So, fair warning. Yes, it’s been a long time since I’ve posted, and yes, I’ve written about 30 different blog posts in my head. So many things I’m thinking about, so many things I’d like to say, some of which I shouldn’t, some of which I won’t. I had been thinking, OK, let’s get back in the swing of it, put the thoughts to keyboard, and had planned on writing something today.
Just not about this.
Fair warning again. It’s so gross.
I got some things done this morning, met a rep for lunch, and went to the grocery store. Got my car washed, filled up Mimi with gas, and headed home. I’ve got a lot of work to do this weekend, but I’m also looking forward to my evening out with knitting peeps and having some laughs. I decide to leave Mimi in the drive, as that will make it easier to get the groceries in, and after all, I’m heading back out later.

None of this is interesting, or of note, or even that different. I push open the door, the alarm warning goes off, the dogs greet me, and I walk through the breezeway and into the dining room. I am carrying as much as I can, and it’s funny how your brain multi-tasks: Make sure dogs don’t go out into the garage (as they could get out of the house or, more likely, attempt to eat all the dog food out of its bin.) Have a very short amount of time to get to the alarm, which we don’t have right by the door on purpose, so don’t dilly dally. Note that answering machine is blinking. And through all of this, Olfactory Gnome wakes up and starts sending up red flags. Alert! Alert! Something smells…… and something smells …… BAD.
Then I see it. Because now I’m across the dining room and about to enter the kitchen, only it is a mine field of dog diarrhea. One main source, but there was some travelling and then some tracking to boot. The smell is overwhelming and the alarm is still going. I think, “Do I tell the alarm company when they call that I just couldn’t cross a river of dog shit to turn it off? Would they accept that?” I think, no, I have to turn this off and so I do my own version of a Highland jig through our kitchen, screaming “BACK! BACK!” because Tripper is now eagerly following behind me and I all can think is we’re both expanding the cleaning area exponentially. I get the alarm turned off, the dog has retreated, and I repeat my jig back across the tile, breathing through my mouth.

Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, Philosophical Gnome asks the question, “Which would you rather clean up? Dog vomit, or shit?” Well, duh, the answer is neither, but I’m going with vomit. Unless it’s just hardened overnight poop, which is unpleasant but nothing compared to the chore ahead of me. I get the rest of the groceries in the house, shut the garage door, and strip down to skivvies to handle the worst of it. (After all, nobody needs their clothing dragging through it to boot.) Paper towels everywhere, and copious amounts of plastic grocery bags. Yes, they may be evil but lord help me, this is why they’re on earth. I get out two trash bags. The Swiffer Wet Jet, a huge stack of mop pads, and I tackle it.

Partway through, I realized I sounded like Darth Vader trying to say the word “Halal.” (Hey, we don’t know if Darth needs his meats butchered according to Muslim law.) For to just breathe through one’s mouth is not enough – the stench was so horrific. I was trying to block my sinus passages with my tongue, which leads to very raspy, labored-sounding breathing. hhhhhhhaaaaaaaa….lllllaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllhhhhhhhhh. The anal-retentive chef from SNL has nothing on me. Everything is multiple-bagged, and then I mopped. And then everything went into another trash bag, while I still hhhhhhhhaaaaaaalllllaallllllllhhhh’ed around and took the trash to the garage. I’m dripping with sweat, I shoo the dogs outside while holding back dry heaves, and get the rest of the groceries put away. My phone’s ringing, I’m having a Silkwood Shower in the sink, I get a candle lit to put on the stove, and finally sit down in front of the fan to cool off.
Only to hear a huge clap of thunder roll overhead.
Dogs are hurried back into the house, and I throw my top back on, because remember? Freshly washed car sitting in the driveway. At this point? I can’t be bothered with pants. Yep. I did a SWAT-team-esque run to my car (only potentially being in-sight of someone driving by for all of 3 seconds) to get it put back into the garage before the heavens opened up.

Which, fifteen minutes later, they have yet to do. I didn’t need to crouchingly shuffle to my car half-dressed, but I did. And I didn’t really care if someone happened to drive by at that exact moment.

Basically? This is my life. I have a lot of good things in my life, and I’ve reflected a lot on the past year, over these past few weeks. Losing my job, almost a year ago, was really shitty. It was also really good. I haven’t done all the things I thought I’d do in that time, but I also haven’t gotten sick, had stupid office politics/turmoil with people clawing to climb over you or tear you down. Did you notice that first one? I haven’t gotten sick. No cold. No bronchitis. No walking pneumonia, for the first time in many, many years. I miss a couple of my clients, and I miss not worrying about money as much, but there’s really very little to miss about my former job except a couple of friends. The limbo, sometimes, gets to me. But I’m not all that different from most of the people out there. I noticed there’s a Facebook group making the rounds, “Be kinder than necessary, because everyone you meet is fighting some sort of battle.” and it’s really true. These aren’t easy times. When stressed and/or depressed, it’s even easier to feel overwhelmed and hopeless. And alone. But we’re not. So many people are riding this same current, and so it’s those moments of connection, we need to make them and find them and enjoy them. Because when I was at the grocery store, the checker asked me to put the big sign on the end of her checkout stand, that said “THIS LANE CLOSED”. I did, making sure I put it right on the spot where the belt wouldn’t grab it. Helping someone out. So imagine my surprise, as I’m finishing up paying, I see this very old lady in my peripheral vision, standing next to me. I look down, and she’s got items on the belt. I actually did a double-take, like, WHa? I swear I put that sign there, nobody’s supposed to be behind me, and I look at the checker, who’s looking at me and has seen my whole WTF reaction. I raise one eyebrow at her. She starts giggling. My eyes shift over towards granny, then back to her. Oh yes, the sign was there. Granny just decided to say “Fuck it” to the sign and what was anyone going to do? I don’t have to say a word, my face says it all. The checker is shaking her head, she gets it too, and is shaking with laughter. I’m chuckling, still with an eyebrow hitting my hairline, and we went on from that moment. That moment, those are the moments I seek in life. When we can look at each other and just laugh because there’s no point in getting mad, there’s no issue of race, or religion, or age, or income, or anything, it’s just fucking funny.

And when the shit gets too high, just take off your pants, light a candle and breathe: Hhhhhhhaaaaaaaa….lllllaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllhhhhhhhhh.

Let’s talk about office bathrooms. No, I’m not going to go there. Though the fact that our office is located on the first floor of the building, we do get a fair amount of SecretPoopers(tm) who come down to use our bathroom, so they can sustain the impression in their own office workspace that they NeverPoop(tm). Eye roll, please.

First of all, the facilities were remodeled to make them ADA compliant, and in losing one bathroom stall, we have one stall that is a Toilet Suite. Of course, the toilet is still smack up against the wall next to the other stall, and there’s just a giant expanse that even goes around a tiny corner, where a very slim, mean-spirited person could hide and give someone the surprise of their life, if they were to leap out screaming at the right moment. Let’s hope that never happens. I’ll even admit I give it an extra eyeball just to be sure nobody’s back there.  However, I’ve often looked at that space and thought about how you could put a chair, ottoman, reading lamp and accent table, and still leave the stall feeling roomy and quite at home. The cleaning lady does kinda use it for her office, sitting in there, talking on her cell phone.  (I say that jokingly, though she will just sit in there and yap, and I always wonder what the person on the other end thinks as the other toilet auto-flushes.)

But the reign of terror I’m referring to is the paper towel dispenser. When I started there, I found myself instantly at odds with the machine. It was an automatic one. You’d wave  your hand under it, and sometimes, if the sensor was feeling generous, you’d get a towel. A small shred of a towel that was barely sufficient to dry one hand. Not two. I don’t know about you, but I wash both my hands as a general practice. So that necessitates a second hand-wave, which would often be more resistant than the first, because OMG no WAY you are OVER USING the TOWELS and you’d have to keep flailing your hand about until you got your second half-sheet. Or not. And for whatever reason, the effort to get the second towel would usually result in the machine jamming. Often times,  the first attempt jammed, too. The small print on the machine told you to use the manual feed button if the machine malfunctioned. Oh rilly? What manual feed button? Because all there is on the side is a dummy button that has been put over the feed, to prevent the Johnson County Paper Towel Insurgency from stealing your precious paper towels by the yard.

Frustrated, one day, I discovered that I could just pull the whole front metal piece up! and pull down and tear off the towel amount that I needed. I felt scandalous and vindicated all at once. (Lookit me! Tear that mother UP!)  Eventually, the machine malfunctioned so much, often a roll of towels would sit on the counter, for you to tear off. (Let it be noted that I never took anything APART, I just used my noggin to get at the towels.)  While I was annoyed at this situation, it wasn’t until some maintenance was being done and the bathroom was closed, that I discovered on the second floor, the paper towel dispenser was NOT flawed, it distributed a generous amount of towel, and it had a working manual feed, and I felt that it was truly the curse of the first floor location and the higher traffic.

Finally, I asked my female co-workers if they carried the same annoyance level that I had towards the paper-towel machine, and that’s when I learned that we were actually getting a NEW machine in a few weeks. This one works so well, it often spits out a second towel for the next person. I haven’t even had to investigate the manual feed.

So, that reign of terror in my life is over. It really is the small things, sometimes.

Well, this is not an easy story to tell. But I’ve managed to tell it a few times now, and I even see the humor in it – hell, part of my brain even saw it in the moment, so I’m going to give it a go. If you’re exceptionally tender-hearted, then I suggest you go look at chinchillas and come back another day.

For those following on all fronts, you might have seen some exasperated plurks/tweets earlier this week (Tuesday), in which I screeched about a particular bird that was making a ruckus outside, so loudly I wanted to go and shoot it. Said bird kept up the racket all afternoon. When James came home from work, he noticed it, and decided to investigate. Turns out? We had two baby ducklings hanging out by my herb bed, and he got a small net and a box, and scooped them up.

I immediately changed from “goddamned bird” to “omg! SQUEE THEY ARE SO CUTE!” and while he went off to look for the momma duck, I tried to pick them up in the box. Fleet little creatures, ducklings are, but eventually, I scooped one up and delighted in its softness, beauty and fluff.

Tripper, meanwhile, walked by and saw the other duckling and went, CHOMP, and scooped one up in his mouth. Horrified, James and I both screamed at him, he dropped the duckling, I put him back in the box – where he died, 15 seconds later.

Fuck. My. Life. James took the dogs inside, and I removed the duckling from the box, and burst into tears. Now, see, most people, at the very beginning of this story, where I say, “Two baby ducklings…” have an instant transformation in their expression. They know. They understand, the doomed nature of ….. Nature. But not me. I think everything can be rescued, everything can be saved, just work hard enough and everything turns out alright. And so, suddenly, this dead duckling exploded into a personification of all the stress and angst with job-related things, that no matter how well-intentioned or hard you might be working, a giant black lab can come along and just pluck you out of your existence.

I pulled myself together, put the (now lonely) duckling in the box, and went inside.

Somewhere in the next fifteen minutes, a small case was made (again) for chickens. If we had a chicken tractor, we could just throw the duckling in there, and he’d be fine. We discussed options. Keeping said duckling, raising him. But I searched online, and there wasn’t a lot of hope or options there. Plus someone made the point that one duck is a very lonely duck. We still have a goodly number of feral cats around, and those probably created this very predicament in the first place. James boiled it down to two choices – he could take care of things, or I could take the duckling, try to find a pond with a duck family on it, release the duckling, and hope for the best.

I put some paper towels in the bottom of a Costco-sized Contadina Tomato Paste box, put the duckling inside, and into the Murano we went. James advised me to drive along Blue River Road, which truly is a beautiful stretch of asphalt tucked away in the city. I’d never been on it, so after veering off Bannister by the Federal Complex, I found the road and headed south. There were parks, and even some ponds, but I couldn’t spot any ducks, and even though there were cars parked in places, I also couldn’t see any people. Because it felt pretty isolated, I didn’t feel completely secure just getting out and tromping around. So I kept going. And going. And going. Until I got to Blue Ridge, and then I knew I had to start heading back towards home. I drove up Holmes, and spotted a great pond – but no ducks. And there was a strange woman parked there and the signs said “No Trespassing”, so I continued to look. I figured I wouldn’t be able to just roll on in to a golf course, but then I thought – Mt. Moriah! Yes! Cemeteries often have ponds, reflecting pools, etc. And as the sun inched towards the horizon, I found myself rolling through the placid hills and then – yes – there it was. Two large pools of water. I made my way towards them.

The good thing about hanging out in a cemetery is that nobody really pays attention to you. Most of the people there are dead, and the ones who are alive are focused on one or two spots. It’s a serene place, and I actually used to study in cemeteries in college, just to find complete isolation (and I was in my Harold & Maude stage).  So I drove around, waited for some people to leave that were nearby, and approached the pond furthest from the grave sites. No ducks, but there were a large number of geese. Birds of a feather! The ugly duckling. Surely, these feathered relatives would take on a lonely duckling.

Now, again, a good percentage of you have changed your facial expressions. I’ve watched it happen this week, again, at this point in the story. But I didn’t know. I know geese can be territorial, but I had no idea they’d be so discerning that they’d immediately know this ball of fluff was NOT of their species, and would proceed to peck him to death.

But that didn’t happen. Because that would have been pretty horrifying for me, yes, and I would have probably gotten into a goose fight and I really cannot imagine how that might have unfolded, except I probably would have been brought home to my husband by the South Patrol and asked to never enter Mt. Moriah Cemetery again.  Yet, tragedy was still inevitable, though I didn’t yet know it.

I released the little duckling within a dozen yards of the geese. He immediately turned and started running back at me. I thought, “OH SHIT, he’s already imprinted on me and now I’m going to HAVE to take him home and raise him, there is no other option.” Except he kept running. Past me. Towards the car. OK, dude, you really wanna go back with me, hm? No. You want to run away from me, and we’re going around and around and around the Murano.

I did stop and think, well, I’m in a cemetery. People who are grieving do crazy things. If I don’t do this TOO long, it will just slide by and people will not come over here to figure out what in hell is going on and why this fat lady is going around and around her car with a large Contadina Tomato Paste box, scooping at the ground.

Pretty soon, the duckling figured out that the same run/hide/evade experience could be had by just going around and around the back wheel.

We did this for fifteen minutes.

Finally, I gave up.

I told myself, “Ok. I’m going to get in the car. He’s on the inside of the wheel, so I will edge forward very slowly, and he will either be adopted by the geese, he will wander off on his own, or – worst case scenario – I will run over him, but at least it will be quick.”

And I look in my rear-view mirror, fully expecting to see a wandering duckling.

Nope.

I ran over him.

Of course I did. If we were going to sustain this giant emotional snotball of a metaphor, OF COURSE I HAD TO RUN OVER THE DUCK.

I just shook my head. Went home. James came in from the yard and said, “So, how’d it go?”

I replied, “The only way it could have gone, really.” And cried in his arms.

See, I know. I KNOW this is funny in a tragi-comic sort of way. But at the same time, I marvel at my naivete. My desire to fix and solve, a desire that is untouched by reality. I don’t think I would change that part of me, there’s enough inside me that is jaded and bruised and sharp. But oh how it stung.  I thought of how the circle of life is sometimes just a car wheel.

And then, changing subjects after telling this story last night, I (completely unwittingly) said, “So! Extra Virgin is SO good. I had duck gizzards!” and everyone collapsed around me in hysterics.

Circle of life, indeed.

WTF, riots on the Plaza?

Parents?! Hel-loooooo. It’s 11:30 on a Saturday night, do you know where your children are?

I’m utterly disgusted with the state of parenting, consequences, and the lack of personal responsibility.  I love how we’re talking about trying to move teachers to a merit-pay basis – sure! Who doesn’t want their compensation tied to a crumbling infrastructure you have no control over? There are students who don’t care about their MAP scores because – well, nobody at HOME cares about their MAP scores. They’re perfectly content to race through, guessing, writing “I Don’t Know”, and basically turning in a half-assed job. How do you motivate that attitude to care? You can’t beat them – and if mom and dad don’t think getting an education’s very important, well, they’re not going to pass along any desire to excel to the kids.

So back to these roving mobs of ‘kiddos’. It’s scary. Mobs of anyone, any age, any size, any color, with limited wisdom and little care for consequences? Scare the shit out of me.  GroupThink is one of my greatest fears in life, and I was raised to question it and shun it with every fiber of my being.  And because the attitude towards authority, elders, the merchants, the police was so flagrantly insubordinate, so disrespectful, I go straight to smackdown. I think there should be a curfew. I think if these kids break the curfew? The parents should get fined. If the parents can’t pay the fine, or want an alternative to the fine? Then they should be court-ordered to parenting classes.  This is what would happen if you were caught drunk-driving, or beating your wife, or other things we deem  wrong and in need of correcting. Why not parenting? Is the American Family oh-so-sacred? We shouldn’t tell another person how to parent their child? Well, no, I don’t think it’s my place to tell the mother with her screaming infant that it would be better for everyone in the restaurant if she took her child outside. But we do tell mothers who shake their babies not to do it. And we do make people take classes to learn how to drive a car, and hey, even a test! But none of that’s necessary if you want to bring a child into the world, and you think it’s ok to put your needs first and not stay home  on a Saturday night and make sure your kid isn’t hoofing off to some part of town to participate in a riot, or a strong-armed robbery, or breaking someone’s jaw, or ruining some girl’s prom night.  All we do in this country is sweep up. We build higher-security prisons, instead of teaching disadvantaged mothers that they can break the cycle, they can raise their child to get an education, how to help give them tools to a better life. Instead, we throw a little money at them, teaching them “the system” will always take care of them, when in fact, it won’t. Don’t get me wrong, I’m the biggest advocate for a helping society. I believe those who are fortunate should help people who are less-so. But I don’t believe in handouts, nor do I believe in something-for-nothing.

arrrrgh I could rant on and on. I just HATE the fact we don’t just turn the worst parts of town into places like the Harlem Children’s Zone. Make being a part of that desirable. Make being a good parent, make being a productive member of society, make being a good student the desirable goals in life. Instead, we’ll just throw up new prison walls, drain a strained court system even further, and add more police to the streets on a Saturday night. Maybe bring in the National Guard. Turn our streets into a new kind of war zone. Freedom, my ass.

P.S. if we bring in the Nat’l Guard, my friend Beth would like them to spend their days fixing potholes. kthxbai.

James and I had a hilarious conversation the other night which will probably lose oodles in the transcribing.

He was going to bed and was very tired; I was standing next to our bed, and saying goodnight. He said something about did I see that Kathy Bates was going to be on a tv show in the latest EWeekly? I said, Yes, I did see that, what show was it?

At this point, he’s got his bipap mask on so he’s really drowsy and doesn’t want to have a big conversation. I start guessing various shows we watch.

“Big Love?”

shakes his head ‘no’.

“24?” (no) “Big Bang Theory?” (no) “Nurse Jackie?”

He makes the sign for “OK” with his thumb and finger. Now we’re playing charades. OK! OK? Nurse Jackie? (no)

O? O? Zero? He’s nodding. Zero. Then he makes the sign again. O? Zero – O. Huh.

He’s moving on.

Draws letters in the air with his finger. Except the letters are right-ways from HIS perspective.

P? NO! F? Yes!

ZERO OF?! NO!

Somehow we get some more letters. an I. C. E.

He’s lifting his face mask to tell me this is easy. I am laughing so hard I can barely speak.

NCIS?

NO.

Ice. Zero O O O O F

Ice.

My sides hurt and tears are streaming down my face, as I lean against the bed in pain. I declare I cannot understand how we watch any show named Oof Ice.

Finally, exasperatedly, he tells me. The Office.

Oh, yeah. The Office! OofIce!

And then I made myself a small dish of Tin Roof Sundae Ice Cream and proceeded to collapse in laughter all over again. rrrrrrrrOofICECREAMSUNDAE!

We’re weird, but hey. Laughter is good!

My niece Danielle got one of those ‘knot-yourself-a-quilt’ kits for Christmas. She’s quite crafty (and an amazing crocheter), so she got it out of the box yesterday evening and started to work on it next to me at the dining room table. (I was drinking Irish cream liqueur and knitting.) Once she got two squares together, she put it down and complained that it looked bad and wasn’t working. I took a look at it, and realized she needed to make two square knots, not one, in order to get the pieces to stay together.  My mind was moving faster than my mouth, and instead of telling her she needs to knot it twice, out of my mouth came, “You need to twot it.” And I’m leaving the spelling just like that, but it sure sounded like there was an “a” in there instead of an “o”, thanks to the Chicago-esque vowel-flattening I inherited from my dad. And I looked across the table at James, and to my right, at Momma Linda, and all three of us burst into laughter, so then our niece started laughing (she’s 10) and said, “TWOT! ha ha!”…. much to my mortification. We immediately told her not to say it, and that what Auntie Jen MEANT was two knots, but somehow by the next day, the large bottle of  St. Brendan’s Irish Cream Liqueur had been renamed “Twot Juice”.

What can I say? I like to make the holidays special, however I can.

I was chatting with a couple dear friends a few days ago, and I jokingly talked about the non-existent marching band behind me. I stated there would have to be French Horns, as I looked at one friend, who looked a bit stunned, wasn’t sure why, and then I added, “And bassoons! Bassoons! Those are the two super cool instruments.”

They both collapsed in laughter at me, for it seems I had uncannily and unwittingly chosen the two instruments that are NOT part of marching bands.

Once again proving my drum major’s beat is very, very different. Perhaps we don’t march, but ride in the back of a flatbed truck?

My best friend Liz came to visit last weekend, and we did what we always do when Liz comes to visit: Haaaaang, knit, eat, and watch awesomely awesomely guilty pleasures television. We are destined to live in the same retirement community, but it better have a DVR/Tivo.

So we went out with our pal Katrina, and tried the buffet at Masala’s. Back up. Before that, we helped bring Kat a little closer to digital enlightenment, by replacing her browser with Firefox, and introducing her to “Dick in a Box”, because she doesn’t watch TV, nor is she schooled in pop culture the way some of us are. She loved it so much she had me bookmark it for her, which cracked me up. Of course, looking back, we probably watched it 100 times, so she does need to catch up and memorize the catchy little ditty. And it’s the right time of year! Back to Masala’s. Delicious. We sampled all sorts of things and they had a lot of selections for the vegetarians (Katrina & Liz). I’m not sure what they put in the food there, besides Indian Awesome Deliciousness, but it’s filling. Like, crazytown filling. I am capable of packing it away, and by no stretch did I over-indulge, but neither of us ate dinner that night, we remained so full. I suspect microscopic dehydrated sponges in the naan, it’s the only explanation. (Now, Taj Palace still rules on the Chicken Tiki Masala and Butter Chicken, with Taj Mahal running a close number two on those dishes, but I enjoyed the variety and spice at Masala’s.)

As we were knitting and hanging that evening, I stumbled on to my new decadent television indulgence. I’m almost afraid to put it into writing, as it will take away from just how AWESOMELY WRONG it is to love it so. Have you started to guess in your head? I was about to head to bed, but then this show started….. and the dialogue….omg. This show is the food equivalent of eating butter creamed with brown sugar, before you add the eggs and make chocolate chip cookies. An entire stick of butter, with a cup of brown sugar. If you could figure out how to fry that mixture, maybe it would be equal to this show. Yes. I am talking about Steven Seagal LAWMAN. I know, they don’t capitalize “Lawman” at A&E, but they should. The first thing I heard him say on the show (it was the second episode, I’ve since caught up with the blessed On-Demand), “If you can’t anticipate an attack…… you can’t defend against it.” He is SO DRAMATIC! And so Master Sensei to everyone about everything. However, here’s the rub: the dude actually is really good at martial arts, and a fucking crackerjack shot – so I have to put a little salt in my sugar-butter rub, because it’s not like Sensei Seagal can’t hold his own, despite being rather florid and doughy (I am florid and doughy, I can say this.) He just doesn’t seem to be involved in the throes of the fracas, as he kind of rolls up at the end of all these crises. But he’s there to issue pithy zen quotes! OMG. from Steven Seagal himself: “Steven Seagal can save (your) life,” as he’s imparting 40 years of aikido training in an afternoon.

Maybe the proper food comparison should be somewhere in the cheeeeese category.  I’m feeling charitable & won’t go straight to Velveeta – maybe a port-wine potted cheese product? Or the bacon-flavored one, yeah. Whatever it is, it’s great for casual entertaining.

1. My hand is on fire from thinking I would be impervious to jalapenos. I simply was holding them, as I cored and de-seeded over 100 of them. Later, I filled them with cream cheese. Next up, drenching them four times, freezing them & then storing them for spicy treats this winter! And a note to self to get some smaller gloves, because that was my other excuse – the ones we have are terribly floppy and not fun to wear for two hours. But then having your hand En Flambe for 10 hours is probably less desirable. Lesson! Learned!

2. Whoever writes for Grey’s Anatomy is well-aware of grief and how it ‘works’. I’d saved up this season to watch and the season premiere was like hitting yourself repeatedly with a tire iron. But it’s nice to be able to smile and nod and just get it, when I’m done crying. The oddest triggers still surprise me…. flipping on the radio to hear Bob Dylan and sobbing for fifteen minutes, deep abandoned sobs, as though it were new and fresh and brutal all over again.

3. Interviewing is reminding me of dating. Except it’s not really acceptable to drink during them.

4. The dogs are scrapping with each other sporadically as they adjust to life without Suzy. James and I just hit little jagged edges of grief, like catching your t-shirt on a nail, stopping you short. We miss her. I think the most charming thing she did, and it usually happened close to dinner time, or when she’d been alone for a while, was if you pointed at her with both index fingers, and said endearingly, “Who is the Suzy?!” over and over, she would curl her lips up and smile at you. The week she died, I tried to say it to her and I ended up bawling my head off, and then lying down on the floor with her and holding her. That’s what I did in the vet’s office, too. You know, there are points in your life, when you reach an age, and you endure things, that you just don’t give a good goddamn about how you look or what other people think. So in all my largesse, I laid on that cold tile floor with her, and then I walked out, carrying her collar and leash, doing the Ugly Cry as a waiting room full of people looked at me with some degree of fear in their eyes. The other sweet thing she did when we first moved in to the house was BedCheck at night. The Chessie in her gave her the instinct to guard, and she would patrol around the house after the lights were out, just to make sure everything was in order. She was the Suzy.

5. There have been positives that have come from my unemployment. Realizing and recognizing the enormous network of people out there that I have. Re-connecting with some awesome people, some of whom are in the same boat. Meeting new people, too. I’ve gotten a couple new friends and it just makes me marvel, that something that felt so wrenching could have so many positive off-shoots. Now the challenge is to find a new path and new environment that’s healthy and balanced. It’s fun to think about.

6. Brussels Sprouts. I am so excited for them to be in season. Roasted, with bacon & drizzled with balsamic vinegar? Heaven on earth!

7. Sunshine. Blessed, blessed sunshine. It was so dark and gloomy for so many days, I was having flashbacks to February in Minneapolis. It got so bad one year, a local company took a bunch of employees up in an airplane above the clouds, just to give everyone a dose of light. I hope it sticks around – I love a good rainy day or two, but I also love Fall sunshine….

8. Typos. I work my butt off to avoid them, but sometimes, even with the best of intentions and proofing, they just happen. And since our knitting guild is moving around right now (the current location is up for sale), we’re meeting at a couple different libraries this month and next. In an effort to be helpful, I updated the monthly reminder that goes out a day early, with the revised locations. Only, instead of “SHAWNEE library”, I missed the “S”. Which meant I sent out a notice for everyone to meet-up at the HAWNEE library. I’ll just have to channel my inner Austin Powers for tomorrow night’s meeting….yeah baby.