I drink alcohol. I'm of age. Plenty past the minimum age to purchase and imbibe restricted beverages of whatever sort I may desire.
It's been a long long long while since anyone selling such age-limited beverages has ever asked for proof of my age. I've gotten used to this. I think. But part of me misses being carded every now and again.
Usually I do the grocery shopping. It's one of my household chores. And I enjoy it. But sometimes we go together, Wendy and I. Like the day I'm going to tell you about. We picked up a twelve-pack of beer for our refrigerator. Well not actually for our refrigerator because our refrigerator runs on a different type of juice. It was for us. Truth be told, we picked up two twelve-packs of beer because she likes one type and I like another. We both like cheap beer however. Because we are of a frugal nature perhaps. Or maybe we just don't have good taste. Or maybe cheap beer tastes good to us. Which it does.
So we had two twelve-packs of cheap beer mingled in with our zucchini, fudgesicles, and pork chops. And cat food. And assorted other things we keep around the house to assuage our hunger pains or cravings as needed. Wendy was up by the cashier and I was in the back behind the cart unloading our goods onto the conveyor belt. The cashier was about to ring up the beer when she looked at Wendy and said "May I see your ID please?"
A quick aside here is a necessary part of this story. About a week prior, Wendy's driver's license along with her bank card and a small amount of cash were stolen from her car. She had inadvertantly left them on the seat of her car after picking up lunch. Some prick had smashed her car window right there in the parking lot of her office and helped themselves. People suck that way sometimes.
Okay back to the grocery store line. Because Wendy had not yet received her replacement ID, she looked at me and asked "Do you have your ID with you?" The cashier also glanced over at me. And then she said "Oh! Is she with you? Well I don't need to see her ID!" as she proceeded to ring up the beer.
Now because I'm an easy going sort and often see humor where others may not, I burst out laughing. Borderline hysterical laughter, but more amused. The cashier looked up at me and actually had the grace to blush. Because she realized what she had done. Not implied. Stated. Unequivocally. I look old. Plenty old. We all then shared a laugh together because it was funny.
On this past trip to NC, we stopped at the Red Apple gas station to pick up some beer. They didn't have our cheap beer of choice, so we settled for Miller Lite. I got in line behind two men, also purchasing beer. The lady behind the counter (oddly not Russian as we'd come to expect during our short visit but rather an older local lady) dutifully asked each in turn for his ID. So when it was my turn to check out, I said with a smile "Aren't you going to ask for my ID?" She laughed while covering her mouth with one hand (but not before I noticed she only had one tooth in the front on top!). Evidently the thought of asking me for my ID was the most humorous idea she'd heard all day.
Plenty old. And I look it. Argh. Might as well laugh.
July 12, 2004
July 11, 2004
Mouse Callousness
Stop what you are doing!
Remove your hand from the mouse.
Hold it upright and turn your hand so you can see your palm.
Below your pinkie finger where your hand ends and your wrist is about to begin is the triquetrum bone. Yeah, that's the one.
Mine's bright red. With the beginnings of a callous. Or maybe it already is a callous but I'm in denial. My non-mouse hand doesn't have one. It's triquetrum bone is a smooth integral part of the rest of my hand.
As much as I love caressing my mouse with it's wonderfully versatile wheel and smooth slick mousing motion, I really don't like this bright red callousy-feeling spot developing on my triquetrum bone.
I'm rather ashamed to admit I actually felt better when I noticed Wendy has the same spot on her triquetrum bone. Is it just us? Maybe only lesbians in Virginia sport such a vibrant red spot on their mouse-abused triquetrums. Could it be so?
And triquetrum is fun to say.
Try it! You must!
Remove your hand from the mouse.
Hold it upright and turn your hand so you can see your palm.
Below your pinkie finger where your hand ends and your wrist is about to begin is the triquetrum bone. Yeah, that's the one.
Mine's bright red. With the beginnings of a callous. Or maybe it already is a callous but I'm in denial. My non-mouse hand doesn't have one. It's triquetrum bone is a smooth integral part of the rest of my hand.
As much as I love caressing my mouse with it's wonderfully versatile wheel and smooth slick mousing motion, I really don't like this bright red callousy-feeling spot developing on my triquetrum bone.
I'm rather ashamed to admit I actually felt better when I noticed Wendy has the same spot on her triquetrum bone. Is it just us? Maybe only lesbians in Virginia sport such a vibrant red spot on their mouse-abused triquetrums. Could it be so?
And triquetrum is fun to say.
Try it! You must!
July 10, 2004
The Russians Have Landed!
In Manteo, North Carolina of all places.
Who knew? Well others were aware, just not Wendy and me. We typically frequent the Outer Banks in the off-season and had not before experienced this phenomenon.
Evidently the dwindling supply of young Americans willing to spend their summers in the Outer Banks working jobs ranging from hotel clerk to stockers at the Food Lion created the need to import labor from Russia.
Of this I need to know more. It's not an urgent need, but again it's the curiosity factor niggling at my brain.
Who knew? Well others were aware, just not Wendy and me. We typically frequent the Outer Banks in the off-season and had not before experienced this phenomenon.
Evidently the dwindling supply of young Americans willing to spend their summers in the Outer Banks working jobs ranging from hotel clerk to stockers at the Food Lion created the need to import labor from Russia.
Of this I need to know more. It's not an urgent need, but again it's the curiosity factor niggling at my brain.
Glowing?
An unflattering picture of me (so unflattering I cannot believe I'm posting it--the camera can be so unkind!), but The Boy looks good!
Our Trip
Mission accomplished!
- Grocery shopping: $95.54
- Toiletry shopping: $45.51 (but that included a belt and new sheets!)
- New Friends: Interesting, eclectic, kind, chatty (hot chicks few and far between however!)
- Apartment: Godawful, but what can one expect with five guys living there? They were trying, however. The living areas and kitchen were pretty clean!
- Tan: Not too much, not too little. Golden Boy he is.
- Performance: Enjoyed it. Lovely setting and we were treated to a gorgeous sunset. 8 costume changes for The Boy. Beautiful music. Interesting show.
- Feedings: Dinner, lunch, dinner. Good good and good.
- Hugs: Plentiful.
July 8, 2004
Off to NC
We'll be gone a few days getting a dose of The Boy.
And shopping.
And eating.
And reading.
And sleeping.
And sunning.
In addition to visiting.
And shopping.
And eating.
And reading.
And sleeping.
And sunning.
In addition to visiting.
Up, is that you? Part 1
The story of how Wendy and I met is an interesting one. Maybe only interesting to us, but then most of what I'm writing about here is only interesting to me despite that other people are evidently finding it to be of some small interest to themselves. (Which fascinates me, but in a good way.)
I like our story not only because of the impact meeting her has had on my life, but also because now that I know her more intimately I know what a stretch it was for her to reach out in the way she did. I've come to realize just how reserved she can be with others, but with me she is quite bold. That made an impression on me then because it was usually me being bold in relationships. Turns out I like it the other way around too. Who knew? We now take turns being bold, depending on who has the strength to do so at the moment boldness is required.
So I'm going to document the Tale of Wendy & Suzanne herein. And I get to tell this from my perspective since it is my story. I may ask Wendy to tell the same tale from her perspective. It could be quite amusing to then compare the versions. Well amusing to us anyway. It's far too long to recount in one post and I know I can't sit still long enough to type it all at once, so I'm going to break it up. Soap opera style, except without the fake drama. I'll not pepper it with the gratuitous sex scenes often found on daytime TV, preferring to savor those intimate memories privately. I'm sure you'll be able to handle the disappointment.
Enough of the intro.... on to Part 1!
**fade back in time**
I was single. And it was good. The Boy and I had recently relocated back to Mount Vernon, the first real move where he had to help pack and lift and carry and haul. The last time we had moved, I was still packing and lifting and carrying and hauling him as he wasn't nearly grown enough to do so himself. He would be starting 8th grade in the fall, his first year in public school. Now if you don't know any kids of that age, you need to know that is the age when socializing with one's friends begins to take complete precedence over one's family (it's one of the reasons we moved, but that's a different chapter). While I still spent quite a bit of time enjoying The Boy entertaining his friends at our house, I also spent a great deal of time ferrying him hither and yon to meet the demands of his vigorous social calendar.
(Really. I'm not getting off topic. Setting the background is all.)
So I was single. And The Boy didn't need his old mom for companionship much anymore. *sigh* I decided perhaps I would again dip my toes into the dating scene. As there were not too many single lesbians (or for that matter ANY lesbians) hanging around the suburban mother crowd I'd been part of for years, I began considering my options.
I had never really dated in the traditional sense of dating. Who had time for that? I didn't fall into the stereotypical lesbian-second-date-moving-van category either. I had The Boy to consider and he came first. I was not about to have a string of women flowing in and out of my bedroom and our lives. To me, offering a child stability at home is almost as vital as salt is to Wendy. So I was cautious. And would take my time introducing my son to anyone I may happen to date. That would be a privilege those prospective women would have to earn. I had identified several very important qualities that would have to be part of any woman I would ever date more than once.
In no particular order, she would have to:
See I used to be the "rescuer" sort, where I'd try to fill in the gaps for people who weren't quite complete. Got a problem? Oh no problem at all! Let me fix it for you! I'll surround you with my love and affection and show you just how wonderful life can be! Yeesh. While my heart may have been in the right place, that approach pretty much guaranteed relationship failure. So no more rescuing for me. This time around, it would be on an equal ground or I'd just stay single. I don't mean to sound pompous, but I had come to realize I was a pretty hot commodity in the lesbian market: a stable and sane individual. Actually, that made me a hot commodity in any dating market, not just that of the lesbian variety but I was not interested in just any old dating market.
Internet dating was just gaining a foothold in modern romance. That approach appealed to me greatly for a number of reasons. Email correspondence would be a useful screening tool. I would be able to discern her writing ability (and all things that go with such ability) merely by reading an email. And I could do it on my own time, when my schedule permitted.
I created a screenname exclusively for this adventure: UpUpUpUp, intended to convey my upbeat and positive nature. I penned and posted my first personal ad, sappily describing what I was looking for in a wife. Yeah I know. Blech. But hey, I was new at this. And I included a favorite quote from a Tori Amos song: "In a sense, he said, you're alone here. So if you jump, you best jump far." (This quote actually became key in the process, although I did not know it would then.)
And the deluge of emails began. My inbox starting filling up so rapidly it was almost alarming. There was just not time to correspond with everyone who replied to my ad, but I always gave at least a minimal reply even to those who clearly did not possess even one quality from my list. That's when I formulated some other loose requirements, adding geographic and age factors to my screening process. With those that passed the initial screening, I made dates for coffee. In the next few months, I drank quite a bit of coffee with strangers. And met some interesting women of all different shapes, personalities and life circumstance. But I hadn't met Ms. Forever....
So I posted a new ad under a different screenname, Words Rock, using a different approach: humor. But I tagged my signature with the same Tori Amos quote. Again the email deluge began. Some of the same respondents replied to my new ad with the exact same reply they had used for my first ad! Incredible creativity. Not!
But one repeat respondent made me literally throw my head back and laugh out loud. It was a one-liner that read simply "Up, is that you?"
Wow. In-ter-esting. Pleasing even. Keep in mind the two separate ads were posted under different screennames months apart written in completely different styles from one another. Really. They were like Night and Day. Jeckle and Hyde. Sun and Moon. Yin and Yang even. Sap and Humor. I think you get it.
I had started a file of responses to my first ad. This reply had me pawing through papers to find this woman's first email. As I re-read it, I was reminded why I had not really followed up on it. She lived in Rockville, about an hour away over heavily trafficked freeways. And she was only 28 (I was 35 at the time) which seemed to me an awfully large age gap. But now I was intrigued. She was obviously brighter than most, having made the connection based on my use of the same quote. Good attention to detail. Her first email was cohesively written, concise yet informative, good sentence structure and grammar. She had appealed to me the first time based on those characteristics, but the age and geography warned me away. Now I had no choice. I was compelled to write back. Curiosity does that to me. We began corresponding and chatting online frequently. And so I made the acquaintance of Wendy. The adventure had begun.
.... to be continued
I like our story not only because of the impact meeting her has had on my life, but also because now that I know her more intimately I know what a stretch it was for her to reach out in the way she did. I've come to realize just how reserved she can be with others, but with me she is quite bold. That made an impression on me then because it was usually me being bold in relationships. Turns out I like it the other way around too. Who knew? We now take turns being bold, depending on who has the strength to do so at the moment boldness is required.
So I'm going to document the Tale of Wendy & Suzanne herein. And I get to tell this from my perspective since it is my story. I may ask Wendy to tell the same tale from her perspective. It could be quite amusing to then compare the versions. Well amusing to us anyway. It's far too long to recount in one post and I know I can't sit still long enough to type it all at once, so I'm going to break it up. Soap opera style, except without the fake drama. I'll not pepper it with the gratuitous sex scenes often found on daytime TV, preferring to savor those intimate memories privately. I'm sure you'll be able to handle the disappointment.
Enough of the intro.... on to Part 1!
I was single. And it was good. The Boy and I had recently relocated back to Mount Vernon, the first real move where he had to help pack and lift and carry and haul. The last time we had moved, I was still packing and lifting and carrying and hauling him as he wasn't nearly grown enough to do so himself. He would be starting 8th grade in the fall, his first year in public school. Now if you don't know any kids of that age, you need to know that is the age when socializing with one's friends begins to take complete precedence over one's family (it's one of the reasons we moved, but that's a different chapter). While I still spent quite a bit of time enjoying The Boy entertaining his friends at our house, I also spent a great deal of time ferrying him hither and yon to meet the demands of his vigorous social calendar.
(Really. I'm not getting off topic. Setting the background is all.)
So I was single. And The Boy didn't need his old mom for companionship much anymore. *sigh* I decided perhaps I would again dip my toes into the dating scene. As there were not too many single lesbians (or for that matter ANY lesbians) hanging around the suburban mother crowd I'd been part of for years, I began considering my options.
I had never really dated in the traditional sense of dating. Who had time for that? I didn't fall into the stereotypical lesbian-second-date-moving-van category either. I had The Boy to consider and he came first. I was not about to have a string of women flowing in and out of my bedroom and our lives. To me, offering a child stability at home is almost as vital as salt is to Wendy. So I was cautious. And would take my time introducing my son to anyone I may happen to date. That would be a privilege those prospective women would have to earn. I had identified several very important qualities that would have to be part of any woman I would ever date more than once.
In no particular order, she would have to:
- be able to write intelligently, using complete sentences in actual paragraphs. Vocabulary and proper spelling would be essential.
- have a good relationship with her family, particularly her mother and father.
- like books. And enjoy laying around reading them. And be able to intelligently discuss their contents.
- enjoy sex (gratuitous or otherwise!).
- be a sports fan. Football and baseball specifically. It would be a plus if she were a Redskins fan. Ice hockey and basketball would kinda be minuses.
- love pets and all the headache and joy that come with having them.
- love kids and all the headache and joy that come with having them.
- appreciate suburban life.
- have a sense of humor. Preferably a sharp one.
- like herself.
See I used to be the "rescuer" sort, where I'd try to fill in the gaps for people who weren't quite complete. Got a problem? Oh no problem at all! Let me fix it for you! I'll surround you with my love and affection and show you just how wonderful life can be! Yeesh. While my heart may have been in the right place, that approach pretty much guaranteed relationship failure. So no more rescuing for me. This time around, it would be on an equal ground or I'd just stay single. I don't mean to sound pompous, but I had come to realize I was a pretty hot commodity in the lesbian market: a stable and sane individual. Actually, that made me a hot commodity in any dating market, not just that of the lesbian variety but I was not interested in just any old dating market.
Internet dating was just gaining a foothold in modern romance. That approach appealed to me greatly for a number of reasons. Email correspondence would be a useful screening tool. I would be able to discern her writing ability (and all things that go with such ability) merely by reading an email. And I could do it on my own time, when my schedule permitted.
I created a screenname exclusively for this adventure: UpUpUpUp, intended to convey my upbeat and positive nature. I penned and posted my first personal ad, sappily describing what I was looking for in a wife. Yeah I know. Blech. But hey, I was new at this. And I included a favorite quote from a Tori Amos song: "In a sense, he said, you're alone here. So if you jump, you best jump far." (This quote actually became key in the process, although I did not know it would then.)
And the deluge of emails began. My inbox starting filling up so rapidly it was almost alarming. There was just not time to correspond with everyone who replied to my ad, but I always gave at least a minimal reply even to those who clearly did not possess even one quality from my list. That's when I formulated some other loose requirements, adding geographic and age factors to my screening process. With those that passed the initial screening, I made dates for coffee. In the next few months, I drank quite a bit of coffee with strangers. And met some interesting women of all different shapes, personalities and life circumstance. But I hadn't met Ms. Forever....
So I posted a new ad under a different screenname, Words Rock, using a different approach: humor. But I tagged my signature with the same Tori Amos quote. Again the email deluge began. Some of the same respondents replied to my new ad with the exact same reply they had used for my first ad! Incredible creativity. Not!
But one repeat respondent made me literally throw my head back and laugh out loud. It was a one-liner that read simply "Up, is that you?"
Wow. In-ter-esting. Pleasing even. Keep in mind the two separate ads were posted under different screennames months apart written in completely different styles from one another. Really. They were like Night and Day. Jeckle and Hyde. Sun and Moon. Yin and Yang even. Sap and Humor. I think you get it.
I had started a file of responses to my first ad. This reply had me pawing through papers to find this woman's first email. As I re-read it, I was reminded why I had not really followed up on it. She lived in Rockville, about an hour away over heavily trafficked freeways. And she was only 28 (I was 35 at the time) which seemed to me an awfully large age gap. But now I was intrigued. She was obviously brighter than most, having made the connection based on my use of the same quote. Good attention to detail. Her first email was cohesively written, concise yet informative, good sentence structure and grammar. She had appealed to me the first time based on those characteristics, but the age and geography warned me away. Now I had no choice. I was compelled to write back. Curiosity does that to me. We began corresponding and chatting online frequently. And so I made the acquaintance of Wendy. The adventure had begun.
.... to be continued
July 7, 2004
How Large is Kingdom-Size?
We sleep in a king-size bed. All of us. At the same time. We fill the king-size bed to capacity. Wendy has her side and I have mine and we are free to share each other's spaces as the mood suits. If it were just the two of us, there would almost be too much space (as if it were even possible to have too much space in bed!).
But as I said, it's not just the two of us. Cosine pretty much keeps to the foot of the bed, either the right or left side or even the middle, depending on her mood. But always at the foot. Figero also prefers the foot, typically reclining on the left end corner. Detail, when we used to bring him up to join us, never stayed long. Near the end, he occupied the middle because we didn't want him to fall out. But he usually only stayed for a little while before moving himself back to the landing.
Dudley is the one who thinks the bed belongs exclusively to him and we are just there to keep him company. He doesn't seem to care where on the bed he sleeps, just as long as it's in the bed. He does not, however, typically choose the foot of the bed. It drives Wendy crazy when we all pile in and Dudley chooses to snuggle between my legs instead of over by her. It drives me crazy too but for a different reason. I dislike being pinned in for any length of time. But it is comforting when he nests there and uses my thigh as a shelf for his chin. Just not for an extended period of time because then the comfort dissipates and I start to twitch. Which is just not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.
We were discussing that there really is just not enough room in our bed. The obvious solution of kicking the animals out of the bed is really no solution at all as far as we are concerned. Wendy opined that what we need is a kingdom-size bed rather than a mere king-size. Which begs the question... how large is kingdom-size? As long as it's at least a tad bigger than king, we'd be good to go.
But as I said, it's not just the two of us. Cosine pretty much keeps to the foot of the bed, either the right or left side or even the middle, depending on her mood. But always at the foot. Figero also prefers the foot, typically reclining on the left end corner. Detail, when we used to bring him up to join us, never stayed long. Near the end, he occupied the middle because we didn't want him to fall out. But he usually only stayed for a little while before moving himself back to the landing.
Dudley is the one who thinks the bed belongs exclusively to him and we are just there to keep him company. He doesn't seem to care where on the bed he sleeps, just as long as it's in the bed. He does not, however, typically choose the foot of the bed. It drives Wendy crazy when we all pile in and Dudley chooses to snuggle between my legs instead of over by her. It drives me crazy too but for a different reason. I dislike being pinned in for any length of time. But it is comforting when he nests there and uses my thigh as a shelf for his chin. Just not for an extended period of time because then the comfort dissipates and I start to twitch. Which is just not pleasant. Not pleasant at all.
We were discussing that there really is just not enough room in our bed. The obvious solution of kicking the animals out of the bed is really no solution at all as far as we are concerned. Wendy opined that what we need is a kingdom-size bed rather than a mere king-size. Which begs the question... how large is kingdom-size? As long as it's at least a tad bigger than king, we'd be good to go.
Old Neighbors
Long ago in another life phase, The Boy and I lived in Woodbridge, Virginia. Our neighborhood was the stereotypical definition of blue collar living. On one side of us lived Traditional Family and on the other side lived Hippy Family.
Traditional Family consisted of a Mom, Dad and 2 daughters. Well maybe not quite so traditional because Daughter One is from mom's first marriage. Perhaps I should say they are a traditional blended family. That'll work. Dad was a cop and mom worked as an accounting clerk for the local trash service. Very nice people. Fanatical about washing their automobiles, however. Every weekend, rain or shine. I'm serious. I've seen them out in the rain soaping up their cars. To each their own. They were good neighbors.
Hippy Family was not traditional by any definition. Mom was a checker at the local Giant Food store. I'm not sure what Dad did, outside of playing in a rock band. Mom was about 15 years older than Dad. They had one devil spawn of a daughter who could only have originated in the center of all that is evil (I saw her puking in the front yard from drinking too much one time too many to be magnanimous. Puking in the front yard was NOT a common occurrence in the neighborhood except at the Hippy Family house. And seeing that even once was one time to many, ya know?). The other daughter was a normal enough little girl (until growing up in her devil spawn sister's shadow turned her into a drug-using redneck slut but we had already moved before that transformation and I only heard that second hand).
I was fairly shy back in those days and did not seek out interface with my neighbors. It was too daunting. I was dealing with many life changing events at that time and did not see the need to carry familiarity beyond a wave and hello. Hippy Dad and his band used to practice in their basement way way way into the wee wee hours of the morning. This was not good. Not good at all. I'd lay awake at night fuming to the bass beat that was so loud they may as well have been playing in my bedroom. Or sometimes they would arrive home after a gig and unload their equipment. They were boisterous and loud, which I wouldn't have minded except my bedroom window overlooked their driveway and they never arrived home earlier than 2 am. I finally decided it was worth risking their neighborly wrath and I began calling the police instead of fuming.
Yes yes, I know. Perhaps I should have spoken with them first and explained how their inconsideration was interrupting my beauty sleep. Perhaps I could have reasoned with them and negotiated an equitable compromise. I took the easy way out. The police were quite responsive and never took more than 5 minutes to arrive, even for a non-emergency type of complaint such as that. I'd hear them pull up and begin knocking on Hippy Family's front door. Like they could hear a knock with all that "music" being played in the basement. Typically, the cops would then head to the backyard through the side gate and knock on the basement door. The "music" would halt and be replaced by Hippy Dude's loud voice laughingly reassuring the police they would cease and desist their noise pollution, at least for that evening.
Hippy Family also had a dog they left outside for hours on end. This poor dog barked incessantly and spoiled many a Sunday afternoon nap for me. I didn't call the cops on the dog however. It was daytime after all. I did the bold thing and knocked on their door, suppressing my irritation and asking politely if they would SHUT THEIR FUCKING DOG UP. Not in those exact words of course. They were so clueless. Once in the summer when I had to go remind them to be responsible dog parents, Hippy Dad was laying on the sofa. I could see him through the open front door as I approached. He was like, "Oh, is the dog barking? I didn't notice." Yeesh.
I'm not sure either family knew what to think when they realized a lesbian had moved in next door. And they did notice. At least Traditional Family did. More on that later perhaps.
Traditional Family consisted of a Mom, Dad and 2 daughters. Well maybe not quite so traditional because Daughter One is from mom's first marriage. Perhaps I should say they are a traditional blended family. That'll work. Dad was a cop and mom worked as an accounting clerk for the local trash service. Very nice people. Fanatical about washing their automobiles, however. Every weekend, rain or shine. I'm serious. I've seen them out in the rain soaping up their cars. To each their own. They were good neighbors.
Hippy Family was not traditional by any definition. Mom was a checker at the local Giant Food store. I'm not sure what Dad did, outside of playing in a rock band. Mom was about 15 years older than Dad. They had one devil spawn of a daughter who could only have originated in the center of all that is evil (I saw her puking in the front yard from drinking too much one time too many to be magnanimous. Puking in the front yard was NOT a common occurrence in the neighborhood except at the Hippy Family house. And seeing that even once was one time to many, ya know?). The other daughter was a normal enough little girl (until growing up in her devil spawn sister's shadow turned her into a drug-using redneck slut but we had already moved before that transformation and I only heard that second hand).
I was fairly shy back in those days and did not seek out interface with my neighbors. It was too daunting. I was dealing with many life changing events at that time and did not see the need to carry familiarity beyond a wave and hello. Hippy Dad and his band used to practice in their basement way way way into the wee wee hours of the morning. This was not good. Not good at all. I'd lay awake at night fuming to the bass beat that was so loud they may as well have been playing in my bedroom. Or sometimes they would arrive home after a gig and unload their equipment. They were boisterous and loud, which I wouldn't have minded except my bedroom window overlooked their driveway and they never arrived home earlier than 2 am. I finally decided it was worth risking their neighborly wrath and I began calling the police instead of fuming.
Yes yes, I know. Perhaps I should have spoken with them first and explained how their inconsideration was interrupting my beauty sleep. Perhaps I could have reasoned with them and negotiated an equitable compromise. I took the easy way out. The police were quite responsive and never took more than 5 minutes to arrive, even for a non-emergency type of complaint such as that. I'd hear them pull up and begin knocking on Hippy Family's front door. Like they could hear a knock with all that "music" being played in the basement. Typically, the cops would then head to the backyard through the side gate and knock on the basement door. The "music" would halt and be replaced by Hippy Dude's loud voice laughingly reassuring the police they would cease and desist their noise pollution, at least for that evening.
Hippy Family also had a dog they left outside for hours on end. This poor dog barked incessantly and spoiled many a Sunday afternoon nap for me. I didn't call the cops on the dog however. It was daytime after all. I did the bold thing and knocked on their door, suppressing my irritation and asking politely if they would SHUT THEIR FUCKING DOG UP. Not in those exact words of course. They were so clueless. Once in the summer when I had to go remind them to be responsible dog parents, Hippy Dad was laying on the sofa. I could see him through the open front door as I approached. He was like, "Oh, is the dog barking? I didn't notice." Yeesh.
I'm not sure either family knew what to think when they realized a lesbian had moved in next door. And they did notice. At least Traditional Family did. More on that later perhaps.
July 6, 2004
Pee Clumps and Poo Blobs
FYI in case you've never had the dubious pleasure.
Litterboxes are gross.
Just gross.
Avoid them at all costs.
Don't say I never warned you.
Litterboxes are gross.
Just gross.
Avoid them at all costs.
Don't say I never warned you.
Blistering Baseball
Wendy and I were watching baseball on television this weekend. Nothing different this weekend from any other in that regard. But this weekend there were interesting games between American and National league teams. These games have an added appeal because whomever is not playing in their home stadium has to adapt their strategy to follow the rules of the other league. Interesting puzzle for managers, I'm sure. We started out watching the Cubs/White Sox but when they had a rain delay the network switched us over to the Mets/Yankees. Excellent! Even more excellent because the Mets were pounding those hated Yankees. It was a beautiful thing.
That game was being played in Shea Stadium, home of the Mets. All stadiums play music during the game, tunes that are blasted out over the loudspeakers and designed to rev up the fans and players alike. At Shea they have what sounds like an organ. A real organ like you'd hear in church if you ever went to church. It was cool to hear some of the classic stadium rally songs blasted out on an organ.
And then the organist plinked out the familiar strains of a song that I have never before heard played in a stadium. Wendy and I looked at each other in disbelief and laughed. Is that what we think it is? It was the opening notes of a song by the Violent Femmes called "Blister in the Sun". It's a very distinctive riff and if you know the song you know what I'm talking about. In my head I could hear the lyrics: "When I'm out walking I strut my stuff yeah I'm so strung out I'm high as a kite I just might stop to check you out."
Real baseball rally material, yes? Well not usually but why not? As is always the case when I hear that song, I thought of Brenna, an old friend of The Boy. Often when she was at our house she'd be plunking out tunes on a guitar. And ever since the day I'd heard her playing and singing "Blister in the Sun", she always comes to mind whenever I hear it. I have no clue as to the meaning of the lyrics and I've given up analysis. It is a catchy tune, be-boppable and upbeat. And it must have helped the Mets because they did a real number on those Yankees. Swept the series. Nice.
"Let me go on like I blister in the sun let me go on big hands I know you're the one"
That game was being played in Shea Stadium, home of the Mets. All stadiums play music during the game, tunes that are blasted out over the loudspeakers and designed to rev up the fans and players alike. At Shea they have what sounds like an organ. A real organ like you'd hear in church if you ever went to church. It was cool to hear some of the classic stadium rally songs blasted out on an organ.
And then the organist plinked out the familiar strains of a song that I have never before heard played in a stadium. Wendy and I looked at each other in disbelief and laughed. Is that what we think it is? It was the opening notes of a song by the Violent Femmes called "Blister in the Sun". It's a very distinctive riff and if you know the song you know what I'm talking about. In my head I could hear the lyrics: "When I'm out walking I strut my stuff yeah I'm so strung out I'm high as a kite I just might stop to check you out."
Real baseball rally material, yes? Well not usually but why not? As is always the case when I hear that song, I thought of Brenna, an old friend of The Boy. Often when she was at our house she'd be plunking out tunes on a guitar. And ever since the day I'd heard her playing and singing "Blister in the Sun", she always comes to mind whenever I hear it. I have no clue as to the meaning of the lyrics and I've given up analysis. It is a catchy tune, be-boppable and upbeat. And it must have helped the Mets because they did a real number on those Yankees. Swept the series. Nice.
"Let me go on like I blister in the sun let me go on big hands I know you're the one"
July 5, 2004
Unusual Patriotic Display?
"The hot dog eating contest is not only a beautiful display of athleticism, it is a fundamental way for citizens of all nations to display patriotism," said Wayne Norbitz, president of Nathan's Famous.So says this article about Nathan's Famous 86th annual hot dog eating contest held each fourth of July in Coney Island, New York. The winner this year, for his fourth consecutive victory, downed 53-1/2 hot dogs in 12 minutes. That's quite a few hot dogs, isn't it? Like enough to feed a couple baseball teams.
I personally think true Athletic Patriots would want at least ketchup too, but evidently these Athletic Patriots eat their hot dogs plain. To me, a hot dog is just not a hot dog without ketchup. And relish. And just a touch of mustard. Maybe a few onions. And if I'm really really lucky, my mom's homemade coleslaw prepared in true Southern style. (And now that I think about it, I haven't had my mom's coleslaw in quite a while. I think a special request may be in order. She makes awesome coleslaw.)
I've only witnessed one eating contest myself and I wish I could have those minutes of my life back to use differently. It was a blueberry pie eating contest at some local fair way back. Like way back when I was still a dependent on my parent's tax returns. Yeah. A long time ago. Made a real impression on me. It was disgusting. Blueberry pie smeared faces and losing contestants puking under the table. Some things are just better left undone, if you know what I mean. I've managed to avoid displays of such esurience since.
I enjoy chewing my food before swallowing. Taking the time to savor the taste is nice too. Evidently, however, there are lots of folks who enjoy those cram-as-much-food-in-your-mouth-as-you-can-as-quickly-as-you-can-and-then-somehow-get-it-into-your-stomach contests. These contests are prevalent enough that there is a organization, the International Federation of Competitive Eating which keeps track of the title holders in these events of gormandizing. They also have their own circuit of recurring tournaments.
I find it interesting that the same fellow who won the hot dog eating contest also holds the record for cow brains, having sucked down 17.7 pounds in only 15 minutes! (How many cows brains are in a pound? Do I really want to know?) It appears there is a limited pool of people who are actually good at devouring massive amounts of various food types in record time as there are quite a few repeats on the title holders list. The food changes but the names remain the same. One of them is a tiny little woman from my own city: Sonya Thomas! She's quite the little glutton. Among other records, she is the Federation's reigning champ at hard boiled eggs (65 in 6 minutes 40 seconds... Cool Hand Luke, anyone?) and cheesecake (11 pounds of Downtown Atlantic cheesecake in eleven minutes!).
All that crazy eating and she still maintains her weight around 100 lbs. She should bottle her metabolism and sell it.
July 4, 2004
July 3, 2004
Goodbye
A creature of habit I am, not quite to the point of obsession, but I do enjoy my routines.
In the morning, the first thing I do after dragging myself out of bed is to escort our pack outside. I fling open the french doors to the screened porch and wave my arms like I'm directing traffic. Which I sort of am.
"Good boy, good girl, good boy" I say as our dogs flow out around me heading for the yard. Not that they are necessarily proceeding in the order of boy-girl-boy, but I like the symmetry of saying it that way. While they are outside doing the things that dogs do outside, I feed the cat and mete out the dog food into their three bowls. The communal water dish is filled with fresh clean water. As I let them in, I wave my arms directing the flow and say again, "good boy, good girl, good boy" as they re-enter the house and make a beeline to their dishes to break their fast.
But that's about to change. Tomorrow when I let them out, I already know how I'm going to feel because I've imagined it many times over the past few weeks (even months maybe). The lack of symmetry will mock me.
Good boy, good girl.... goodbye....
Detail
August 5, 1988-July 3, 2004
In the morning, the first thing I do after dragging myself out of bed is to escort our pack outside. I fling open the french doors to the screened porch and wave my arms like I'm directing traffic. Which I sort of am.
"Good boy, good girl, good boy" I say as our dogs flow out around me heading for the yard. Not that they are necessarily proceeding in the order of boy-girl-boy, but I like the symmetry of saying it that way. While they are outside doing the things that dogs do outside, I feed the cat and mete out the dog food into their three bowls. The communal water dish is filled with fresh clean water. As I let them in, I wave my arms directing the flow and say again, "good boy, good girl, good boy" as they re-enter the house and make a beeline to their dishes to break their fast.
But that's about to change. Tomorrow when I let them out, I already know how I'm going to feel because I've imagined it many times over the past few weeks (even months maybe). The lack of symmetry will mock me.
Good boy, good girl.... goodbye....
August 5, 1988-July 3, 2004
Our Dog Detail
August 5, 1998 to July 3, 2004
Cosine is the first dog who completely and wholly belongs to me. Mutt, my family dog growing up, didn't count as "my" dog because she was really my mom's dog. Just like my son can never really call Cosine "his" dog, because she's really mine. Mutt was a mutt and Cosine is a springer spaniel. She's a bitch. She barks too much because she's stone deaf and doesn't realize she's making such hellacious noise. Recently she's decided she doesn't like to jump up onto the bed where she really wants to be, so she whines and barks until we lift her up to join us. Yeah. I'm whipped. So what? She's very sweet and dear, and I love her with all my heart. I must, otherwise I'd never put up with her barking.
And while she is, like the rest of us, moving closer and closer with each passing day toward the end of her life and her grave, she's not the one for whom this tribute is written. Her brother Detail went more actively about the business of dying. Quite successfully, I may add.
Cosine has been part of our family since she was about nine weeks old. She and Detail were from the same litter, but Detail initially lived with some other family. Some stupid non-dog-loving family (SNDLF) adopted Detail, even though four out of the six family members didn't like dogs. They hired a professional dog trainer, took him to the vet as needed, groomed him regularly. But did they love him like he needed to be loved? I think not because after about a year, the SNDLF decided they didn't want him any more. WTF?? So he came to live with us. Despite his "professional" training, he did have a few bad-dog habits. Like running willy-nilly out any exterior door that happened to open. It took but a bit of patient instruction to help him realize doing that was just a really bad idea. He was a bright dog. And I can't fault him for wanting to do it. The SNDLF didn't have a fenced yard. With the exception of those occasional front door oh-my-god-let-me-out-I-NEED-to-run-and-play-and-explore escapes, Detail had NEVER been outside except on a leash. And he just was not that fond of being on the leash. Imagine.
Fortunately for him and because we are smart dog loving people, we had a fenced yard. A big yard. Crappy fence, but good enough. Lots of room to run around. Plenty of native wildlife to chase. Trees to pee on. Suburban passers-by at whom to bark. Warm sunshine in which to nap. Sticks to fetch and chew. All the good stuff dogs deserve.
Our kitchen door led to a small deck with stairs going down to the backyard. Since we had been working on the "just because the door is open doesn't mean you should run out" training, when I opened that door he sat politely yet quivering anticipatorily nearby watching me intently. I will never forget the look of disbelief transforming into unadulterated joy as I waved an invitation for him to proceed out the door unrestrained by a leash. He bounded past me, down the stairs and into the yard where he did free-doggie things to his heart's content.
Detail quickly developed a routine. Rain, snow, sleet, or sunshine. Out the door, down the stairs, through the right side of the wooded area to the back fence, looping around to race up the left side of the wooded area to the front fence, surveying his domain. Soon his path was worn and visible and rarely did he deviate. He'd sit outside for hours on the deck, watching over his home and soaking up the sunshine… or sleet… or snow…. or rain… He just liked being outside.
Sometimes when he was out alone he would eventually bark to come in, but typically he only raised his voice when there was really something to raise it about, like a child riding his bike down the street. "Alarm alarm! They are coming to kill us all!", he'd proclaim lustily and loudly in his rich deep baritone voice.
When they were younger, I, along with my son who was also younger, would take them hiking in the woods of a nearby park. We'd let them off their leashes and they would take off running through the forest, circling back every so often to make sure we were still on the right trail. The path led near a reservoir and the dogs would swim. Detail and Cosine both loved to swim. They would chase sticks out into the water and bring them merrily back to shore to do it all over again. Detail, as seemed his nature, would sometimes ignore the stick and just swim randomly around. He always was an independent fellow, almost a loner yet truly enjoying the comfort of his pack.
Cosine and Detail were middle-aged when Dudley joined the family. We didn’t live near the reservoir any more and Dudley has never been swimming. What a hoot that would be. Dudley is a basset hound. I should probably use a capital “B” and “H” because of the impact he has had on our lives. The pleasure of belonging to a basset hound is an experience not to be missed. He had not been part of a pack before and seemed to take special joy in his new family, immediately bonding with the springers and blossoming under their more experienced doggie tutelage while passing along to them a few tricks of his own. Dudley became Detail's hanging-out-in-the-yard companion. He likes being outside too.
Detail was the only one not intimidated by the cat. Figero used to play a game with the dogs, stretching out full length on the middle stair and daring the dogs to pass him. He'd swat with his sharp claws at any dog audacious enough to try. Cosi would dance around and bark, wanting to climb those stairs but definitely not wanting to pass the cat to do so. Dudley would whine, also unwilling to challenge Figero and risk a scratch. Detail, however, would just bull right on up the stairs undaunted. He was bold like that.
So here we are today. Older and perhaps wiser. Aged even. Well, some of us feel that way at times. Like now. Detail was diagnosed with Cushing's disease about ten months ago. In a nutshell, he had a tumor on either his adrenal or his pituitary gland that caused an overabundance of cortisone in his body. He was on meds, but we are still unsure of their therapeutic value. There is a more aggressive treatment than the one he was on, but it is a harsh road and would have been too hard on such an old fellow. His muscle mass wasted away. Skin and bones he became. His nickname used to be Fat Boy, but no longer. He couldn’t go down the stairs by himself and often his legs slipped out from underneath him. His coat, once the most beautiful thick soft and shiny fur around, was but thin and wispy. His wonderful rich bark sounded more like a mouse squeaking. He seemed embarrassed at the change in his voice because near the end he used it even less frequently than before.
He would have been sixteen next month. I owed him a cake.
Cosine is the first dog who completely and wholly belongs to me. Mutt, my family dog growing up, didn't count as "my" dog because she was really my mom's dog. Just like my son can never really call Cosine "his" dog, because she's really mine. Mutt was a mutt and Cosine is a springer spaniel. She's a bitch. She barks too much because she's stone deaf and doesn't realize she's making such hellacious noise. Recently she's decided she doesn't like to jump up onto the bed where she really wants to be, so she whines and barks until we lift her up to join us. Yeah. I'm whipped. So what? She's very sweet and dear, and I love her with all my heart. I must, otherwise I'd never put up with her barking.
And while she is, like the rest of us, moving closer and closer with each passing day toward the end of her life and her grave, she's not the one for whom this tribute is written. Her brother Detail went more actively about the business of dying. Quite successfully, I may add.
Cosine has been part of our family since she was about nine weeks old. She and Detail were from the same litter, but Detail initially lived with some other family. Some stupid non-dog-loving family (SNDLF) adopted Detail, even though four out of the six family members didn't like dogs. They hired a professional dog trainer, took him to the vet as needed, groomed him regularly. But did they love him like he needed to be loved? I think not because after about a year, the SNDLF decided they didn't want him any more. WTF?? So he came to live with us. Despite his "professional" training, he did have a few bad-dog habits. Like running willy-nilly out any exterior door that happened to open. It took but a bit of patient instruction to help him realize doing that was just a really bad idea. He was a bright dog. And I can't fault him for wanting to do it. The SNDLF didn't have a fenced yard. With the exception of those occasional front door oh-my-god-let-me-out-I-NEED-to-run-and-play-and-explore escapes, Detail had NEVER been outside except on a leash. And he just was not that fond of being on the leash. Imagine.
Fortunately for him and because we are smart dog loving people, we had a fenced yard. A big yard. Crappy fence, but good enough. Lots of room to run around. Plenty of native wildlife to chase. Trees to pee on. Suburban passers-by at whom to bark. Warm sunshine in which to nap. Sticks to fetch and chew. All the good stuff dogs deserve.
Our kitchen door led to a small deck with stairs going down to the backyard. Since we had been working on the "just because the door is open doesn't mean you should run out" training, when I opened that door he sat politely yet quivering anticipatorily nearby watching me intently. I will never forget the look of disbelief transforming into unadulterated joy as I waved an invitation for him to proceed out the door unrestrained by a leash. He bounded past me, down the stairs and into the yard where he did free-doggie things to his heart's content.
Detail quickly developed a routine. Rain, snow, sleet, or sunshine. Out the door, down the stairs, through the right side of the wooded area to the back fence, looping around to race up the left side of the wooded area to the front fence, surveying his domain. Soon his path was worn and visible and rarely did he deviate. He'd sit outside for hours on the deck, watching over his home and soaking up the sunshine… or sleet… or snow…. or rain… He just liked being outside.
Sometimes when he was out alone he would eventually bark to come in, but typically he only raised his voice when there was really something to raise it about, like a child riding his bike down the street. "Alarm alarm! They are coming to kill us all!", he'd proclaim lustily and loudly in his rich deep baritone voice.
When they were younger, I, along with my son who was also younger, would take them hiking in the woods of a nearby park. We'd let them off their leashes and they would take off running through the forest, circling back every so often to make sure we were still on the right trail. The path led near a reservoir and the dogs would swim. Detail and Cosine both loved to swim. They would chase sticks out into the water and bring them merrily back to shore to do it all over again. Detail, as seemed his nature, would sometimes ignore the stick and just swim randomly around. He always was an independent fellow, almost a loner yet truly enjoying the comfort of his pack.
Cosine and Detail were middle-aged when Dudley joined the family. We didn’t live near the reservoir any more and Dudley has never been swimming. What a hoot that would be. Dudley is a basset hound. I should probably use a capital “B” and “H” because of the impact he has had on our lives. The pleasure of belonging to a basset hound is an experience not to be missed. He had not been part of a pack before and seemed to take special joy in his new family, immediately bonding with the springers and blossoming under their more experienced doggie tutelage while passing along to them a few tricks of his own. Dudley became Detail's hanging-out-in-the-yard companion. He likes being outside too.
Detail was the only one not intimidated by the cat. Figero used to play a game with the dogs, stretching out full length on the middle stair and daring the dogs to pass him. He'd swat with his sharp claws at any dog audacious enough to try. Cosi would dance around and bark, wanting to climb those stairs but definitely not wanting to pass the cat to do so. Dudley would whine, also unwilling to challenge Figero and risk a scratch. Detail, however, would just bull right on up the stairs undaunted. He was bold like that.
So here we are today. Older and perhaps wiser. Aged even. Well, some of us feel that way at times. Like now. Detail was diagnosed with Cushing's disease about ten months ago. In a nutshell, he had a tumor on either his adrenal or his pituitary gland that caused an overabundance of cortisone in his body. He was on meds, but we are still unsure of their therapeutic value. There is a more aggressive treatment than the one he was on, but it is a harsh road and would have been too hard on such an old fellow. His muscle mass wasted away. Skin and bones he became. His nickname used to be Fat Boy, but no longer. He couldn’t go down the stairs by himself and often his legs slipped out from underneath him. His coat, once the most beautiful thick soft and shiny fur around, was but thin and wispy. His wonderful rich bark sounded more like a mouse squeaking. He seemed embarrassed at the change in his voice because near the end he used it even less frequently than before.
He would have been sixteen next month. I owed him a cake.
July 2, 2004
Unexpected Pleasure
Because it is the second of the month and I'm a bookkeeper who freelances part-time, today was not one of my "easy" Fridays. I've been to downtown DC and then hauled ass to another client's office in west Alexandria. Thankfully the traffic cooperated. I arrived home and began my arriving home routine, which consists first of greeting the animals and then letting them outside. While they tend to their business in the backyard, my routine then takes me down the driveway to the mailbox to retrieve whatever goodies the mail carrier may have brought us.
And surprise! Some time between when I had driven into the carport and then returned to fetch the mail a few minutes later, someone had planted a little American flag next to our mailbox! See?
How cool is that?
And surprise! Some time between when I had driven into the carport and then returned to fetch the mail a few minutes later, someone had planted a little American flag next to our mailbox! See?
How cool is that?
Yet another reason...
... that purses are better than pockets. This could have been my phone. Or The Boy's phone. Or maybe your phone. Owie wowie.
Weird History
I confess. I was surfing around indiscriminately again. Blindly following links and not paying attention to where I started, just to where I was going. And sometimes I wasn't paying attention even then. But hey, is that really something I need to confess? I felt no guilt while doing it. And I rarely miss an opportunity to feel guilty.
This caught my eye, mainly because we have some friends who are currently on the Weight Watchers program. I spent the next few minutes reading through these and laughing out loud. At work. Really loud. Couldn't help it though. In my defense I was on my lunch hour. And it's really hard to eat and laugh out loud at the same time. Laughing is hardly against the rules at my office, but I felt rather silly laughing out loud by myself. Our intern probably thinks I'm insane. He couldn't help but hear me.
Check it out. Read as you scroll down to "start the tour". Then take the tour. It's well worth the clicks.
Weight Watchers Recipe Cards circa 1974
You can thank me later.
This caught my eye, mainly because we have some friends who are currently on the Weight Watchers program. I spent the next few minutes reading through these and laughing out loud. At work. Really loud. Couldn't help it though. In my defense I was on my lunch hour. And it's really hard to eat and laugh out loud at the same time. Laughing is hardly against the rules at my office, but I felt rather silly laughing out loud by myself. Our intern probably thinks I'm insane. He couldn't help but hear me.
Check it out. Read as you scroll down to "start the tour". Then take the tour. It's well worth the clicks.
Weight Watchers Recipe Cards circa 1974
You can thank me later.
July 1, 2004
Weird NJ
Sometimes I'm hesitant to admit it, but I've got relatives in New Jersey. Relatives by marriage (not my own marriage, although for several years way back in the stone age I was married, these relatives are unrelated to those relatives who weren't from New Jersey at all). My NJ relatives are from my Mom's marriage.
A strange bunch, those New Jerseyites. But nice enough folks. They talk funny. Almost as funny as when Wendy gets around her parents and her Texas accent resurfaces (actually I find that accent of hers more sexy than funny!). Accents can be like that. I remember when we used to visit my grandparents in Alabama and my Mom's southern accent would come back. Or the fellow from Boston I work with whose accent pops out every so often. Quite amusing.
I've never considered New Jersey itself weird (my relatives are a different story!). Then I spent some time perusing this site, Weird NJ. I actually found the stories there more interesting than weird. I am fascinated by such things. History is cool. My mind wonders about the whys and hows and whos and whens and whats of what may have occurred within or around those strange types of places. So this site proved quite interesting to me. Perhaps it will be to you too.
A strange bunch, those New Jerseyites. But nice enough folks. They talk funny. Almost as funny as when Wendy gets around her parents and her Texas accent resurfaces (actually I find that accent of hers more sexy than funny!). Accents can be like that. I remember when we used to visit my grandparents in Alabama and my Mom's southern accent would come back. Or the fellow from Boston I work with whose accent pops out every so often. Quite amusing.
I've never considered New Jersey itself weird (my relatives are a different story!). Then I spent some time perusing this site, Weird NJ. I actually found the stories there more interesting than weird. I am fascinated by such things. History is cool. My mind wonders about the whys and hows and whos and whens and whats of what may have occurred within or around those strange types of places. So this site proved quite interesting to me. Perhaps it will be to you too.
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