Beach Bound

• The one with the shades on the blanket is me.
• The one behind the grill is Wendy.
• Jonathan and Andrew are bouncing the ball off each other's heads.
• John is buried in the sand.
• Donna is burying him.
• Mom and Hal are taking a walk down the beach.
• SK is sleeping in.
• Joan and Bill are back at the house putting Alice down for her afternoon nap. Oh wait! That's Alice by Wendy's feet!
• The sun shining in the sky is the same one shining on The Boy. Except he's on a different stretch of beach on the same ocean some 300 miles south of where we are. *sigh*

Be back next week!

Things One Would Rather Not Have Happen When One Has Visitors

Even if those visitors are family. Just flat-out bizarre occurrences, flukes really. I'd share the evening with you but I'm still in a daze and laughter is all that has survived. I think I'm handling it quite well actually.



PS: Love ya, Wen. Sorry for waking you up in my quest for the plunger. Sorry about the door. Really sorry about the door. Don't worry, we'll figure something out. :)

Nancy Drew

When I was a young girl, I adored reading Nancy Drew stories.  I'm pretty sure my mother got me started because mom's can be cool that way.  Reading is one of the nicest things you can do for a child.  I don't know how old I was when I first starting reading the series, but I amassed quite the collection over the years of my childhood.  I'd read them over and over, again and again, never tiring of the scintillating captivating exciting riveting stories of Nancy and her posse.  I'd read them in the bathtub.  Under the covers at night when I was supposed to be sleeping.  In the car on family trips.  Nestled in the "Y" high up in the willow tree.  Anywhere and everywhere.  The matching yellow-covered books lined the shelf in my room.  Always in order:  Volumes 1 through 30.  Visually pleasing, also.

As I got older, I moved on to reading other things.  More age appropriate and such.  But I still had those books lining my shelves.  And it still brought me great satisfaction to see them there.

When I moved out of my parent's house, I, as many departing children often do, left behind some of my possessions.  After all, isn't a parent's house a permanent storage unit in which to keep the things you don't want to haul around from place to place to place?  Stuff you don't want to get rid of but you don't necessarily need?  That's right, of course it is.  At least for a while.

But then my folks announced they were moving!  Oh the horror!  And it would get worse.  Before they moved they had a yard sale.  Because that is what one does before one moves.

I'm not sure how much time passed between their yard sale and an ensuing conversation with my mom.  It was before they actually moved.  And somehow my Nancy Drew collection came up.  Maybe you can feel it coming.  I sure didn't.  They had sold my Nancy Drew books at the yard sale!  OMG!  I actually cried.  There I was, 19 years old, crying because the Nancy Drew collection I adored throughout my childhood but hadn't looked at for years had been sold out from under me.  I think my mom cried too.  Because she hadn't considered how special those books were to me.

Fast forward to maybe three years later.  We were visiting my folk's new home in Norfolk, Virginia for the holidays.  Christmas morning dawned.  Maybe you can feel it coming.  I sure didn't.  I unwrapped a heavy box from Santa and inside... ayup!  A whole collection of Nancy Drew, Volumes 1-30!  The same familiar books with the same familiar yellow covers with the same familiar cheesy pictures on the covers and the same familiar stories inside.

So I've got a collection of Nancy Drew mysteries, Volumes 1-30, that I'll haul around with me forever.  And display on my bookshelves always.  Because mom's can be cool that way.  Like mine.

SK!

My sister is, at this very moment, in an airplane winging her way from Sedona, Arizona to Washington National Airport (and yes, I refuse to call it Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport because it's just too long and it still irritates me that Virginia tax dollars had to pay for all the signage changes necessitated by the act of Congress that changed the airport's name.... no, no resentment here, really).

My sister is coming!
My sister is coming!
Happy dances for everyone!

Firecrackers

Wendy and I like to snack. Sometimes when a full blown meal either seems like too much work or too much food, we snack instead. We don't always select our snacks based on nutritive value, rather snacks that satisfy the craving one or the other or both of us is experiencing. Women crave often. At least these women do. 

One of our favorite snacks are these hors d'oeuvre thingies called Firecrackers. We can only purchase them at Safeway as they are a store brand. Their name could be derived from their shape but probably more from their ingredients: they are fiery crisy spicy hot rolls of goodness! I think the shape came after the taste.  They primarily consist of shredded beef, jalapenos and cheese wrapped in a plain brown wrapper.

While we could eat those Firecrackers plain, we'd rather dip them in something. Wendy's sauce of preference is picante sauce.  Pace Picante Sauce.  Medium. Not that chunky crap. Mine is... I'll give you one guess... sweet & sour! I adore slathering my Firecrackers with LaChoy's Sweet & Sour Sauce.  But while we use picante sauce for many other reasons, LaChoy's is only used for Firecrackers.

Grocery shopping has been more than a little weird for me since The Boy left for college last fall.  A great deal of maternal satisfaction was derived from stocking our pantry with food he enjoyed as well as preparing that food for our family meals.  All of a sudden I had to adjust to shopping and cooking for just the two of us.  Who knew it would be so difficult to adapt?  I must have missed that memo.  For months I could not even pull into Safeway's parking lot without feeling a heavy weight bearing down and my eyes getting teary.  How bizarre.  Especially for me.  Walking into the store was an even greater challenge.  To actually face meal planning and product selection?  The strain was enormous.  Elephantine.  It's gotten easier of late.  I actually again can whistle on my way into the store these days.  Progress has been made.  In some ways, it's even good.  Like now I buy corn on the cob because Wendy and I both like it while The Boy never did. 
 
During those months of adjustment, I'd find myself pushing my cart up and down the grocery store aisles mindlessly.  I'd try to focus on picking up items I knew Wendy liked as well as things I liked and things we should eat while trying not to burst into tears. It sounds so dramatic but it's really how it was! I kept us well supplied with Firecrackers and fudgesicles and Utz corn chips. Oh, and of course Pace Picante Sauce and my beloved LaChoy's. I continued to prepare regular meals, maybe three times a week instead of every day. While picking up necessary items for a full meal, I'd also pick up those favorite snack items. Because the cart seemed so barren and empty. Food for two doesn't take up much space at all.

One result of my shopping "issue" is that we now have a year or more supply of LaChoy's Sweet & Sour Sauce.  When I was putting away groceries last month, I noticed three other bottles already on the shelf.  Yeesh.  Now there's four.
 
There are, by design, eight Firecrackers in a box.  This makes a great snack for two.  Not too much, not too little.  Once when I opened the box and spread them out on the baking sheet, there were nine in one box! Score! And here is an example of how simple (pathetic? no, simple!) my life really is. I was so excited by that extra Firecracker, I ran to share the news with Wendy. When they were finished baking, I carefully split the oddball in half to share the unexpected bounty.

I've thought of how horrible it would be if there were only, say, seven in the box. Ever since that first time, I secretly hope to again find nine. And that's one reason I'm writing about Firecrackers today.

Wendy and I snacked on some last Saturday.  As we munched, I asked her if she recalled the time I found nine in a box.  She said yes.  Then I told her of my secret yearning to again find nine. Wendy said "I have!" I said "Huh?" She blushed.

See I'm not always in charge of baking the Firecrackers.  We take turns.  And I guess sharing sometimes takes a back seat to hunger.... hmmm.

Lesbian Fiction

Why is it that novels featuring lesbian characters cost so much more than other novels not featuring lesbian characters?  And why do I even buy them?  Honestly, there are but a scant few writers creating lesbian characters who, in my own humble opinion, can even craft a story worthy of the paper on which they are printed.  Yet unfortunately they are as prolific as romance novels and their content similar in quality.  Then to add insult to injury, the books cost close to $20 for a thin paperback.  And most of them just plain suck. 
 
I know I know.  It sounds harsh.  I acknowledge it's hard to write a novel.  Or I imagine it would be as I have never done it.  I just expect if something actually gets published, it ought to be worth reading.  At least one in ten.  While it may not appear so, I do respect those who have gone the distance to get their works into print.

We read a lot.  Usually I'm pretty good at picking out authors.  I have been rewarded and pleasantly surprised many times just blindly choosing a book based on such ridiculous factors as the way it feels in my hand or the font in which it is printed.  Only once did I score such a prize with lesbian fiction.

I was out shopping at Border's one Saturday morning a few years back, ostensibly to purchase the summer reading required for The Boy's upcoming English class.  And I did purchase those. But I also wandered around fondling and perusing other texts while absorbing the ambiance of the bookstore. Bookstores feel good. Almost as good as libraries.

As I neared the register, I paused to scan the "all books $1" table. Never hurts to look. A book caught my eye and I picked it up: "Tropical Storm" by Melissa Good.  The cover wasn't particularly impressive, but the size was just right. An overlarge paperback, you know what I mean?  Not overlarge as in really thick, but overlarge as in bigger dimensions than typical paperback-sized. As I read the synopsis on the back cover it was impossible not to recognize that in my hand I was holding a volume of lesbian fiction.  At Border's no less.  And on the $1 table.  So it was coming home with me.  Somewhat like purchasing a lottery ticket. 

I began reading it that evening.  With stories featuring lesbian protagonists, there seems to be a predictable template with minor variations. The city may change. The age of the characters may vary. But typically there is a strong tall dark-haired woman who in some way becomes involved in some way or another with a petite blonde woman and solves all her problems as they fall passionately in love. Or vice versa blonde brunette.  Maybe a redhead tossed in every so often.  But redheads are usually the evil characters.  "Tropical Storm," while following that pattern, also has a reasonably interesting story line and the characters feel real. It sucked me in.
 
One day shortly after I started that book, I found myself sitting in my car at the Vienna Metro station waiting for Wendy.  We, along with other friends who were also meeting us at the Metro, would then drive out to Nissan Pavilion to see a trio of over-the-hill rock bands:  Styx, Billy Squire and Bad Company.  Why you may ask?  Well why not?  Wendy thinks it was because our now mostly bald-headed friend Tom was missing his mullet days.
 
I had brought along the book to read while I waited.  Wendy arrived ahead of the rest of the group and joined me in my car.  She didn't bring a book of her own.  And I was having a difficult time tearing myself away from my story.  It wasn't long before Wendy was behaving in a rather petulant basset hound manner, expressing her displeasure that I had something to read and she didn't.  I suppose it didn't help that I commented on how much I was enjoying my book and how I thought I may have finally found an author who could write decent lesbian fiction.  My absorption was apparent.  I jokingly offered to tear the book in half so she'd have something to read too.  She perked!  Greatly.  And so it was that my one dollar book became two fifty-cent books.  Life was good as we both read absorbedly until our friends arrived.

Turns out Melissa Good got her start writing Xena: Warrior Princess fan fiction.  Now there's something I didn't need to know.  Because knowing that, it is so obvious that her characters Dar and Kerry are patterned after Xena and Gabrielle.  Ack well.

We have since replaced the torn book with another copy (for which we paid full price). The sequels in the series are entertaining but have never captivated us as fully as the first. And you can bet I always scan the $1 table with a more careful eye. Who knows what treasures are to be found within?

Got a Minute?

Well maybe a bit more than a minute unless you graduated at the top of your speed reading class.  If you've got time and if your brain is in gear, this article from The New Republic is a worthy read.
 
Open eyes.  Open mind.  Thinking is good.

A New Doggie Game!

It has begun. My new game with the dogs. They initiated it. It's been a bit weird adjusting to our reduced numbers, so whenever they ask for anything they get it. I'll give them both credit for this new distraction.

It starts with me sitting at my computer. Cosine comes up under the desk and noses her head into my lap. This pushes my chair back a little since it's on wheels like most office chairs. So I pet Cosine. Then Dudley comes over and puts his nose in my lap next to Cosine's. And I pet him too. After all, isn't that one advantage of having two hands? But Dud doesn't stop there (need I remind you he's a basset hound?). Not content with merely his head in my lap, a stumpy little front leg with a big old paw at the end followed quickly by another stumpy little front leg with a big old front paw at the end find their way onto the edge of the chair. This pushes me back even further. Chairs with wheels on hardwood floors are like that. Wheely.  Dudley quickly has his whole head and part of his body in my lap.

Before I know it I'm moving at a rather rapid pace. Or rather the chair is moving and I'm moving as a consequence of actually being seated in said chair. Cosine is pushing with her chest and Dudley propelling us more merely by trying to keep his paws on the front of the chair and his head in my lap. Tails are wagging furiously at this point. My hands are petting whole dog bodies now. My chair is rolling and I'm petting and dogs are wiggling.

Soon my chair is backed into the wall and the whole thing dissolves into a great big doggie love fest. Good game, yes? 
 

Watching Zip Codes

The post title is compliments of our friend Tina, as she has so dubbed Wendy and my weekend habit of watching re-runs of 90210.

It's true. We do it. And we aren't overly shy about admitting it. There's not much TV selection on Saturday and Sunday mornings. We only have like 100 or more channels from which to choose after all. And we enjoy watching something as we lay around sipping our weekend coffee and prepare to face the day. Cartoons have gotten so complex they go right over our heads and demand actual concentration to follow. We require something more basic. Like teen angst and predictable drama made even more predictable because we're watching re-runs.

Why oh why do we enjoy that show? It's certainly not the captivating story lines that draw us in.

The first reason that pops into my head is "sexy women scantily clad", followed closely in second place by "women in bikinis and mid-drift tops". That sounds more than a bit piggish though. But it is the first thing that pops into my head. However it's not always piggish to appreciate a well endowed physically fit female specimen, is it?  Our thoughts remain pure after all.

We also enjoy making catty comments about the actors. Well not about the actors really, rather the characters they portray. Except in the case of Tori Spelling.  In her case, we are sometimes being catty about the actress.  She's a "butter face" in our own humble opinions.   But we are also extremely disparaging of her character: Ms. Donna Martin, prissy do-gooder virgin extraordinaire. Not that being a prissy do-gooder virgin is a bad thing. But from where we sit, the angst it causes her is mockworthy.  Either commit to saving your virginity and be comfortable with your decision or get busy losing it, girl!

Yesterday morning's episode highlighted that dilemma as she wrestled with prom night and her boyfriend David's desire to spend the night with her at the ritzy Bel Age Hotel. We often refer to him as Blue Balls for obvious reasons. Wendy opines that if there is someone desparate enough to have sex with the horsefaced one, she should be grateful enough to follow through.  Wendy has a point, albeit a wicked one.  

You Over There!

Okay you. Come on out of there. Yes, you. The one who has been covertly persuing this site. You know who you are. Instead of making vague and seemingly innocent out-of-the-blue references to Popeyes, step up and be a man! And while you are at it, you can tell me how you found your way over here. Although I think I know. And it scares me. However I don't care how ugly the reality may be. I'm a big girl. I can handle it. Tell the truth. It's the right thing to do. We are friends, after all.

Thank you.

Oh! And welcome! It's good to have you here.

High Plains Drifter

Yes, Virginia, there are such things as tumbleweeds. And one tried to take my life this morning.

It may sound fantastical. Maybe even hard to believe. But in reality, tumbleweeds are an integral part of our landscape. Innocuous most of the time, they collect in the corners and under the furniture and on the stairs and around shoes left out on the floor. Their origins are obvious to those of us in the know. They are not particularly particular about where they choose to rest. Wendy gets busy once or twice a week and sweeps them into great big piles and disposes of them with the dust pan. But sometimes they escape the broom and gracefully float away until they settle in a different resting place. Such is the nature of tumbleweeds, after all.

So back to the attempt on my life. This morning as I descended the stairs, before any caffeine ingestion, still groggy and not quite awake, I was viciously attacked by a rogue tumbleweed! It came out of nowhere doing a realistic imitation of a mutant spider or some other large creepy insectlike creature from the depths of all that is evil. It was lifelike enough that my survival instincts immediately took over and I leapt into the air. As I soared over it, graceful as a gazelle, my eyes scanned frantically to ensure I did not land anywhere near the horrible freak of nature that had somehow found it's way into our abode.

At some point during my flight, I gained enough awareness to realize it wasn't alive at all. It was but a tumbleweed of pet hair daintily wafting on the air currents across the floor during it's journey to a new tumbleweed resting place.

But in that brief moment before my brain caught up with my perception, my life was in danger.  But I survived to tell the tale.  Hooray for me!

Proof!

There are things in Virginia way older than me! The existence of such things makes me feel younger.

Structural Integrity

I spent the day yesterday downtown with Richard and Nick.  It was a good day.  

I've worked with them for seventeen years.  Richard and Nick are structural engineers.  I first met Richard while employed at the architectural firm where I began working about a year and a half after The Boy was born.  (That was a fabulous job and deserves more than a passing mention but I'm not writing about that just now.)
 
An architectural firm often uses other disciplines such as structural, mechanical and/or civil engineers as part of the project team.  Most architects have their preferred engineers with whom to work.  Richard and Nick's firm worked on many jobs with us.  Usually it was Richard, because he had attended college with one of the principals of the architectural firm and they were pals.

When the firm where I worked went out of business (another interesting life experience but also not the topic of this story), I went into business for myself as a bookkeeper.  There's more to that story also but again, it's not part of this tale (gee that line is getting old).  Richard and Nick's structural engineering firm was one of my first clients.  Because the timing was right.  And because I was very lucky.
 
They are an odd couple indeed.  Richard is originally from Haiti and Nick is British.  I don't know how they became friends, but they are friends in addition to being long-time business partners.  I listen to them banter about soccer matches and current events and their squash game.  They like each other.  Their firm has always been small, but they seem to prefer it that way.  I know I do.  I adore working for small business.  I've met Richard's wife on many occasions as she comes into the office now and again, but I've never met Nick's although I've spoken with her on the phone.  Richard's wife is also Haitian and Nick's is American.  Neither couple has children, but they both have dogs.  They also both live and work in the District.  I've never understood how anyone could live in the District because it's such a screwy place (uh Marion Barry, anyone?) but to each their own.
 
So America strikes again.  It's a beautiful thing.  How did a Haitian and a Brit hook up and start a business?  And why don't I know more of their origins?  I don't even know what brought them to America or how long ago they came.  Maybe those are the types of questions I'll start asking after I've known them for 20 years.  Don't want to rush into anything, after all.  They know pretty much as much about me as I know about them.  The basic outline of my life with some shading in places as conversations occur and details are revealed.  Like they know I'm gay and that I have a son and he's in college and where he goes to college and what he's studying and that my sister is a Buddhist nun and that I live with a woman named Wendy and that we love dogs and miss The Boy.  And that I'm a basically a happy individual.  I know they know that last part because Richard often comments how wonderful it is to see me because I've always got a smile on my face.
 
I know they are both Democrats as politics often come up in discussion.  I've seen pictures of Nick's esophageal ulcer and the incision from his dog's recent surgery to repair a torn achilles tendon and his wife in curlers holding what looks like a beach ball but is actually a humongous lemon.  I know they both are quite into family as they often talk of their families.  Richard has his mother living with him and she's not in the best of health.  Nick's mother and sister and her husband and children still reside in jolly old England and he travels there periodically to visit. Richard's bulletin board is covered with photos of his nieces and nephews (he's got a ton of them!) and other family members interspersed with some childish drawings. One that sticks in my head is a picture of a Gameboy drawn in crayon with the notation: "Thank you, Uncle Richard! Love, (unintelligible)". That drawing has been hanging in on his bulletin board for a very long time.

Over the years I've seen employees come and go from their firm.  Either by leaving for another job or necessary layoffs (the industry is decidedly cyclical) or as happened this year, suicide.

Yeah. Yikes.

In February, I walked into their office building at 14th & K Streets, NW.  Our Nation's Capital.  McPherson Square Metro stop.  Orange or blue line depending on which train comes along first.  Then a short walk that seems really long if it is raining.  The first thing Nick said before I could even say good morning was "Jim is no longer with us."  He had a very odd look on his face.  Like he was queasy.  I decided to let him continue speaking rather than blurting out the obvious question:  "WTF?"

Nick, as is his manner, speaks in a roundabout way but eventually gets to the point after back-tracking and side-tracking and front-tracking several times.  All in his cute little British accent.  Which usually makes for some interesting conversations.  Not his accent but his all-over-the-place-edness.  This time I really just wanted to know what had happened.  Yet interruptions would have slowed it all down.  So I let him talk without showing a trace of impatience.  My sister would have been proud of me.  As I am just not capable of recounting it the way he actually told it, I'll tell it my way herein with a bit of backstory too.
 
Jim had been working there for about three years.  Early 30's, single, into fishing, shaved head, about 70 pounds overweight, seriously white boy.  No visible tattoos.  (If I had to bet, I'd put my money on him being a pothead.  Which is not necessarily a bad thing.)  He had one of those posters of the deck of cards with the faces of the "America's Most Wanted" hanging in his cubicle.  The Iraqi edition.  When one was captured or killed, he put a circle with a line through it over the card.  Black for dead, red for captured.  Evidently he was a competent CADD operator as well as good at taking care of their computer systems.  He seemed nice enough to me, just a bit odd as people tend to be.  His timecards were always legible.  What more could I ask for? 

I was there on a Thursday.  Jim had called in the Friday prior, saying he had to be in court or something which was weird in itself.  The fellows were a bit befuddled.  Then Monday was a holiday.  And Tuesday he was a no-show.  Nick tried unsuccessfully to get in touch with him.  They were worried.  It was unlike Jim to just not show up for work. 

When he didn't show up again on Wednesday and didn't call or answer his home phone, Nick was disturbed enough to go a bit further to try and locate him.  He called the local court in the county where Jim resided, since that's where Jim had implied he'd be on Friday.  Perhaps he was doing jury duty or something.  What Nick found out was quite far from that. 

Long-Nick-story-short, Jim had been expected at court the prior Friday.  But it wasn't for jury duty.  It was for sentencing after his stalking conviction.  Jim didn't show up for his court appearance that day so a warrant had been issued for his arrest.  He had subsequently been found in his apartment, dead.  Suicide by hanging. 
 
Then the WTFs began in earnest.  Richard and Nick had worked with this man day in and day out for three years.  Yet obviously the personal information he had shared with them was but a tiny piece of what really went on with him outside of the office.  There was no hint of legal trouble.  Or obsessive behavior.  Turns out his conviction for stalking was due to his actions toward a woman who lived in the same apartment complex as him.  Or she used to live in the same apartment complex but had relocated to get away from him.  And he tracked her down to her new location.  Because that's what stalkers do, I guess.  While we don't know the details, he evidently caused her enough distress that she had him arrested and followed through with prosecution.  And he was convicted.  He was going to go to jail.  Instead he killed himself.

So that 20-year thought on sharing personal information?  That needs re-thinking.  Richard and Nick were quite shaken by this event.  They have a smattering of pictures taken in the office at various times of various employees in various work postures pinned up in various places around the office.  Now on his cubicle wall, Nick has a rather large photo of Jim on a roof doing a survey looking like Jim as we all remember him.  He's smiling.  I know they wish they'd known more.  That Jim had trusted them with more.  While they may not have been able to help him, they would have supported him.  Because they are good guys who care about people. 

I am fortunate to know them.

Underwire Bras

I'll never forget my unbridled joy when I discovered the existence of underwire bras. I had always just skipped right by them in the lingerie department because I was unaware of their super-amazing-unlike-any-bra-I've-ever-worn properties. But then one day as I was perusing the selection in the JC Penney, I got a wild hair and boldly decided to try something new. What a find! A bra that offers real assistance to my... as there is just no nice way to say this I'll attempt a modest and innocuous wording that will hopefully not bring any particular image to one's mind especially not one close to my reality unless you have a pair of your own and can honestly commiserate... my no-longer-twenty-one-year-old breasts in regaining their lost perkiness! Well not actually regaining, but at least giving the illusion (albeit temporary as is the nature of most illusions) of lift and shape. I enthusiastically embraced this newfound wonder and replaced every brassiere in my drawer with those of the underwire variety.

But now I can't decide if these things are a blessing or a curse.

You see, as the brassieres near the end of their useful life those helpful wondiferous wires begin to work their way free of the cloth in which they are encased. It begins innocently enough, just a loose string or a bit of worn fabric. Insidiously the wires begin to squirm and move until they have created a true hole out of which to poke their sharp pointy little ends. And that's where the fun really begins. 

So I am reminded yet again there is a price for everything.  Yet some prices are worth paying.  Double even.

Dinner

Boneless skinless chicken thighs grilled on the barbeque, seasoned with just salt and pepper.
 
Asparagus, steamed.  Thin tender stalks with a little crunch and amazing flavor.
 
White corn on the cob.  Boiled just the right amount of time, not a minute to long.  Slathered with margarine and sprinkled generously with salt.
 
Followed by dental floss.
 
Dinner couldn't have been any better.
 

Home Again

I just picked up Detail's ashes from the vet, so he's back home albeit in a completely different form.  Actually I'm never sure he really left as I think I've felt his spirit from time to time.  I'm shaking off my black and white view of life. 
 
For now he's in a very pretty wooden container on the mantle.  He came home with a little certificate also.  There's a bit of a poem printed on it along with his name and ours. 

"Farewell, Master, yet not farewell.
Where I go, ye too shall dwell.
I am gone, before your face,
A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepped
Ye will wonder why ye wept."

 

--After Death by Edwin Arnold

My Most Favorite Pink Floyd Song Ever

"So.
So you think you can tell
Heaven from hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

Did they get you trade
Your heros for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for the cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange
A walk-on part in the war
for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish.
How I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
Year after year.
Running over the same old ground
And have we found
The same old fears?
Wish you were here."

It's a missingness song, yes? An "I miss you and hope life is treating you gently and hope you are not having to compromise your soul to continue living it" song.  At least that's my interpretation of it.
 
The first time I remember really hearing this song was quite a few years ago.  Back before I was even 20 years old.  Years before The Boy came along.  I was hanging out with friends in our living room.  Dean was there.  Who's Dean, you may wonder.  Dean was to BG's family as James would later be to ours.  That clears it up, doesn't it?  He was also the best man at my wedding, oh so way back when life was oh so different and we were oh so different and oh so young yet thinking we were oh so grown up when we now know we really were so so far from grown up.  When you are not yet 20, life seems so simple.  At least it did to me.

So Dean put the Pink Floyd album on the record player (yes.. record player... as this was before cassette tapes were prevalent and way before CDs).  He  was laying back on the floor on that summer afternoon singing along.  I was lazily stretched out on the couch just listening.
 
I wasn't consciously missing anyone or anything back then.  I either hadn't been around long enough or was just not aware enough of things to really know what missingness was about. 

And now as I sit here more than 20 years later and more than twice as old as I was back then on that day, I can't help but wonder since I have changed this much in the past 20 years what the heck will I be like in another 20 years?  And while I didn't recognize anything missing back then, I certainly do now. 
 
I wonder what's going to be on my missingness list when I'm 60?

No School Buses!

One drawback of living in the suburbs: those damned school buses that seem to be everywhere at once when I need to get going to where ever it is I may be headed.

But of late I have been enjoying school being out for the summer! Not getting caught behind a train of school buses when I'm rushing to get to work is nice. And I'm usually rushing because mornings are just not my friend.

All good things must come to an end, of course. I'd forgotten about summer school. While there are fewer buses on the road than for regular school, they are back.

Undefined Confirmation

I've just confirmed something I've suspected for a while now. One of those silly little things that flashes through my mind as it does just about every evening but that I've never bothered following up to figure it out. But last night I did! Well I'm actually not sure what exactly it is that I've confirmed but I feel that some sort of question now has an answer.

Anyhoo. It's about the cat this time. Figero (yeah some folks may spell it Figaro but we like it our way). His food dish is kept on the counter or else the dogs would chow on his chow and he'd be irritated. And most likely cranky. And the dogs would most likely be scratched and cowering on the other side of the room. Fig has one of those divided dishes with two compartments. It's green. One side is reserved for wet food and the other for dry.

Each morning he gets a generic little can of wet food for breakfast. In the evening when the dogs are served their dinner, Figero usually just perches up on his food counter and watches. It's not until later in the evening when I'm down there setting up the coffee pot to brew for the morning when he chats me up for some crunchies.

This is where my wondering took root. He always eats the wet food in one sitting. Or he'll take a short break and come back in like 30 minutes to finish it off. He's predictable that way. But the dry food is different. He never finishes a compartment-full in one sitting. In the evening when he meows and makes other charming yet insistent cat-asking noises, I look over to see how much dry food is still in the dry food compartment of his dish. Sometimes it's empty. So I reach into the cupboard above his head and retrieve the bag of dry food. Then I shake an appropriate amount into the appropriate compartment. He pushes his way past me and crunches until he's crunched enough. Meanwhile I put the bag back in the cupboard and go about my business.

But sometimes when I look over to see how much dry food is still in the dry food compartment of his dish there clearly is plenty of dry food there for him to snack on. Yet he is still meowing and pacing on his food counter asking for something. I've tried picking up the dish and shaking it so he can hear that the delicious crunchies are awaiting consumption. Or I'll run my fingers through it for the same effect. He'll sniff around the dish after I do that, but will look up at me saying, "You know what I want, you silly woman. Now make it happen!"

So being a compliant pet parent, I always take out the bag of food and put a bit more in the dish. Then he settles in to snack. But last night when I saw there was still plenty of dry food in the appropriate side of his dish and after I had tried my worthless tricks to help him realize that fact, I did something different. I took the bag of food and just pretended to shake more into the dish. Not one piece of new food did I add.

And guess what? He settled right in to snack.

So what does this mean? I have no clue. None. Zero. Zip. Nada. Except that I know I can fake out the cat. And that sometimes faking out is exactly what he may be asking for. Good kitty. He's more like the rest of us than I realized.

All this time...

... trying to put it into words myself when this fellow says it so well.