Phase I: North by Northeast

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

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

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

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

Oh, those two are brave. Quite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Planes, Trains & Automobiles

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

Y'all behave.

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I Blame Public Transportation

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

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

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

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

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

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In the Soft Glow of the Streetlamp

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

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

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

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

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

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Comment Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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I'm Too Sexy for My Car

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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I Like Numbered Lists

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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


17. How tall are you? 5'9"


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


19. Last person you talked to? Wendy.


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


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


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


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


24. Do you like mustard? Yes.


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


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


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


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


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


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


31. Do you own a camera phone? Yes.


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


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

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"Yo! Pseudos!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Distance is Relative

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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"That's Fuckin' Teamwork!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Of Loud Noises On a Rainy Night

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

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

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

I imagine the discussion:

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

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

I feel so loved.

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

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Holiday Waves

I was watching a special about tsunamis on cable recently and imagined a similarity with the holiday season. The holidays rush upon us, bowling us over with feverish activity, disrupting routines as well as digestive tracts. The first wave recedes only to be renewed as New Year's celebrations follow quickly on the heels of Christmas.

When The Boy was five, my mom made an advent calendar for him. She's so crafty, my mom. For the past sixteen years, that calendar has been part of our holiday decor. I'm a fool for tradition, but have learned over the years that traditions must bend with the times. The calendar, however, remains constant.

There are twenty-four pockets, each holding a handsewn felt "toy." Every toy has unique character, crafted with sequins and embroidery. Above is Santa and his empty sack. Each day the countdown to Christmas is marked by removing the item from the pocket of the day and attaching it carefully on one of the small velcro squares surrounding Santa.

I have distinct snapshots frozen in my memory of The Boy at various ages tending to his calendrical duties: him in his footie pajamas, his curly blonde hair tousled, standing on his tiptoes to reach the upper portion; him dressed in his elementary school uniform, expression thoughtful as he carefully considered where to position the toy for that day; him in what was his standard high school attire of khaki cargo pants and button-down shirt, untucked, his blonde hair so short the curls were nonexistent, standing eye to eye with Santa. More recently, The Boy towers over him.

This year my mom commented, "Oh that calendar is looking old." I hadn't noticed. It still looks good to me.

We'll bring in the New Year listening to the Atlantic waves crash on the shore in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, a tradition that has adapted over the years from a family event inclusive of The Boy to a vacation with close friends. The Boy is heading north to the Big Apple, already forming his own traditions. But still. He'll be with us and, I trust, us with him.

Happy New Year, all.
Be safe.

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Money. It's a Hit.

Money rocks, but cash is a drag. I'm a debit card kind of girl. It's the best of all worlds: living on a cash budget but not having to carry cash. I don't even want to think about life before it.

Using my debit card, I end up with a managable pile of receipts, neat pieces of paper I stash in one of three places until it's time to compile them to update our financials for the month. Those little receipts are individually input in the computer and voila! I know where the money went.

But using cash? I end up with bits and pieces everywhere. A $7.86 purchase? A tolerably tidy $10 bill becomes two one dollar bills, one dime, four pennies and a receipt.

The pennies end up jingling around in my pocket or the bottom of my purse. From there they make their way to the olive dish that sits atop the dresser where I empty my pockets each evening and fill them each morning. Why do I keep my pennies in the olive tray? Why not? Once they hit the olive tray, they can consider themselves out of circulation. I rarely pick them up again. The bottom of my purse is also a penny graveyard.

I've often thought of how nice it would be were pennies to fall out of favor. Every purchase would round to the nearest nickel. Could any sane person object?

Real coins, and by that I mean anything that is not a penny, go into my Poker Can which sits next to the olive dish on my dresser. When the Poker Can fills up as Poker Cans are wont to do, the whole lot is transferred into the Super Poker Can. This coinage system is only two years old. I'm not sure what I'll do when the Super Poker Can overflows.

Neat storage of bills in purse or pocket is another issue. I like my bills orderly and neat, denominations collated with all heads facing the same direction. That takes effort. Not to mention paper money is far from sanitary. It's the nature of the beast, trading from hands that have been god-knows-where doing god-knows-what into other hands with a similar history and so on and so on. It's a germfest out there, people.

I know, I know. I should be grateful to have money to spend, no matter what form. Even when it's pennies. Truly I am. Yet I am equally as grateful for my debit card, without which life would be less organized, less efficient and germier. Long live the self swipe!

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Suburban Lesbian Bakes a Pie

Joanne's Pecan Pie to be exact.

My office holiday party is tomorrow. We'll have lunch at one of Old Town Alexandria's plethora of fine restaurants then return to the office for dessert and a gift exchange.

We do one of those roundtable gift exchanges. Everyone gets a number and presents are opened and traded around. (Is it rude to vie for the gift oneself brings to such an exchange? I must mull that over. I'd really like to have what I'm giving away.)

So back to the pie. It's a simple recipe and makes a damn fine dessert if you enjoy such things. Let's create one, shall we?

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
Gather the ingredients:

One 9" frozen deep dish pie crust
2 cups pecan halves
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup water
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla
1/4 tsp salt
3 eggs, beaten
36 Kraft caramels (unwrapped)

It is interesting that the recipe specifies the 36 Kraft caramels are to be unwrapped. Some details are best not left to intuition.

Into the saucepan go the caramels, the butter and the water. Over very low heat, allow it all to melt. Stir frequently. Watch it happen here through the miracle of timelapse photography!

Meanwhile, between stirs of the caramel mixture, blend together the eggs, sugar, vanilla and salt. Ummm ummmm good?

Gradually add the melty mess to the eggy mess.
Stir in the pecans.
Voila! Ready for the pie shell!

Bake in a 350 degree oven for 45-50 minutes.

We haven't heard from Joanne in years, but I think of her every time I bake her pie.

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The Eyes Have It

Turns out reading glasses have revolutionized my humble existence. Everything is easier. Why did it take me so long to conform? (Stubbornness chafes more often than not. I should give up that habit.)

It has not been easy to develop appropriate routines for proper eyeglass usage. Like remembering to always have them at hand, when to put them on and take them off, the exact position to perch them on my nose so I can peer successfully over the top, and how to keep them safe and accessible in my travel bag. Circumstances dictated I follow the advice of similarly handicapped individuals and purchase multiple pairs.

Circumstances being because I broke the one pair I owned. That's right. It took me less than a month to snap an arm off. Dainty fragile little things, my reading glasses. Now I own four pair.

I broke them at work. (Don't ask how, the story is too ugly to share. It was brutal.) Off I traipsed to the local CVS on my lunch hour to purchase a replacement pair. I grabbed two instead. The blouse I was wearing that day partially influenced my color choice: one pair I selected perfectly matched one of its colored stripes. I emailed Wendy a one-liner upon my return to the office: "I bought some really sassy glasses today." Her response: "OMG you bought PINK glasses!?"

The other pair is plain black. Or so I thought until I pulled them out of the package. That's when I saw the white scrollwork down the earpiece. The bright office light glinted off the rhinestones. Oh no. No no no! Pink glasses I can handle. Black with rhinestones and white florally decoration is beyond my limit.

Chalk up yet another practical application for a black Sharpie. It even did an admirable job of masking the rhinestones.

I threw the broken pair away.
Ten minutes later I picked them out of the trash.
I taped the arm neatly back on with scotch tape.
They'll live in the bathroom and no one but me will know.

Well. Wendy will too.
But her I can trust to keep my secret.

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It's the Weather

Last Friday we had a high of 75 degrees.
It was humid, too. Tasted like late summer.

Monday we had a high of 40 degrees.
It was crisp and clear.
It still is. Now it tastes like winter.

Tuesday as I made my way to the Metro station, I noticed as I always do the Permanent Puddle. It exists no matter what the weather, occupying an outside corner on the upper parking deck of the garage. The position of said Permanent Puddle requires me to take a longcut to avoid trapsing through it. (It's usually too deep to tiptoe through without your socks getting wet. I am certain. Don't ask how I know.)

Tuesday the Puddle was ice. I squelched the immediate desire to step on it, walk across it, slipslide a little on purpose. I could almost hear how the edges would crackle underfoot.

I wish I had done it. The first ice patch of the season deserves celebration.

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Reality TV Transcends the Ages?

Image jacked from somewhere on the internet.
Kudos to the anonymous artist!

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Go Ask Alice

Trees glorious trees! Their awakening in Spring is a sign of renewal, their plummage splendiferously shady in Summer and a riot of delicious color in Fall, the barren dark branches reaching toward the sky setting just the right mood in Winter. Who could ask for anything lovelier to decorate the horizon?

Right about now, I could. It's a passing fancy. See we haven't yet gotten around to tidying up Mother Nature's leafy detritus. My father always proclaimed, "What God put down, God will take away!" or something of the sort. I have no childhood memories of raking leaves. Who knew then how lucky I was to be spared such labor?

Now is not a good time to romp in our backyard. The thick brown coat of leaves obscuring the grass masks all signs of whatever dangers may be hiding beneath the crunchy layer.

And yes, there is danger. Grave danger. We have two dogs, dontcha know. Said dogs take care of all their worldly business in our backyard. It's nigh on impossible to scoop in the Fall. Even with my glasses.

Alice visited us the day after Thanksgiving. It was a warm sunny day here in the Nation's Capital. She thought of better things to do than to sit around chatting in the living room with the old folks. We romped in the yard. The backyard. Three year olds have their own special brand of romp. Alice loved the dogs and the dogs loved her. Pixie had never been up close and personal with a miniature human before; she was greatly intrigued. Dudley was, as always, a gentleman.

Alice made the rounds of our yard several times. Pixie spreads her toys far and wide. Alice insisted on tracking down each and every one. She would carefully pick them up, give a brief sniff and test the texture gently against her cheek while squeezing to discern density and squeakability.

Somewhere in our travels, she picked up dog shit on her shoe. Those cute little saddle shoes. I snatched it off her foot in the nick of time just before she stepped back into the house.

Wendy washed Alice's hands. I cleaned and polished her shoe. That cute little dog shit-covered saddle shoe.

We like it when mini-people come to visit. Even when they insist on wandering through the minefield.

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Suddenly Scientific

How many rolls of toilet paper does a household go through in an average week?

That is the question I've set out to answer for our own household, inspired in part by the quantity of Charmin flushed away during our recent spate of company over the Thanksgiving holiday.

Yes, we had a lot of company and it was a "food" holiday. But damn. I swear we blew through a nine pack of Ultra-Charmin over those four days and five nights. I personally changed the roll four times over the course of the holiday. (That's not counting whatever happened in the downstairs bathroom. I'm not even sure anyone besides The Boy used it. I sure didn't. The last time I was down there I saw a spider. Quite near the toilet. Need I say more?)

The Boy was the only representative of the male persuasion. The other seven bodies utilizing our humble facilities were female. Isn't it a commonly known factoid that women use more toilet paper than men? Is it true? I've always assumed so. Perhaps you've never thought about it. I have. More than once. The mind, it wanders.

Suddenly I'm irresistibly interested in Typical Household Toilet Paper Usage (THTPU). For the purpose of this experiment, our household will be the control group.

The data collection began with a fresh roll of toilet paper last night. I've numbered the spare rolls stashed handily in the cabinet within arms reach of the toilet. Lest you feel I'm unduly obsessed and perhaps should use my time more wisely, the numbering took a mere moment, a worthy investment for potentially serious scientific gain.

Well. That's a stretch.
But at least I'll satisfy my curiosity.
I shall report back here in a week to satisfy yours.

Feel free to play along if you'd like.
You know your inner scientist wants to.

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