavor. I felt like I'd struck gold when I found that package buried in the cabinet behind the dog treats.

Yet is the project done? No, but it's goddamn close. How can one little room be so time consuming? It just is. Then there's Spring, which has completely sprung. It's full of distractions.

Pictures Sunday, or I'll eat my hat followed by a home-cooked meal for dessert. I miss my kitchen.

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This Was Then

I'm starting to get all emo about The Boy's upcoming graduation, a mere month from today.

I can't help but think back to his high school graduation. We had a horde of family in for that event. I get a bit neurotic when family visits. Wendy and I hosted a party following the graduation, quite a large party by our standards. I get a bit neurotic when we host a party; the neuroses multiply when it's a major event.

Well. Let's say I used to get neurotic. I've changed since then. Really. I'm far less neurotic. Ask Wendy. She'll vouch for me. Maybe The Boy will too.

But I'm still sentimental. I was back then too, I just wasn't aware of it as acutely as I am now.

So! Flashback to when The Boy was a senior in high school, graduation imminent. It was June 15, 2003, a glorious bright Sunday afternoon, Father's Day, at Tim's Rivershore Restaurant, a charismatic crab house on the Potomac. Gathered around the table were Pop, Grandma Wanda, sister SK, sister Cathy and her daughter Maia, James our temporary son, Wendy, me and The Boy.

I snapped this pic of The Boy and his grandfather, my father, that day. It's a favorite of mine for reasons that don't need words.

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Of Labels and the Changing Thereof

I've been spending some quality time with our furnace. It's unavoidable, really. She lives in the Laundry Room.

While seemingly pleased to have company, I could also sense a bit of an attitude beneath her shiny exterior. I was curious. Perched atop a ladder repairing the ceiling, I initiated conversation.

"Something wrong?" I queried. "You still peeved about that filter? I swear, as soon as we are done in here, I've got a brand spanking new one for you. Fresh and clean, right from the factory. You know how good that feels!"

As I worked I babbled about life outside the Laundry Room. The furnace looked on blankly, kicking to life every now and again. The weather is still cold here. But the Laundry Room is warm, almost cozy.

The truth didn't come out that day, but it did the next. Seems the furnace is displeased with her residence being deemed the "Laundry Room." She groans the word "laundry" with greatly emphasized disdain. I briefly wondered how the washer and dryer have managed to peacefully co-exist in such close quarters with this diva.

But the furnace makes a good point. There's more mechanical function going on in there than there is laundry. And no way in hell was that room designed as a laundry space. I looked around with a new eye. What else goes on in this room? Why, all the hot water we enjoy in all the different places we enjoy it originates here! The source obtrusively occupies a prime corner, with shiny pipes reaching out like arms and disappearing into the ceiling at odd angles.

The space we've been calling the Laundry Room houses other important household functions, the heart of the house it could be said. How could I be so blind? Washing machine and dryer? Pfft. Why should the room name focus on them? Our beloved HVAC system feels slighted; the hot water heater has so far offered no comment but I can imagine how he feels.

Henceforth and hereinafter I think I'll call it the Mechanical Room, Mech Room for short. Yet that sounds stiff. Maybe the Utility Room? It is quite utilitarian and not much else. I can't call it The Pit anymore, not once the makeover is complete.

The one thing I do know is that it is no longer the Laundry Room. Wendy has not yet blessed a change of name, but she humors me often. We'll see.

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Usually Between 5 & 6 PM

My mother and I have frequent meandering phone conversations. She's been quite chatty of late, cheerful and busy. We cover a range of topics, slipping from one to another easily as some mothers and daughters can do.

Some highlights!

Recent oncology checkup: Everything is fine. Tamoxophin makes her feet cramp. That's gotta suck. "Well," I said, "You only have to take it for another four and a half years." We laughed.

Trader Joe's: "Have you ever tried their mango with chili?!" Further conversation determined she was so anxious to taste it, she opened the package while driving home. It lived up to her expectations in all the right ways. She loves her snacks, the spicier the better.

Something about the future: "I figure I'll just move into a nursing home near wherever y'all are then." That's a direct quote. I'm documenting it for future reference.

Innovations in litter boxes: We discussed in detail the features of a new litterbox system she considered buying. She decided against it for fear it would upset Princess, who would then refuse to use it. Princess lives up to her name.

Record winnings: She finished a recent mahjong session up $3.92. The table concurred: no one had ever before won that much in one day. Her hot streak continued the next day when she finished up $1.84. She's a shark and there is blood in the water.

Bathroom wallpaper: Despite shopping for months, she still hasn't found one she likes. My mother, she knows what she likes. Eventually it will find her, and Wendy and I will joyfully hang it. I selfishly hope it remains elusive until at least June. Odds are in our favor.

Happy Test: She twittered about the Happy Test over at Oprah.com. In the spirit of comaraderie, I took it too. I passed, meaning I did not fall into the unhappy range. I was also not in the extremely satisfied range.

Like I needed a test to tell me that.
She'll pass, too.
Happy is as happy does, or something like that.

.

Update?

We blew the deadline. Ah well, what's another week in the relative scheme of life? Our partner-in-crime was in favor of the extension. Watch this space. After-pics are so close I can taste them.

So we ran out of drywall mud. The Home Depot didn't have our usual brand. They had this pink stuff instead.

I was a bit skeptical. Outside of the obvious Sassy-like appeal, what self- respecting do-it-yourself'er needs color-changing drywall mud?

But then I used it. The texture is divine, almost like Playdoh but a bit softer. It is so creamy. Not to mention bright. Truth be told, it was amusing to spread that pink Playdoh and shape it to an adequate fine acceptable finish after it dried white. It easily sands to a smooth, satisfying surface. And oh my, how practical is that square bucket!

Little things please me.
Add this new drywall mud to the list.

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Hair Bands Gone Wild?

I knocked a hair band off the bathroom counter and it rolled across the floor, catching the corner of my eye. I startled. My imagination saw an insect. A fast moving insect. Like those fuzzy centipede things that lived in and around the house we used to live in. Except this one was black! I was relieved to discover it was but a hair band. I retrieved it and made a ponytail with my hair.

Those centipede things. I remember them vividly. They ventured everywhere in that house. They moved like the wind and came in all sizes, the largest I encountered was three inches in length but he had smaller kin. Only one color though, a tawny beige. They had hair. Or stuff that looked like hair. Little fuckers were as fast as lightning.

There was no "catch and release" program for those things, oh hell no. There was a "slap fast and wild with any handy shoe or newspaper and hope you hit them even though you don't really want to squash them because it's oogie and they splat but it's the only way and they have got to go!" program. We didn't see them often enough to develop a true technique.

When The Boy and I first moved into that house, we discovered a nest of them in the basement storage area. We got something to spray on it. Killing Stuff. Then we rock-paper-scissored to see which one of us would spray that nest. He lost. I fitted a mask to his 13-year-old face and armed him with the Killing Stuff. He did the job.

We don't have many bugs in this house. A few spiders. A cricket or two. But nothing like those centipede things. For that, among many other things, I am grateful.

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Mastering the Plan

Home improvement isn't all sweat and dirt.
Often it is sweat and numbers.

Last week a fine Spring day here in the Nation's Capitol brought us 80 degree weather with bright sunshine. Where did I spend it? Inside. Crunching numbers, crafting a spreadsheet, multiple spreadsheets actually, each a work of art in its own right, saved to disc with the grandiose name of "2007 Master Plan."

Were I always efficient, our 2007 Master Plan would have been in place before 2006 ended. I do so adore a calendar year. Unfortunately I'm not always efficient. To save face, I will apply the concept of the fiscal year to our plan. Our fiscal year now officially ends March 31, 2008. So it is decreed, so it shall be recorded.

This is not the first Master Plan we've utilized. We've had one each year since we bought this house. We work better with a schedule and a budget is never optional. Sticking to it is often a challenge but when the going gets rough, and it always does, the guidelines are invaluable.

Presently we are in fifth gear, cruise control set for 65 mph, rolling down highway 41.

Will we get a flat tire?
Run out of gas?
Hit a bump in the road?
Get stuck in the mud?

Probably.

Half the fun of a Master Plan is comparing it to reality after the fact. Such masochism draws me like a moth to a flame. So wish us luck. This year should be interesting.

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In the Genes

It's official and I may as well admit it: I am in a Royal Funk. The women among us will understand exactly what I mean. No one does Royal Funk quite like a woman.

I snapped at my mother on the phone today for asking yet again if my father will be attending The Boy's graduation next month. Then I took a deep breath and apologized.

The problem is that I don't know if he and his wife are planning to attend. Due to circumstances I will not detail herein, our communication has been less than stellar since November. Yes, November. That's a long time. It niggles at me, sharp little teeth nipping randomly. I'd like to think it niggles at him too.

Stubbornness is the root of my problem. Pride may also be involved. Encased in my Royal Funk, what I should do is obvious. I am driven deeper into Funkitude because I know if I do what I should do, what I've always done, it's giving in to the same old same old. I need something different. I drew a line in the sand. My line matters.

I think of those ducks in my neighbor's yard. I think of my neighbor's certainty about the bread they like to eat. What if she didn't feed them white bread? Would the ducks turn their noses up at rye? Would they spit it out if she offered whole wheat? Would they eventually stop gracing her with their presence because what she serves tastes bad over time?

No one does a Royal Funk quite like a woman.
And for the record, I'm a fool for pumpernickel.

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Suburban Photo Op

I was at my neighbor's taking pictures of the migrating ducks. They visit semi- annually to rest in her swimming pool. She feeds them, stating unequivocally that ducks prefer plain white bread over wheat or rye. I believe her.

The duck photos didn't turn out very well, but I did snap this bit while I was there. It's my friend Tina's hand, circa 1971. She was eight years old and lived then where we live now. Next to her hand print in my neighbor's concrete walk are three other little hand prints belonging to my neighbor's children.

I love stuff like that. A moment frozen as time rolls on, each print a story unraveling still.

Here's to my friend Tina. I like being part of her story.

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We Won!

Perhaps I should be pleased.
Part of me is pleased.
I like winning, but the honor here is dubious at best.

Our laundry room won the Smackdown! Thank you to all who voted, although I am amazed how many did not vote for our Schmeggle. What were you thinking?!

Our space already looks quite different from when we took those photos last week. The renovation has begun. "When's it gonna be finished?" you may wonder. If neither Wendy nor I had a job, if we weren't losing time to social obligations and travel, if there weren't waiting periods for this to dry or that to cure, if we didn't like to sleep, if all that were true our room would already be finished. Since life gets in the way, best case deadline is March 30, worst case April 8.

As we gleefully waited to see the outcome of our less than scientific poll, eb and I latched upon the idea of fixing up the two rooms simultaneously. Like Trading Spaces but without the trading or the designer and carpenter or the plump reality TV show budget.

It's about comaraderie and common purpose. Will it be motivating to know a friend is slaving in a similar fashion in their own home some 1,400 miles distant?

We'll see.

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Little Things

My car was in the shop. It had been making a noise, the kind of noise I pray will go away on its own but in my head I know it won't so I need to just suck it up and deal with it, that broken car kind of noise. Perhaps you've heard your own.

I won't bore you with the entire experience despite the tale being in and of itself not completely without interest. My car was supposed to be ready after work on Monday. Arriving at the auto repair shop at the designated time, I was displeased to see my vehicle still in the bay.

"Sorry, so sorry, it is not ready," said the owner of the shop while shaking his head sadly. "All my fault, all my fault! Tomorrow, tomorrow."

"But I need my car to get to work tomorrow!" I whined.

"Here," he said, pulling his keyring out of his pocket and removing a key, "Here. You take my car until yours is ready tomorrow afternoon."

Well. I wasn't expecting that. But hey, it solved a problem for both of us. Despite the loaner being an absolute piece of shit automobile, it got me where I needed to go and back again. I'm easy.

The next day, I handed the fellow his key and joked, "Man, tell me you don't drive that thing on the freeway!"

He just looked at me sideways and grinned, "No, no."

An insurance identification card floated in the back seat of that crappy car. I looked at it. The last name of the insured person had 18 letters, ten of which were consonants. 18 letters! It stretched out three inches in small print. His last name. My entire first-middle-last name spelled out in all its glory has but 21 characters, only five of which belong to the last.

I experienced a random moment of true affection for my short last name. Can you relate?

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Vote for Ghetto

I'd like to invite y'all to vote in the Ugliest Laundry Room Evah contest. There are but two entries: one room belongs to Wendy & me, the other to eb & Maxine. It's simple: just follow the link and view the pictures of two different laundry rooms. Cast your vote for the most horrid.

Yes, one of those rooms is in our house. We've lived with it for over three years as it worked its way up the priorities list. Its moment has arrived. I've got nothing to do with that other room. That is eb's problem. If I lived closer, I'd help her.

I have little use for existing conditions shame during our renovations. I mean really, it is what it is. We bought a well-used home in need of TLC. We cannot fix it all at once. It's a delicate balance of time and money. The projects we have completed are satisfying, things just take longer than we'd like. We're not the first do-it-yourself'ers to experience this non-phenomenon.

Starting with a real mess can make even the least improvement seem that much more impressive. So go on, vote for the ugliest laundry room. There are adult beverages riding on the outcome of the vote and we are thirsty. And we look kinda scary.

PS: We're gonna win ourselves some Simple Green too, number one product for cleaning as chosen by weese aka the Lesbian Queen of Clean. I know we will put it to good use.

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Out of the Blue

Phone conversation with The Boy on Tuesday:

Him: Oh yeah, I'll be home later this week.

Me: What?

Him: Yeah, TC and I will be there Thursday night, we may leave Saturday. (He really didn't say TC. That's a pseudonym. His girlfriend.)

I'm pleased, although instinctively my mind panics, "There is no food in the house!!"

Fortunately, I know how to remedy that.

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Clean Bright Spaces Bring Smiling Faces

I've never laid eyes on The Perfect Laundry Room but I've seen it in my dreams. Oh sure I've come across some nice ones, just never in my own home. Not yet anyway. The one in my dreams has a western exposure with large windows framed by flouncy curtains. The sunlight glistens off sparkling surfaces. The Perfect Laundry Room always looks clean and uncluttered.

Conversation between suburban lesbians touched on the topic of laundry rooms. I asserted our current laundry room qualifies as The Ugliest Laundry Room Evah. eb claimed theirs does. We didn't discuss The Perfect Laundry Room.

We are scheduled to begin refurbishing the space that qualifies as The Ugliest Laundry Room Evah. It's a nasty little corner of our abode in need of creative TLC. When we are done, it will be upgraded to Much Less Objectionable Yet Nowhere Near Perfect Laundry Room status. Eh, sometimes laundry must be done in the space you have, not in the space you want to have.

I have a sudden strong curiosity about other people's laundry spaces, whether said spaces bring them joy. I personally don't spend much time in our laundry room, but I'd like for it to be a joyous place because Wendy does.

Can there be joy in a laundry room?
We're gonna find some.

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Squeaky Clean

We use liquid soap at the sinks and bar soap in the shower.

The bar of soap resides atop a green sponge in the lower-upper shower niche. The sponge absorbs all bar soap residue, preventing the puddles and slime so commonly found beneath a bar of soap. A rinse and a squeeze every so often keeps it clean and fresh. A sponge is the perfect complement to bar soap in a shower niche.

Bar soap dwindles, melts away as it is used until nothing is left but a sliver of its former self. The sliver becomes so small as to be virtually useless when presented with the task of cleansing an adult woman's entire body.

I find it challenging to remember a new bar of soap is needed BEFORE I actually GET IN the shower which then necessitates GETTING OUT of the shower and opening the bathroom door to access the closet on the landing to grab a fresh bar of soap.

It feels like a long distance. It's really only six feet. I don't actually have to step out of the bathroom to reach the closet. But still. The door is open. I'm wet. I'm dripping. I'm chilled. I'm wishing I'd remembered the soap sooner.

Today I found a fresh bar of soap already waiting in the shower for me, with a bit of the sliver I had used the day before blended on top. Waste not, want not. The new bar had been used only once before, to soap the delicate curves of my lovely lady.

That's one lucky bar of soap.
Almost as lucky as me.

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Play Ball!

The last house we lived in was half a block from the high school baseball field. I could hear the sounds while hanging out the bathroom window. Or see it when driving home. Many an evening Wendy and I were drawn by those sights and sounds, the crack of the bat, the umpire's call. Off we'd go to sit in the bleachers and watch the boys play baseball.

Now we are three blocks from the high school and can't hear a damned thing. One must strain even to hear the marching band on football nights. Another sound I miss from the old 'hood are the bells from the Catholic church. When I was at my friend Tina's house last week, those bells tolled. Very nice.

But back to those other sounds, the sounds of baseball! The season is at hand which means, among other things, Fantasy Baseball preparations have begun. Or more precisely on my part, thoughts of preparation.

If you didn't play with us in our Blog Fantasy Football League, you missed out on the opportunity to win the fabulous trophy bestowed upon the Champion.

It currently adorns our mantle.
Wendy's name is engraved upon it.
She allows me to dust it.

Just what type of trophy will Commissioner Sporks select for the baseball champion? The buzz has already begun.

The baseball trophy could become yours! We've got room in our league for more teams. Novice, expert, tweener. Matters not.

Any takers?
Drop me a line!

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Taking the Plunge

I brought up the subject of poo with my friend eb. She remarked that we had discussed poo not that long ago. There we were talking about it again! But this was different poo and a different story.

My mother told me a bizarre tale. My version will spare you the convoluted who-was-where-doing-what-when backstory and hop right to the poo part.

She had a group of friends over to play Mahjong. They play regularly, rotating hostesses. That particular day one of those little old ladies took a big enough poo in my mother's upstairs bathroom to cause the toilet to clog and overflow.

That event unto itself is not bizarre. I mean really. Who hasn't had a toilet clog on them at one time or another? It's the nature of a toilet. And bowels. The question becomes, just what does one do when it happens?

In spring 2001, we hosted a French foreign exchange student. His name was Alex. He spoke limited English. For six weeks, he lived with our family and attended high school with The Boy. He had been with us for about two weeks when one evening he raced into the kitchen, gesturing wildly, a panicked look on his face.

Our toilet had clogged when he flushed. It was full of shit and almost overflowing. Alex knew what to do: get help! The Boy quickly plunged it. Problem solved, tragedy averted.

My mother keeps a plunger behind both her toilets. We keep ours handy in the closet just outside the bathroom door. When a plunger is needed, it is of great benefit to have one close at hand.

But that little old lady did not use the handy plunger. Nor did she mention to anyone at all that the upstairs toilet had overflowed. She just took her seat at the table and resumed playing Mahjong, saying nothing of the craptacular mess she had made upstairs. My mother discovered it shortly after the game ended and all had departed.

I'd like the give that little old lady the benefit of the doubt. I'd like to think she didn't realize the toilet was overflowing. But given the detail of events, it doesn't take Perry Mason to connect the dots. There is just no way she didn't know.

So I asked eb, "What would you have done given those circumstances?"

"I so would have plunged!" she stated vehemently.

Of course. I would have too.

And if that didn't work, I'd have hollered for help despite unavoidable personal mortification over the situation. It's embarrassing to clog a toilet. There's often poo involved. Real poo, not just talked-about poo. Real poo is private, to be shared with only the most intimate of loved ones and then only when it cannot reasonably be avoided. Or is it just me?

Can you plunge a toilet?
If not, I suggest you learn.
It's a skill everyone should master.

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Ramblings from a Woman with Muddy Shoes

Our weather has been warm.
Temporarily I hope.
The recent snow and ice melted rapidly.
Everything is wet.

My favorite puddle in the Metro parking garage?
She had plenty of playmates.
There was more puddle than dry pavement.

The usual creek has formed diagonally across our backyard. It streams from northwest to southeast, flows near the porch door and toward the woodpile.

The dogs can't help but walk through it.
Muddy dog feet are a nuisance.

We can't help but walk through it.
Muddy shoes are a nuisance, too.

Long ago, that "creek" was dubbed the River Ines (rhymes with Your Highness). We didn't name it but that's what pops into my head when it seasonally forms. I know others who remember it too.

It's nothing personal, Ines. You know I love ya, babe. But your river has got to go. Even after it dries up, we'll remember it and the woman for whom it was named. Memories are in every nook and cranny of this property. It is not uncommon for me to think of you when I walk through our dining room, my mind's eye seeing you seated at the head of the table, a cup of coffee at your elbow, your books and papers strewn across the tabletop.

Huh. I started out with the intention of writing about our need for backyard drainage. My fingers carried me to an entirely different place.

I believe the saying "No one ever truly dies as long as someone remembers them." Memories kick in at odd times. Like now. When my shoes got muddy.

We've got interesting ghosts kicking around our home.
I'm glad they don't snore.

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Blob* Friends

Picture time.
Better late than never.



* Blob was coined inadvertently by Syd's better half, K, aka The Hot Chick. Her accent begs to be licked like an ice cream cone.

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From Afar

I remember The Boy's first Spring semester with auditions for summer work. I wasn't there. I lived it vicariously through the sounds of his voice as he told his stories. That phone call when he announced his first job offer to be a professional actor. I didn't even care what or where the job was, the excitement bubbling in his voice was all that mattered.

Does it embarrass The Boy when I write about him? When I write about him like this? I don't know.

Anyway. It's that time of year again. Audition time. His "What will I be doing this summer?" time. But this year it's different. It's also his "What will I be doing next year?" time. It marks the beginning of what I hope will be his perpetual Spring.

The Boy is a senior in college. Have I mentioned that? Graduating in mere months? Perhaps I have. Mentioned it. But can it be said too many times? Not from where I'm sitting. Vicarious living and all. My baby. I still can't figure out where the years went.

So about those auditions. This week and forward.
Break a leg, my son. Break both legs.
You know you've got it going on.
Go grab it.

I'm so proud of him I embarrass myself at times.

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Phase I: North by Northeast

Among other things, this I have learned: there are many rocks in Connecticut.

Wendy and I were fortunate enough to attend what we hope will be but the first BlogFriends gathering. Face to face with people like us. Some we had previously met. Some were strangers. Most are bloggers. We are parents. We are not. We are women. We are lesbians. We are young. We are old. We are tall. We are short. We are loud. We are quiet. We are bold. We are shy. We are white collar. We are blue collar. We are blonde, gray, brunette and red-headed. We are all colors of the rainbow. And we are everywhere.

That fine Saturday, however, we were in Connecticut, land of the plentiful rock.

SassyFemme and her delightful wife Eagle Eye Fran put forth the invitation: Come to our house, BlogFriends! Eat our food! Make art in our snow-covered yard! Use our toilet paper! Scare our dog into hiding! Revel with us as you enjoy our hospitality!

Oh, those two are brave. Quite.

Here's a random picture of my fierce dog shadow puppet about to maul eb's weenie little snake shadow puppet. She didn't stand a chance.

Months prior, with the emotional commonality of sons in college, Wendy and I were the recipients of what has been deemed a Drunk Dial. No, no. It wasn't Sassy. It was Weese and her Absolutely Amazing Wife. It's no secret they live in Connecticut also. During that phone call, they, too, had extended an invitation for us to visit.

It hadn't just been the wine talking. A plan was hatched, approvals gained. Wendy and I would hie to Connecticut, be guests at Weese and her AAW's suburban estate. Together with them we would attend Sassy and Fran's party. The plan twisted as the timing of my sister's visit overlapped. Perhaps she could come with us!

Because isn't that what everyone does? Plan a visit to a friend's house then invite your family along?

Graciousness abounds. My sister, Sherab Khandro, was welcomed on the adventure.

And what an adventure it was!
I sit here still in awe of the entire experience.
Details will come out along the way as details have a tendency to do.

Right now I am savoring the glow.
I want to bottle this feeling.

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Planes, Trains & Automobiles

Phase I of Suburban Lesbian's Excellent Adventures has ended. If we survive Phase II, I'll be back to tell the tales.

Y'all behave.

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I Blame Public Transportation

I have a vicious cold.
It blew into my life the same day all the sleet did.

The frozen sheet of sleet can stay around as long as it likes.
But this sickness needs to go.

As I pulled the last tissue from my box of Puff's Plus, a tear ran down my cheek. I was certain it was the last Puff in the house. I'd have to use something other than a wonderfully soft, delicately lotioned tissue to wipe my stuffy yet dripping nose. Imagine my delight---yes, sheer rapture---at the chance discovery of an almost full box of tissues behind the stack of books next to our bed. Score!

My usual cold remedies have done nothing to quash my symptoms. So I lay like a lump, drink plenty of fluids and moan.

Have I mentioned my sister arrives tomorrow?
This sickness needs to go now!

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In the Soft Glow of the Streetlamp

It is 11:30 pm.
It has been sleeting all day.
It is sleeting right now.
It is supposed to sleet all night.

I glanced out our picture window.
It is all shiny out there.
I spied a bunny in the front yard.
Just hanging out.
In the sleet.

Where is he going?
Why did he pause in our yard?
To catch his breath?
Why is he out in this weather?
Does his mother know where he is?
Why isn't he curled up in his rabbit hole, warm and dry?
Who goes out voluntarily on a night like tonight?

Odd circumstance for a bunny, I thought.
He stayed about 10 minutes then departed.

That bunny could use a sweater on a night like tonight.

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Comment Comment

A comment my friend Liz from I Speak of Dreams left on this post hasn't sat well with me since I read it:

"... The deal is, though, people who switch teams after having kids... it is hard on the kids, as the team-switching implies the death of the family of origin."

Team-switching implies the death of the family of origin? With all due respect, I couldn't disagree more.

Such could be implied in any instance when parents split up and change is wrought to an existing family structure. Team-switching as a component adds but another wrinkle to the whole process, just one among many.

Or am I just talking out of my ass to cover my own guilt at the merest implication my own life caused something as tragic-sounding as the demise of The Boy's family of origin?

I know better. How a family--an entire family--handles such an issue determines the experience a child has. Implications aside, reality counts. Family can be fluid and strong as steel. I'm happy to say ours is.

On a completely unrelated note, our crocuses bloomed last week. It's only February. I'll miss seeing them when Spring really arrives.

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I'm Too Sexy for My Car

The first automobile I ever owned was a 1960-something Fiat Spyder convertible. I bought it with money my maternal grandfather gave me. Bright yellow with black running boards and roof, my nineteen-year-old self looked damn good in it.

Three years later, I was driving a cherry red 1983 Ford Mustang GT 5.0. Yes, a muscle car of sorts. Yes, my then-husband picked it out. But I liked it just fine. Zero to 60 in second gear made getting on the highway a rush of pure joy. I got my first speeding ticket in that car. I got my second, third, and fourth speeding tickets in that car. I learned the obvious lesson: people driving red cars receive more speeding tickets. I swore I would never own another red car.

I drove it for nine years before trading it in on something better suited to my life: a silver Toyota Corolla stationwagon, circa 1992. I had a son and two dogs. We liked to go places together. It fit.

Today I drive a 1999 Toyota Camry. It's a common shade of light brown, taupe maybe. There are at least one million others like it on the road. The missing paint on the rear bumper is one way to quickly identify it as mine in a parking lot. It's economical, functional and halfway comfortable.

I work for an engineer who chuckled, "You drive an accountant's car alright."

Man. That cut. Mocked by an engineer.
But hey, it is what it is.

Last week, a gas station attendant struck up a conversation with me as he checked my oil while I pumped gas. He said, "I have a car just like this except it's blue. 1999 yes? You like yours?" I answered without thinking, "Yeah I like it well enough. I'll probably be driving it for another five years or so."

That thought depressed me. I'm one of those people who buys a car and drives it until most of its useful life is lived. I should be pleased if my car lasts that much longer, not depressed. Still. I'm tired of the one I have. But I'll keep driving it. Replacing a car is too much work: shopping, comparing, educating, test driving, salespeople. Plus I'm cheap frugal.

My car will continue to say nothing about me as we blend into our suburban environs going about our daily tasks in an economical and nondescript manner. And I'll keep wondering why I don't enjoy blending in as much as I used to.

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"Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Lend Me Your Ears"

Do I seem a sympathetic listener? Do I present as understanding and non-judgmental? Do I appear the type to offer solid advice when solicited?

I don't think so either. Someone should tell that to the friends and acquaintances who recently decided, en masse but apart, to test those theories.

People with issues--real live angsty situations--who need someone to "talk to" surround me. It's a fucking epidemic, hitting from all sides: upside, outside, redside, blueside, and of course the ever popular "blindside." The past two weeks have been one startling dramatic revelation after another. The variety astounds. I pray it isn't contagious.

It may sound as though I'm complaining. Part of me is. It can be exhausting, this lending of an ear. Despite the deluge, a larger part of me is grateful for the opportunity to be there for others. Yes yes, terribly cliche. But I'm serious. What else are we here for anyway?

Today I write to celebrate those people, to applaud their courage and raw humanity. Their continuing efforts to Keep On Keeping On amid their troubles are downright inspirational.

Still. It must be said. I'm ever so glad to be listening to the ones with issues instead of being the one with issues. Who wouldn't be?

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I Like Numbered Lists

I borrowed this from The Tropopause.
I'm hoping to return it before she notices it is missing.

1. The phone rings. Who are you hoping it is? An unknown number so I won't feel obligated to answer it.
   


2. When shopping at the grocery store, do you return your cart? Of course. Like it's optional.


3. In a social setting, are you more of a talker or a listener? Yes.


4. If abandoned alone in the wilderness, would you survive? I've actually daydreamed that scenario. I'd be dead. D capital E capital A capital D. It would not be pretty.


5. Do you like to ride horses? I can count on one hand the number of times I've been on a horse, each time a terrifying thrill. Yeah, I think I like it.


6. Did you ever go to camp as a kid? Many times. Summer camp, Girl Scout camp, church youth group camp. Camp camp camp camp camp. I learned spiders adore latrine huts and how to build a fire, among other campy things.


7. What was your favorite board game as a kid? Candyland. I was a simple child.


8. If a sexy person was pursuing you, but you knew he/she was taken what would you do? Introduce her to my girlfriend.


9. Are you judgmental? No, it's too much work.
   


10. Would you date someone with different religious beliefs? That depends. Is she hot?


11. Are you continuing your education? Every day, it continues.


12. Do you know how to shoot a gun? I pulled a trigger once: a shotgun, fired at nothing in the middle of nowhere. That middle of nowhere is now a dense suburban sprawl. It's been a while.


13. If your house was on fire, what's the first thing you'd grab? My bra.


14. How often do you read books? Daily. All day when I'm lucky.


15. Do you think more about the past, present or future? No.


16. What is your favorite children's book? The Chatterlings in Wordland by Michael Lipman.


17. How tall are you? 5'9"


18. Where is your ideal house located? When we find it, I'll let you know.
    


19. Last person you talked to? Wendy.


20. When was the last time you were at Olive Garden? It's been years. At least five.


21. What are your keys on your key chain for? Things I keep locked.
    


22. What did you do last night? Sat in my recliner, re-reading the second book in a fantasy series by George R.R. Martin, a dog in my lap and a fire in the fireplace. I'm going to do the same thing tonight.
    


23. Where is your current pain at [sic]? Huh? Sitting in my chair with the rest of me.


24. Do you like mustard? Yes.


25. Do you like your mom or dad? Yes to all.


26. How long does it take you in the shower? Average 10 minutes. Fifteen when I shave my legs. Squeaky clean.


27. What movie do you want to see right now? None in particular.


28. Do you put lotion on your dog or cats? Uh... no.


29. What did you do for New Year's? Hung out at the beach with the rabble we call friends.
    


30. Do you think The Grudge was scary? It didn't scare me. Then again, I don't know what it is.


31. Do you own a camera phone? Yes.


32. What's the last letter of your middle name? This is a trick question. I refuse to answer.
    


33. Who did you vote for on American Idol? I eagerly watch, but do not vote.
    

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"Yo! Pseudos!"

At present, I know more gay and lesbian people than I ever have before. When The Boy was younger, I was often the lone blip of homosexuality in our heterosexual world. By choice? By circumstance. Interesting times, those. It was all good.

These days I'm surrounded. It's been gradual, this expansion of my cultural vista. It's not sole source, either. I meet lesbians and gay men so often, in such a variety of circumstance, it has almost become commonplace. We are everywhere.

A rumor hit the mill that two friends, heterosexual females, were "hooking up" with each other. Surprised me enough to merit a raised eyebrow while rousing my curiosity. Who doesn't love a little titillating gossip now and again! And of course it was titillating. Since when is news of any two friends of any gender hooking up not titillating? It could be love! Or at least good sex.

Turns out the rumor was true. Not only were they hooking up then, but they are still a couple now. It's been over a year. At what point does "hooking up" turn into "having a romantic relationship" turn into "Hey world, I'm gay"?

Wendy pinned the nickname "pseudos" on those friends of ours, a term of endearment if you will. Are they lesbians? Situational? Transitional? Who knows? Them least of all, maybe. Does it matter?

Wendy and I are fortunate to have friends who span generations. Some are solidly heterosexual, some solidly homosexual. Others are trying to figure out who they are. Toss in a handful who have no fucking clue and all bases are covered.

What's a friend to do when a friend switches sexual teams? I know what my "friends" did when I traded up. Many of them fled. A few adapted.

I'm an adapter. A friend is a friend. Life is hard enough without stressing over something as basic as who someone loves.

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Distance is Relative

I only wear t-shirts to work around the house or lay around the house, depending on the mood of the moment. Rarely do I appear in public so attired. The neckline of a t-shirt is just not flattering on me.

That's not to say I don't own many t-shirts. I do. Too many. Some have cute sayings, others are emblazoned with sports team logos, none are blank and none have breast pockets. They are white, black, yellow, green, but the color I most often choose to wear from my t-shirt collection is gray. Various shades of gray. Again, not the most flattering color on me but who cares when one is laying around the house?

My most favorite t-shirt of all, I stole. Swiped it from someone near and dear to me. I don't think he noticed or would even particularly care if he had. I justify the theft by telling myself I had paid for it anyway. It was part of The Boy's high school gym uniform.

It is soft, soft, soft. Soft in the way only well-worn cotton can be. When I first obtained it, our last name was boldly lettered in black in the oblong designated to display such information. Over the years, repeated washings have faded that ink to nothingness. The other graphics on the shirt have faded too but no holes have appeared. Yet. I know they are coming. Old t-shirts embrace such things.

Why would I steal my son's shirt? I didn't think about it then but I know now. It's a tangible way of keeping a piece of him near. Silly me. Used to be I'd wear it to comfort myself. Sometimes I still do, but it has grown to be comforting in a completely different way. I'll miss it when it finally wears out.

The Boy is now a senior in college, on track to graduate in May of this year. He and I were in the midst of a conversation over the holidays when he said, "After this visit, I don't know when I'll be home again."

He's right, of course. The fairly regular patterns of life as a student will morph into life as he chooses to live it. Where will he work this summer? Where will he be in the fall? What opportunities will present? Will he land the job he seeks? When he does, where will it take him?

Over the past four years, cocooned in my stolen t-shirt, I've worked on figuring out how to be a parent to an adult child. I've often said each stage of his life has been more fun than the last, all equally as challenging and fondly remembered. The future, it comes, ready or not. The secret is not in the knowing, but in the being in it together as it unfolds around us.

The Boy will never live right around the corner, odds are he'll not even live in the same state. But we'll still be together. Family can be like that. I hope ours always is.

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"That's Fuckin' Teamwork!"

The title of this post is a line of a song that has been playing in my head for over a week.

It was one of the first I purchased for my new iPod. Yes, that's right. I've joined the earphone revolution (thanks Wen!). Today when I rode the Metro downtown I was plugged in like nine-tenths of my fellow commuters.

The song features a bright red box next to the title: EXPLICIT. I already knew that, but thanks Tipper & Company. Those labels are, I suppose, helpful for parents screening their little darlings' choices in music. It's too late for me. (Evidently too late for The Boy too. He's the one who first played this particular song within my range of hearing and later identified it for me.)

The music itself is soft and melodious, light rock, almost folky. The lyrics, while quite explicit, amuse while making a point. Well. Making a point may be stretching it a bit. Still, the tune is so damned catchy it's been trapped in my head for over a week!

The band is Tenacious D. I like Tenacious D. There. I said it. I'm mildly ashamed yet I don't know why. I'll get over it.

So. Can you readers identify the song from the post title? Am I the only one here who enjoys an occasional profanity-laden tune with style echoing through her head?

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Of Loud Noises On a Rainy Night

I've already learned one important lesson this new year: when the fire alarm sounds, it's not a good idea to pull the pillow over your head and go back to sleep. I think I was supposed to learn that in kindergarten.

Of course one may assume when one is surrounded by good friends that said good friends will insist the sleeping beauty get out of bed and leave the house when alarms emit piercing warning noise. There is danger in being abed when the house is possibly on fire. Or so the cute dykey Fire Marshall reminded said good friends upon her arrival. See, they had abandoned not only me but one other slug-a-bed in the house with the fire alarms blaring at a decibel not usually conducive to sleep yet somehow not fazing we two left behind during the evacuation.

Am I really that grumpy when awoken from a drunken stupor sound sleep in the middle of the night? Evidently I'm bitchy enough for the thought of waking me to strike apathy in the hearts of good friends.

I imagine the discussion:

"Suzanne is asleep upstairs!"
"Shouldn't we wake her?!"
"I tried! She growled at me to leave her alone!"
"Oh. Well then. I guess it's cool to leave her where she lies. "
"Hey look! Here comes the fire truck! I hope the firemen are cute!"

Despite this potentially near-death experience, 2007 is off to a good start. The police came. We were not arrested. The fire department came. There was no fire. I was never in danger and my good friends could have safely left me slumbering during the disruption. But once a real adult arrived on the scene, said good friends selflessly pried me from my comfortable cocoon so I could huddle outside in the rain with the rest of them.

I feel so loved.

Lesson number two? This I didn't retain from kindergarten either: a nap in the sun is good for what ails you. Especially when nothing does.

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