Who Goes There?

First it was a lone voice I heard in the storm. Then it mingled with another.

Neighbors congregate with binoculars in hand, clamoring for a glimpse of our newest suburban wildlife. Our yard is in the center of the action.

The neighbor behind us revealed he had seen a trio. I asked where and he said, "On the tall tree in the crack house yard." We laughed. The crack house is another neighbor. It's not really a crack house but it does a fair impression.

We ourselves have wasted spent a fair amount of time gazing into the trees. Owl watching. We've learned to recognize their hunched sleeping posture as they doze among the leaves. They swoop. They perch. They stare. Their heads swivel. Their voices carry. Their cries end with a purr as the volume fades.

The other local birds vigorously defend their territory when an owl nears their nests. What a ruckus those smaller birds make, chirping wildly and dive bombing the intruder. The little birds recognize him for the predator he is.

Our neighbor came over holding out her hand, "Look at this!" she offered. I looked. It was a blob of dry stringy gray matter entwined around small bones. I donned my glasses for closer scrutiny. "It's an owl pellet!" she exclaimed. She pointed out a tiny claw in the mass. Together we marveled.

Curious, I consulted the internet and found an excellent quick primer on owl digestion, including this explanation of owl pellets:

"Several hours after eating, the indigestible parts (fur, bones, teeth & feathers that are still in the gizzard) are compressed into a pellet the same shape as the gizzard. This pellet travels up from the gizzard back to the proventriculus. It will remain there for up to 10 hours before being regurgitated. Because the stored pellet partially blocks the Owl's digestive system, new prey cannot be swallowed until the pellet is ejected. Regurgitation often signifies that an Owl is ready to eat again. When the Owl eats more than one prey item within several hours, the various remains are consolidated into one pellet."

Huh. Now there's something I didn't know.

Later, Wendy found one in our yard too. Have a look-see.

Part of me hopes that was one of the mice who commandeered our shed this past winter and feasted on a stored sack of grass seed while leaving mouse shit everywhere.

The circle of life. It turns.

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Wish You Were Here

When we visited North Carolina recently, azaleas were in full bloom. Now it's our turn! Vibrant colors are bursting forth from the legions of azaleas that grace our landscapes here in Northern Virginia.

Some folks manicure their azaleas into boring bush blobs or awkward hedge-like formations. What is up with that? Personally I think they look best when left to their own devices, to grow as nature intended. Azaleas aren't meant to be controlled!

Last spring, we began working in earnest on our landscape. One project was to relocate several mature azalea bushes whose existing locations did not fit in with Our Grand Plan. We did, however, have a barren corner of the backyard screaming for embellishment.

Digging up a mature bush is no small feat, but my woman is nothing if not determined. An afternoon's labor resulted in the first subject out of the ground, into the wheelbarrow and gently replanted in its new home. Love love love that pink, I do.

A few weeks later, The Boy tackled one from the front yard. It blooms white. A smaller pink one from the backyard and a fourth procured from a local nursery (vibrant red blossoms), supplemented our new azalea garden.

Perhaps you remember last summer and the drought parts of the East Coast experienced. We babied those transplants, watering them lovingly throughout the long, dry, hot summer. We endured an outbreak of lace bugs, which Wendy diagnosed and eradicated. Those bushes stayed alive... somehow (which is more than I can say for the rhododendron we also planted that spring. I've got shitty rhododendron karma).

Throughout the winter, I daydreamed about the coming spring and those azaleas, imagining the beautiful blooms set against the backdrop of the fence, contrasting with the greens of spring above and below, the flowers mingling in and around each other to present a blast of color perfect for enjoying while relaxing on our screened porch. My mind's eye, she is active.

As spring arrived, I inspected our azalea garden periodically, watching for new growth and being rewarded by delicate new leaves sprouting energetically. Soon, I thrilled! Soon they will bud then bloom into the riot of color I have anticipated!

In my fantasy, all the bushes bloom at the same time. Riot of color and all. Seems our corner azaleas have a different plan. It troubles me not. They are pleasing all the same.

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I've Got a Food Theme Going On

Who: Me. Wendy. Jackie. Emily. Pixie. Dudley. Oliver.
What: hanging out
When: a recent rainy and cool Saturday evening
Where: our screened porch
Why: because we can

When it rains, as it was that evening, suburban slugs occasionally slip in for a visit. Emily joyously appointed herself chief-in-charge of porch slug removal. Seems she has a karmic debt to repay due to slug abuse as a youngster. We are happy to indulge her. She busily relocated the few who popped by that evening.

I don't understand why someone who casually picks up slugs with her fingers and gently carries them in the palm of her hand while singing happily can turn into a quivering mass of fear when it comes to other icky buggy things. Like spiders.

See all hell broke loose when, while on slug patrol, Emily spied The Spider. I slouched in my chair and acted disinterested. Soon Jackie and Wendy had joined her in prancing anxiously around the general vicinity of the The Spider, who by then was defiantly crouched in the corner under the bright beam of a flashlight. They all called for me to GET UP! and LOOK! at the SIZE! of this SPIDER!!!

Nope, no way. I wasn't going to get dragged into that spider adventure. He was all the way across the porch from where I sat. I had no interest whatsoever in that spider.

Cameras appeared. Pictures were taken. Oh wait! Something for scale! A Bic was tossed into the corner amid renewed girlie screeches and prancing. More pictures were taken. Still I sat relaxed in my chair. That spider had nothing to do with me. I was Zen.

My eyebrow quirked when Oliver got involved. As the weather has warmed, Oliver has become a regular occupant of our porch. He likes it out there. I've seen him chase crawling things. He eats them.

Oh what a deadly game was set into motion that night. The Spider was doomed to be an Ollie snack. I leaped out of my chair in horror as the others cringed and groaned and cheered. Oliver batted, snatched, crunched, swallowed then licked his lips as he sauntered away.

I looked at the pictures later.
It really was a big spider.

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He Did Eat It

The food pictured in the previous post was my very first attempt at making chicken and dumplings. We ate it, a bit hesitantly at first then with greater gusto. Kudos to those who guessed correctly! The mushrooms were an afterthought and I'll probably leave them out next time. Yes, there will be a next time. The dumplings were just as delicious as the ones my mother used to make. Yummy.

The Boy is having decidedly different culinary experiences on his travels:

This proves to me once again that The Boy will try anything. Even the foot of a chicken.

I think I'll stick with my ugly dumplings.

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Did We Eat It?

I spent some creative time in the kitchen this afternoon. Imagine my dismay alarm horror surprise when it manifested this way:



So give me your best guess, folks.
What is it?

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Time Passages

I've only attended one RenFaire and it was when The Boy was this size:

Recognize him? Of course you do. Yes, it's been awhile. Wendy and I are going to another one this weekend. In North Carolina. With people we've not yet met but already know. Sans youngsters, it's bound to be a different experience on a number of levels. I shall swill beer and call it mead. I shall resist the temptation of cheesecake-on-a-stick. There will be jousting. And cleavage. Huzzah? Huzzah!

Carolina is gorgeous this time of year. I sort-of-but-not- really-because-time-passes-for-a-reason miss our periodic travels there while The Boy was in college. This trip is something else altogether.

But some things shouldn't change.
Here's to North Carolina barbeque.
And getting while the getting's good.

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Break's Over

They say the way to get something done is to ask a busy person to do it. It's so true, yet irrelevant to this post. I just find it a fascinating truth in human behavior.

We gave ourselves the winter off from house projects. A small kindness, a personal gift perhaps? I like to think of it as such. It beats thinking of ourselves as slothful. More than likely it's a combination. I'm okay with that.

But now it's Spring. Days are longer, things are blooming, an urge to "do" buds within us.

I wasn't feeling particularly inspired when we awoke Friday morning. A three day weekend stretched out before us, filled with possibility. I contemplated rolling back over and taking a nap. But that urge nagged. That urge to "do".

I was laying there teetering on the edge of whatever when the Tornado hit, the Tornado I affectionately call "Wendy".

This is where good couples dynamics pays off. Knowing when to lead, when to follow, when to step in and when to stand back. I have learned when the Tornado hits to just ride it. She's a purposeful whirlwind, my Wendy.

Over the next several months, we'll be creating useful, hopefully beautiful, living space in the lower level of our house. (Yes, there will be pictures.)

First up, whole house (re)organization. Our home is not large. Renovating an entire level requires optimal organization elsewhere. In our case it took on the added benefit of spring cleansing.

Before I had even downed my second cup of coffee, Wendy had three closets emptied and had started on a fourth. Then she disappeared into the attic. Piles of "stuff" appeared everywhere. (Where did it all come from?! ) I sorted, purged and neatly repacked as assigned.

She blew by me at intervals, here there and everywhere, pointing, soliciting opinions, answering questions, solving problems. By Saturday evening, the work was almost complete. We retired to the fort for s'mores.

See, not only did Wendy re-organize our closets, basement and attic, she found time to set up a firepit in the fort. I heart my Tornado.

Next up, a laundry list of projects and events-to-come: plumbers with jackhammers, shower layout and construction, floor coverings, lighting design, power tools, problem-solving, electricians, Kerdi and tile, drywall dust, fresh paint, trim work, and a budget we'll try not to blow too badly.

Yes indeed, our break is over. The game is afoot!

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Spring Fever. We Have It.

We've got a cat. He's not our cat, but he comes to visit often enough that we keep a bag of his food in the cabinet. I haven't slipped and called him Figero yet, but I'm certain I will eventually, much in the same way I occasionally slip and refer to Pixie as Cosine.

Oliver is an indoor cat. He thinks he is an outdoor cat, consequently one must be very careful when opening exterior doors. Oliver is quite skilled at slipping by those not paying close attention. His quick escapes are followed by wild chases through the neighborhood. I'm not sure what he thinks he's running from or where he thinks he's running to, but he's definitely in a hurry.

I'm of the opinion that a cat who wants out that badly should go on out. Maybe he needs to get his ass kicked by the neighborhood menagerie in order to develop an appreciation for the safety of an interior perch on a windowsill. Maybe he'd kick their asses. Maybe he just wants some fresh air or has a hankering for some fresh squirrel meat. But his mother knows him better than I do and she makes the rules. An indoor cat he is.

As has become a loose routine, Oliver arrived this weekend in company of the Next Generation, Emily and Jackie. Emily bubbled over with enthusiasm born of Spring. She twisted her sneakered toe into the ground and blurted, "Can we build a fort in the backyard this weekend?!"

I will leave to you to decide what it says of us that we hesitated not at all to undertake such an endeavor. And so it was we enjoyed the Spring weekend somewhat frivolously yet with great purpose. Tools and imaginations were employed, good humor abounded. Evening found us, all of us, Oliver included (secure on a leash to his mild disdain that in no apparent way diminished his obvious delight at being outdoors), grouped together in our newly constructed fort, swilling sipping beers and swapping tales while reveling in the suburban delights of Spring.



Forts. I highly recommend them.

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"Don't You Fret"

I stared blankly at my computer screen as my mind wandered off as my mind tends to do. Worrying I was, as wont I am, this time contemplating whether The Boy will pack enough Immodium AD to last his entire trip. It's the one medication everyone agrees is essential for traveling in Asia. But how much is enough? I repeatedly attempted to devise a reasonable equation. The variables are too many and I obsessed with no success.

I thought of my sister. She offers a strategy for anxiety management I call the bubble technique. When something is worrying me, I imagine it tucked comfy-cozy inside a buoyant bubble. My bubbles are translucent with shimmery changing colors, prismatic soap bubbles on steroids. Often the size of my fist and never smaller than the average green grape, the bubble, once burdened with my worries, is imagined floating off into the netherland. I wave farewell. The worries, along with the bubble, disappear in the distance.

I've sent a lot of worries floating off via bubbles this week. The title of the post is advice from my son. I'm working on taking it.

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A Dark and Stormy Night

Tuesday evening I retired to our bedroom early after a particularly trying day of work. One window was wide open, the temperature moderate. Wearing only my Longhorn t-shirt I stood in the dark leaning on the sill, enthralled by the action in the backyard.

The tops of the tall trees swayed and bowed their heads, the branches creaking loudly in response to the howling gusts of wind. Soon torrents of rain cascaded through the trees and drubbed on the roof. The tensions of the day washed away in the resultant cacophony.

For the past few weeks, an owl has serenaded us intermittantly from somewhere way up high in the treetops, his rich voice echoing eerily. In the midst of last night's storm, his voice again rang out crisp and clear. Do owls not seek shelter in a storm?

I slept like a rock that night.
I wonder how the owl fared.

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BlogFriends '08

Oh yes. We were there.
If you weren't, we may have talked about you.
You're just that special.

A series of photos is omitted from this collection. A baby is involved, one who prefers to remain incognito. His agents demand it. We cooperate without question because we're not like "Alice" on the L Word who signs a non-disclosure agreement and then outs a minor sports figure when it suits her. (Alice, what were you thinking?!)

Imagine, if you will, a large room containing a dozen or so convivial women, when in, astride one of his mothers' hips, struts an adorable six-month-old beautiful bouncing baby boy with a wide toothless grin. The delight was palpable, the infant amazingly compliant and seemingly equally as enamored of being passed from arm to arm and cooed over incessantly. Good times.

On to the photos then. Enjoy?

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I Ate My Weight in Asparagus

It all started with a note left on our door last Thursday. A bright yellow 3x3 Post-It at eye-level on the carport door greeted me when I arrived home: "Would you like some fresh asparagus?"

I perked. Why yes, yes I would love some fresh asparagus! I did a little happy dance right there in the carport. Our benefactor arrived with the bounty, at least as excited as I was. I perked again. She gently handed over a large bundle; the stalks firm and fresh and thin, just the way we like them. She had found a great sale and purchased a ton (her unit of measure). I understood the impulse.

My mind immediately began listing things to make with that asparagus. Shall I just steam them? I pondered. Asparagus quiche is delicious. How about a bisque, a la that zucchini soup Wendy adored? Or maybe an asparagus and feta frittata for Sunday brunch! Or my grandmother's asparagus and cheddar casserole.... oh nom nom nom!

Friday afternoon I tripped down to Sam's Club to stock up on a few staples. I pushed my cart past the produce section and lo! There I came upon large quantities of asparagus bundled into humongous Sam's Club-sized portions! Oh yes, they were as lovely and fresh and thin as the stalks our neighbor had gifted us! And cheap! Resistance was futile and a mega-bundle soon topped my cart, my culinary imagination joyously on overload.

It became our asparagus challenge. Fortunately I had hungry stomachs to help me out. It took company over the three-day weekend and leftovers for dinner tonight, but every stalk has been devoured.

Asparagus.
It's the reason for the season.

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♪♫ Ground Control to Major Tom.... ♫♪

Travel preparation has long inspired anxiety in me. Precious routines are interrupted and timeliness looms even larger than usual. It's serious business. At least that's how I see it, even when I'm not the one traveling.

Inefficient packing makes me crazy, but if it's not my suitcase, why do I care? Forgetting to pack stuff doesn't have to be a big deal, yet for some reason I anticipate the potential act of forgetting something as a horror to be avoided at all costs (perhaps an explanation for why I consistently over-pack). My anxiety immediately dissipates once travel has begun.

Friday evening The Boy prepared for an o'dark thirty flight out of town. Rarely have I felt as blessed as when Wendy said, "I'll take him to the airport." Which explains why she was already asleep beside me and I was wide awake. Listening to him pack.

Into the kitchen, then out to the carport. Up the stairs to his room. The dryer buzzed. Down to the basement. Back up to the landing and into the bathroom. Footsteps, doors, cabinets, stairs, floors, drawers: each sound distinct, repetitive and comforting in their familiarity. Packing progress.

It's easier now that he's grown. Through the years I've gone from packing for him to helping him pack to trying to mind my own business and let him mind his. He'll let me know if he needs me. He's independent with proven competence; I don't need to worry. But I do it anyway. Old habits and such.

I lay there under the covers, Pixie stretched along the length of my left leg, Wendy cuddling my right side, Dudley curled along her back. The house got very quiet and I drifted off to sleep.

The Boy will be home again in two weeks. Three weeks later he'll board another plane, off to Asia for nine months touring as "Rolf" in The Sound of Music.

China. Thailand. The Philippines. Holy shit. I don't even want to consider the anxiety I'll be squashing while he's packing for that trip.

Meanwhile, my heart swells with pride at his accomplishments as my head tries to tell me it's just another job (albeit a really cool one!). Still. He's come a long way since playing "Romeo" in elementary school.

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Caturday & Coffee

Many who know me are painfully aware I thrive on silliness. Be that a blessing or curse (and let me assure you it can be both), I am compelled to jump on the silly train more often than not. It is a force not to be denied.

It has become a routine, a favorite habit, a Saturday morning coffee ritual: Caturday! Perusing cat pictures. Cat pictures with captions: lolcats, internet silliness at its finest. My current favorites, let me show you them.

Enjoyment of cat-speak can require putting aside one's grammar-nazi ways. I've learned to roll with it on Caturday.

Let's try some kitten-speak:

Did you giggle? Say "awwwwww"? The cute factor gets me every time. I'm a sucker for cute. (My girlfriend, have you met her?)

Some kitties are more literate.

This next photo has made the rounds with many different captions, but this one, well, I consider it near lolcat perfection:

So what's the point? They make me laugh. Felines exude personality and are endlessly photogenic. The folks who caption them add icing to cake. Kudos to the creators! The sheer silliness pleases me greatly.

Last Caturday, fresh off a dose of lolcats with the chuckles still reverberating, I chanced to peruse a set of childhood pictures a friend posted online. I came across a photo that instantly reminded me of this:

I was compelled to create this.



It just couldn't be helped.
I'm certain the featured child will understand.

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Hair Today

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Every Day is Christmas

We've been away. We're back now. I hope I didn't completely miss Teresa's White Elephant Party.

How excited I was when she proposed a blogging White Elephant exchange! How many different items I considered! How many mental blog posts I wrote and dismissed!

A whole herd of them, that's how many.

Then we got a box in the mail. It was a cool box with interesting things inside. I am fascinated by one item in particular. Fascinated and repulsed at the same time. It's an interesting sensation.

It's an ashtray. Normally I don't take issue (outside of guilt for smoking to begin with) with using an ashtray for its intended purpose. But this ashtray is different. Take a look:

One may think a woman such as myself with seemingly slight potential of being non-atheist, decidedly undecided yet somewhat superstitious, could get a kick out of that ashtray and indeed I have. I have laughed, paused, laughed again, pondered, shared with others, and done it all over again.

Still. It kinda creeps me out. There is no way in hell I can ever put a cigarette out on Jesus' face. In fact I can't even bring myself to use it as a change holder or a place to store my paper clips or any number of other things an ashtray can be used for besides stubbing out a cigarette. I can't explain why. I just can't do it.

So, gentle readers, the line forms to the left. Be the first to call dibs on this uniquely spiritual and practical item. Perhaps you have a collection of Jesus memorabilia. Perhaps you need something on your dresser to corral pennies. Maybe you just need an ashtray. (Can a smoker have too many? I think not.)

Postage is on me. Privately send me your address, which I will use once then shred in my brand new Holiday Shredder. It cross-cuts even.

Please. Somebody. Anybody.
Consider taking custody of this item.

Jesus saves, or so I've heard.

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What Happened to December?

Serious question: If someone sends you a Christmas present in the mail, do you unwrap it upon receipt or do you put it under your tree and open it on Christmas Day?

I bombed out in fantasy football this year. Kudos to Chapin, who won the Blogger Fantasy League by taking down weese's adorable MAW in a rollover brutal finale. Add a rousing hand of applause for our amazing Commissioner, sporks. Girl, you rock. I'm already looking forward to next season.

My office relocated last week. In our previous building, we were on the first floor. We are now ensconced on the seventh floor of a building ten blocks north and three blocks east. We have a panoramic view of Old Town Alexandria and the Potomac River.

There are 120 stairs from the lobby to the seventh floor. The stairwells are clean, bright and well-marked. Going up, I am slightly winded by the fifth floor, the eighty-eighth step if one happens to count. Pathetic? Maybe. I prefer to think of it as having room for improvement.

There are elevators, of course. But I'd rather walk. Because I can. It's good for me. Obviously I need it.

Christmas offered a nice dose of family bonding, and oh my, what a diverse family we have. Soldier Boy dressed up for the occasion. This marked my fortieth or so Christmas in the DC area. None of them have been white. Weather wishes notwithstanding, the holiday was nice. What comes next will be nice too. My slippers are, of course, joining us for the next leg of our traditional year end festivities.

2008.
Ready or not.
Here we come!

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An(other) Impromptu Poll

Location: Snazzy waterfront restaurant in Old Town, Alexandria

Occasion: A festive office gathering, shamelessly called the Christmas Party by everyone but me. I refer to it as the Holiday Party because I strive to exude political correctness in the office environment. Someday I may work somewhere it matters.

Attendees: The three owners of the company, a recently retired ex-owner, and three employees. Two female, five male. Age range mid-thirties to early sixties, three of us in our forties.

The conversation turned to massages. It wafted down and came to rest near my plate, which, until that point, had captured my attention ever since the discreet and ever-so-proper server seamlessly slipped it in front of me while refilling my wine glass with a very nice pinot. Pan-seared scallops in a light ginger sauce artistically surrounded an interesting layered mound of white rice, bok choy and spinach. I was a bit distracted, obviously.

I looked up when I heard my name. "Suzanne," a co-worker queried, "Have you ever had a professional massage?"

"Sure," I replied. "You?"

To my amazement, none of my other dinner companions has ever known the sheer pleasure, the delightful indulgence, of a professional massage.

Frankly I was a bit surprised. It left me wondering. So I ask you, gentle readers of the blogosphere, have you ever had a professional massage? If no, why not?

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I Have a Long Neck

The average temperature here is in the 20s this week. We have snow on the ground. And in the trees and bushes and all other things outdoors. It's not melting. I'm okay with that. The scenery is glorious.

My turtlenecks, the staple of my winter wardrobe, all of them, are still in storage in our attic. I'm not okay with that.

I cannot be the only one who feels it: truly, is there anything more comforting as one dresses on a frigid winter morn than pulling on a fresh-smelling turtleneck as the base for what will layer into pleasing and seasonally-appropriate attire? My turtlenecks. I wear them everywhere. My winter foundation.

Yet now, when I need them most, they languish in the attic.

See, it's rather a production to retrieve them. My winter clothes are heavy; the container, loving packed last spring, is unwieldy. The attic stairs, while expertly installed, are more like a ladder and, as such, are fraught with peril should one attempt to navigate them bearing heavy loads. It's a job for Two and I never seem to think about it when Two are home.

Our storage systems are less than perfect.
We make do.
Or do without, as the case may be.


Note to self: Next house, bigger closets.

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It's Not the Strangest Thing I've Ever Done

It was Tuesday afternoon. I finished work early.

"Score!" I thought. "Whatever shall I do with this unexpected free time?"

My mind immediately turned to beads.
Yes. You read that right. I said beads.

A long and winding road with twists and turns that overlap and intersect beyond even the most imaginative of imaginations yet with a very practical purpose, found me standing (for the second time in as many days) in one of the many aisles at Michael's, completely absorbed in the rapture of columns and rows of beads and bead accessories.

The first time, my sister had been with me. That Tuesday afternoon, I was on my own.

Another woman entered my aisle. I looked up when she spoke.

"Do you know much about this stuff?" she queried, brandishing her handfuls of beads and bead accessories.

"Well. No, not too much," I replied, "Just enough to be dangerous." I smiled.

She tripped my gaydar bigtime. I don't know if I tripped hers. I considered the odds of two dykes ending up in the same Michael's bead aisle at 2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon.

Turns out we were both looking at the same thing, contemplating the same question, puzzling over crimp rings and appropriate sizes. WTF? Again with the odds! She set off to consult a saleswoman and shortly returned to share the answer that was not really an answer at all. Crimp rings sizes remained shrouded in mystery for us both.

Left alone again in my aisle, I shopped on. Movement caught my eye and I glanced up. It wasn't the dyke this time. It was my dear friend Tina, Mistress of All Things Crafty.

I think I blushed. I don't know if she noticed. I felt like a little kid caught with my hand in the cookie jar. I have no idea why. The moment passed. We chatted. She headed off to shop for whatever it was she was shopping for that day and I returned to my scrutiny of beads and bead accessories.

On the way home, I stopped at Starbucks for a venti eggnog latte and spent the rest of the afternoon playing with my beads. Crafting.

What the hell has gotten into me, anyway?

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