no really . . .

As everything is changing, so am I . . .  



the new home . . .  

This will be my last entry here.  Update the links as you like.  Hope to see you all there.  I'm leaving behind the old home, the old gray walls, and going to give blind optimism a shot.  Think it will last?  

Heh, me neither . . . 

I know, I had this breakdown a few months ago already.  But, now that we have had a Dr. look us in the eye and say, yes, it is . . .  I'm going to be knocked down again. 

Okay, so, Puppy is Autistic.  To what degree we will not know for some time.  I have spent the last 48 hours coming to grips with every little part of that that I can.  I’ve made the full circle, fear, anger, guilt, confusion, back to fear.  I think fear is where I will linger for a long time, if not permanently for his sake.  Fear for his childhood that may now be very different.  Fear that I will make mistakes.  Fear that this will follow him into his adult life.  Fear of the unknown.  I’ve had a dozen emails from well meaning friends.  And a couple from people that seriously, I’d rather not have heard from.  I know that Autism is not the end of the world.  I’m not crying in a puddle on the floor thinking my child is been labeled a freak.  I know that there are people in the world who have it one thousand times worse than we do.  But right now, this minute, I’m hurting for my baby boy.  And I refuse to apologize to those of you out there who have already dealt with this kind of thing and come through on the other side stronger, because I’m not already grinning like some Stepford wife and saying it’s all going to be okay, dears.  It’s gonna take me a few days to catch up.  So would you mind backing off?  Please?  Yeah, thanks.  Self righteous creeps.  For the rest of you that have regaled me with stories of how strong you think I am, thank you.  Oh, and hey, I’ve got this awesome investment opportunity for you.  We should talk . . .  so gullible . . .  I mean really . . .  I’m like the queen of marshmallow!  Literally, figuratively . . .  Sincerely, though, thank you.  If I am strong, you are a major part of it.  And I hope if you ever need me, that I can be there for you the way you’ve been there for me. 

Where are you going, with your long face pulling down?
Don't hide away, like an ocean
That you can't see but you can smell
And the sound of waves crash down

I am no superman.
I have no reasons for you
I am no hero, Aww that's for sure
But I do know one thing:
Is where you are is where I belong.
I do know, where you go, is where I wanna be.

Where are you going? Where do you go?
Are you lookin' for answers to questions under the stars?
Well if along the way you are growin weary, you can rest with me
Until a brighter day, you're ok.

I am no superman.
I have no answers for you.
I am no hero, aww that's for sure.
But I do know one thing:
Where you are is where I belong.
I do know, where you go, is where I wanna be

Where are you going? Where do you go?
Where do you go? Where are you goin? Where do you go?

I am no superman.
I have no answers for you
I am no hero, awww thats for sure.
But I do know one thing:
is where you are is where I belong
I do know, where you go, is where I wanna be.

Where are you goin'? Where do you go?

Tell me where are you going?
Where? Let's go.

Where Are You Going - Dave Matthews Band

Today was a very good day.  Preceded by a lucky break last week . . .  I called last week to see our status on the waiting list at ACH for Puppy’s getting in for further evaluations.  We were number 20.  They were scheduling in December, this put us looking at maybe spring for an appointment for Puppy.  I began to cry.  I apologized to the girl and told her that I just felt like he was slipping through the cracks and that he was supposed to start kindergarten in just a year and that's when the dam broke.  I was feeling so helpless and although I hate losing it, it somehow wound me up on the line with an angel.  She had me fax over all the previous test results we had from other clinics that we had been working with.  And because we had already done some testing on our own, she was able to bump us up on the list.  A miracle, and we were scheduled for November 2nd.  And even better, we got on the cancellation list.  Today the cancellation list lady called.  We go tomorrow.  Finally, answers seem to be around the corner. 

In smaller news, I ran this morning at my favorite trail.  It is the best kept secret in our county, I swear.  Judging from the number of spider’s webs I ran through.  Everyone take a moment and have the heebie jeebies with me.  I swear, it should be documented as a perfect therapy for people with Arachnophobia.  About two miles in I was immune to it, and shook them off without flinching, but the first couple, were admittedly hard.  What’s that called, immersion therapy?  The run however, was otherwise perfect.  It’s supposed to break 100 degrees today but the trail was amazingly cool.  There was just enough breeze and the entire length of it is shaded.  It was just beautiful.  So beautiful, in fact, that when I got back to the car, I got my camera and went back in and did a long slow cool down walk for another mile and took some pictures. 

Sunday we celebrated my nephew’s first birthday.  The boys had much fun swimming.  

Those two words don’t mean the same thing to everyone.  Robbin, in her usual eloquence, has given us her take on unconditional love.  Fate, too, doesn’t mean the same thing to everyone.  I don’t believe in fate, I believe in coincidence, irony, karma, but not fate.  Soul mate, that’s a head scratcher for me, too.  Recently, I was asked if I believed in soul mates.  My definition?  No, I don’t believe in them.  “But haven’t you ever met someone that you knew instantly that you could love them?”  Of course I have!  “That’s a soul mate!”  They nearly yelled this at me in their excitement, so loudly I could almost hear their inner thoughts.  “Ha ha!  I have trounced upon your silly argument.  You are wrong wrong wrong!” 

Ummmm, no, I’m not wrong.  I define soul mate in the old school way . . .  from Greek mythology – Originally humans were combined of 4 arms, 4 legs, and a single head made of 2 faces, but Zeus feared their power and split them all in half, condemning them to spending their lives searching for the other half to complete them. This theory was presented as a half-serious story by Aristophanes in Plato's Symposium, after all the participants at the Symposium ("drinking party") were charged to philosophize on the topic of love.  Now, clearly I don’t believe this to be factual, but that’s what the words mean to me.  When you say soul mate, I would be more likely to reach Jason and the Argonuats on my train of thought than to arrive at the notion of Mr. Right. 

But clearly, there are a lot of folks out there who define a soul mate the way I suspect that the contestants on any given round of “The Bachelor” do.  But a soul mate in my mind isn’t someone who remembers how you take your coffee, that’s called consideration.  It isn’t someone who is the best sex you’ve ever had, that’s someone who can read physical cues and then responds accordingly (and actually I think this is just specified consideration).  It isn’t someone who likes the same things you like, that’s coincidence.  It isn’t finding yourself seated next to some adorable man on an airplane who is listening to the same song on his iPod that you are listening to on yours.  That would be neither finding your soul mate nor fate, just plain old fashioned coincidence. 

I hate the way those ideas remove our personal responsibility.  Not only for what they allow in the negative, but for what they discount in the positive.  If fate brought you together and fate tore you apart, what was the point?  I choose to love, and whom.  And admittedly, when it comes to men, I generally choose poorly.  But I try to learn from my mistakes.  And even though I am frequently clotheslined by my moth-to-a-flame attraction to arrogance, I would never say that it was fate.  It’s my choice.  And I would prefer to learn in hindsight than to pretend I was fated to all those failed relationships.  That way, they were not without value.  And the notion that I am just the puppet of fate?  Well that is an intolerable thought.   And the best part of that, is when you own your mistakes, you get to own your glories, as well.  Rob kills me when he has a good day in a tournament and quotes the Redneck Buddha, “No big deal.  The sun can shine on any sorry old dog’s ass on any given day”.  But when he has a bad day, he owns it all the way.  You have to own it all, good and bad.  I don’t really have any romantic love glories to share, but Nonnie, Trixie and Rob have all been with me since before I became a mother (what I identify as the moment I actually grew up) and we’ve been through good and bad.  Some really bad.  And I consider the love I have for them and the love they have for me, to be some of the glories of my life.  There have been days that we have struck each other in ways that hurt badly.  And days when I didn’t know if I’d ever speak to one of them again.  But I look at them and see so much of myself in them.  I have watched them make ridiculous relationship choices and waited to help them salve the wounds and pick up the pieces after and thank god, they’ve done the same for me.  Although I don't think any of them has ever reached the pinnacle of bad romantic choices that I have.  That trophy is mine, sugar, all mine.  I think I never want to be a fly on the wall and hear what they have to say about my latest and greatest romantic fiasco to each other, knowing one another so well as we do.  I think that after a decade and a half and some change, that I can say that I love them unconditionally.  Although, I know that not everyone would put it into those words.  If they ever crossed a line that we could not come back from, I would grieve for them.  And that is what I think unconditional love is.  Reaching a place where if the day comes that our time together must end, you will not ever be dead to me.  I will carry a part of you with me forever, even if it's unwillingly.  The end result has been that my last two serious relationships held more value and equally more pain than any of the others.  Because I'm taking ownership of my own mistakes and willing to love the flawed.  The greatest side benefit of the new attitude however, is the extra strength I think it has given my friendships. 

Now if I could just apply all of that to a romantic relationship in a fully functional and healthy way . . .  wouldn’t that be nice . . .  to find a man who loved me as much as Trixie does?  Who understood me as much as Nonnie does?  And who appreciated my quirks as much as Rob does?  Wow . . .  I might have to break down and call that man my soul mate . . .  I could make room for that man . . . 

First, a quick aside: 

I am starting a cult.  We are going to worship Gerard Butler, specifically his thighs, with special holidays dedicated to his trainer.  And we can cite as proof of his obvious divine nature the fact that AMC ran Dracula 2000 this weekend.  Seriously?  This is not a classic . . .  but well, yeah, I watched it.  Anything for Gerry.   

Second quick aside:  Saw Boondock Saints this weekend for the first time.  Outfuckingstanding!  How had I missed this movie? 

 . . .  We could kill *everyone.*

So what do you think?

I'm strangely comfortable with it . . .  



Okay, anyway, what I've been doing this week . . . 

I’ve been in training class.  We’ve got a new CMS and everything I do with our webpage is about to change.  I’m not at all a techy girl.  I’m a graphic artist, no formal training, just landing ankle deep in it one day twenty years ago and decided to wade out and have been okay ever since.  Every now and then a shark bites me in the ass, but not lately.  But now that I’ve been working at the best job in the universe, I’ve been given some job responsibilities that have required me to get up to speed.  So this training wasn’t all new to me.  But wow, some of it just blew my mind.  Thankfully, I’m not a complete idiot, so I can follow instructions.  So some of it was educational, some of it was hilarious and some of it was scary, for various reasons of course.  What I’ve learned this week so far . . . 

1.  If you are in a meeting that has been facilitated by men there will be no provisions for coffee or any other related activity, like lunch for the people who are there all the way from another freakin’ hemisphere.  And when lunch break arrives and you are the only woman in the room, half of the meeting’s attendees will look at you.  Sorry, darlings, but for the first time ever, I say “not my job”. 
2.  When three different people from outside your department question your reason for being in a meeting, should you question it yourself?  Just curious . . . 
3.  “tough titty” and “stepping on nads” aren’t technical terms are they?  I mean WYSIWYG kind of sounds dirty, but come on . . .  Is “nads” considered regular polite professional speech in Australia?  Our instructor was Australian.  Well, you all know that I wasn’t offended, but it did make me pop my head up.  Had to suppress a laugh, as I am only twelve. 
4.  Programmers, apparently, are all only seven years old.  And, unusually, I do not ever want to be a programmer, even if it is the fountain of youth, judging by our attendees. 
5.  Even though the new guy is completely great, I miss Dano. 
6.  Going to the mailbox to get your mail doesn’t really require a Formula One race car, but it makes some people very very happy.  The person who has to build the racecar for you, however?  Not so happy. 
7.  When I’m out of my office for more than a day, I miss it.  That’s sick, isn’t it? 
8.  In California you can wear flip flops to work. 
9.  If you have a rough night with Puppy and aren’t up to speed on the day you have to sit through some very tedious programmer’s fun, you will forget to turn off your phone.  But Rob will call you in the middle of the class and wake you up and remind you.  Love you mean it, baby boy!  LOL 
10.  Put a dozen boys in a room and one girl and they will forget.  If you are very quiet and very still, they will revert back to their natural behaviors.  I felt like Jane Goodall.  Fascinating . . . 

The trip?  Well, here we go.  Let's start with the crazy people, shall we?  One for each of the four airplanes I was on in the last four days.  Neat little package, eh?  First flight, I'm in the window seat, F.  As I walk up the aisle there is another woman about to sit in my seat.  I very politely say, while smiling, "I think that's me", and point to the seat.  She starts rattling off bits of response.  "oh?" "I must be dyslexic today."  "Well, are you sure?"  "I'm in C"  "well, whatever"  "I don't really care either way."  "There's no reason to get into a confrontation!"  All of these things, and several more that I don't remember her exact words, she is flinging at me faster and faster, her voice rising with each phrase becoming more and more shrill.  I never actually said another word to her.  She didn't let me get a word in there at first and then well . . .  you can't beat crazy.  Right Dano?  I believe she may have actually continued this throughout the flight, but I put on my iPod and opened my book and did my best to ignore the crazy broad.  The view was lovely, btw.  I never get tired of the way everything looks from the air.  I love the symmetry that you cannot see from the ground.  The patchwork quilt of it all.  The way farmers carve surprisingly artful patterns into the earth.  The way a catfish farm, which you know in real life is about as unattractive as a parking lot and probably smells just terrible, is like a beautiful piece of turquoise and jade jewelry lying across the earth.  I'll strain my eyes through an entire flight, watching every little bit that I can.  Oh, was that a cow?  Wow, almost every house in that neighborhood has a pool.  Look!  How the little hot pink floaties look like Chiclets!  And there's a beach ball floating in that one and you can even see the shadow of it on the bottom of the pool!  Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am that simple. . .

Connecting flight, aisle seat, next to one of those men who sit with their legs spread out as far as they can.  What is that, btw?  Tell me guys.  Why is it necessary for you to be all spread out like that? Seriously, if you need that kind of space, for the love of god, fly first class.  As if this isn't unpleasant enough, he's also got his elbow hanging over the arm rest and into my seat.  Does he move when I sit down?  Not even the tiniest bit.  So my choices are to sit with a complete stranger's knee under my thigh and elbow in my ribs or to hang over into the aisle and do my best to dodge the drink cart. Frankly, if the basic nudging, hinting, glaring and general clues that would normally get through to someone don't work, yeah, I'll take my chances with the drink cart.

Flight home, one row behind Mr. Hygienically Challenged.  I don't need to say more, here, do I?

Connecting flight only one hour to go, hang in there, across the aisle from a child with no boundaries, social skills or adults in any way interested in her behavior that have the actual right to correct her behavior.  If my child ever climbs onto a complete stranger and pulls the cord out of the hood of their jacket and swings from them while simultaneously kicking their seat and talking loudly to ME(!?!?!WTF?!?!)  Then you will know I am dead or comatose, please call for help immediately.

But!  These minor annoyances could not possibly have ruined what was a lovely long weekend.  Travel tip for everyone, go to my MySpace page and find Tiff.  Make her your friend and then, always always always, take her with you on vacation.  She's awesome.  There are more pictures there now if you'd like. 

The French Quarter seemed very empty.  People are there, but the crowds seemed small.  But it is still just as beautiful to me as the last time I was there.  I could spend days there just looking and watching and sitting and loving the place.

We started out on Thursday night, dinner and a hurricane for Tiff as she'd never had one.  She didn't love it, god bless the beer girl!  I finished it for her.  I'm there for ya, kid!  Then wandering around watching her be shocked by the night time activities was great fun. We ended up the evening sitting in Café du Monde drinking iced café au lait and eating beignets.  



There my boss, who is an amazing woman, said she thought she recognized one of the staff.  When I say amazing, I mean it.  She volunteers like nobody I've ever seen.  Whether its strays or the elderly or any other number of charitable activities, she's there, helping.  When Katrina hit, she worked in the shelters here in town.  She met some incredible people that were displaced to our little town, some of them for better than a year.  Several of them made a real impression on her.  One in particular had worked at Café du Monde, was in some very bad shape when he arrived.  He had been through several other city's shelters before they had settled him here, and in the Super Dome before that.  She kept looking at this man across the room and saying "I just know that's him."  Finally he came our way and she was able to talk to him and yes, it was him.  She called out to him and when he saw her it was a great moment to be able to witness.  They hugged and he sat down with us and began to tell us about what a wonderful place our little town is and how the people had been so wonderful.  They caught up on what was going on with each other; he introduced his nephew who is about to start his junior year in college, talked of his daughter's upcoming wedding.  And said some of the most profoundly beautiful things I've ever heard.  This one I remember best.  "That storm was a lemon, but the good lord gave me a change in attitude and gave me the strength to make lemonade."  We've heard it a thousand times haven't we?  But that's a bit profound when applied to something as monumental as being an evacuee from your home for over a year in the aftermath of one of the worst disasters our country has seen, isn't it?  And when it’s spoken by a man who has just told you how he had made a promise to himself one night in the Super Dome that he would not die there, well, it's got a different tone to it, doesn't it?  We drove back to the hotel talking about all the wonderful things he had had to say.  

Friday, we went back to the Quarter.  With more time to spend we wandered up every street, took literally hundreds of pictures and ate literally thousands of calories of wonderful food.  I may have to make beignets this week for Tiff so that she does not suffer from withdrawals.  I bought t-shirts for my boys and a Christmas ornament for myself.  Almost every time I've been there, I've bought myself a Christmas ornament.  This year's is a raven, dark black and glossy old world glass with glittering navy in the feathers, an amber beak, and real black tail feathers.  Tiff finally found the perfect mask for this year's Halloween and some Café du Monde stuff to tide her over til she can visit again.  Then late in the afternoon we drove into the Ninth Ward.  It's not something I would have thought to have done, but half of our group wanted to.  So we did.  I don't really know what I expected to see.  But what I did not expect was how big the area is . . .  was . . .  It reminded me of the neighborhood that my grandparents lived in my whole life.  But at the least 20 times it's size.  So the familiarity of the homes made it feel even more real to me.  It's very hard to understand someone else's situation, and I do not even pretend to think that I know this one.  But I saw so many things that felt familiar that I guess the best way to describe it would be that I feel like I care in less abstract way now.  Street after street of homes that are falling apart, abandoned, dotted here and there with one that has someone struggling to survive in it, or one that has a trailer plunked down in front of it.  There are glimpses of the first days of and after Katrina still there.  The blue tarps.  Debris and damage.  The spray painted markings still on almost every building, of which I am glad to have no knowledge.  I do not want to know what those cryptic numbers and letters meant.  














And I suppose I expected to see more rebuilding.  But it was almost a ghost town.  Heartbreaking.  



We drove back to the hotel in a rainstorm . . .  it suited our mood.

Saturday we attended our concert event.  Artists from the fifties and sixties, which of course puts them in their sixties and seventies. They were fabulous!  I was blown away by the voices that still sounded so wonderful.  I kept remembering moments with my grandparents and one particular Aunt and Uncle and had to dash away tears more than once. I was surprised at how many of the songs I knew.  The reception after was great fun, too, with classic cars and lots of enjoyable people.  



Really, it was wonderful.  Can't wait til our event next spring.  After that we wandered around dowtown Baton Rouge for a bit.  Which is very pretty.  







And seriously can't wait for my next work road trip.

Bought the new Harry Potter book and am halfway through it.  Look at that, finally managed to get back on the Gamble train . . .  I am glad for that.  And the book is wonderful so far.  Already dashed away more than one tear.  I am glad to be home now.  I missed Puppy something terrible, but he's snuggled up to me all night tonight.  Bear won't be home for another two weeks, so I'm still missing him right now . . .  

Today Puppy brought me a train and a screwdriver and very clearly said "Mommy, here's your screwdriver, can you fix my Thomas?"  I am very sad, because up until today he called screwdrivers "scooper divers",  which I adored.  He's getting bigger every day.  *sigh* 

Did not fall prey to Trixie's virus.  Yay!  More on the trip tomorrow . . .  with pics . . .

I don’t know what hit me this weekend, but I baked like a crazy woman.  A crazy woman on the prairie.  Almost everything I made would have been right at home at a barn raising.  Honey whole wheat bread, oatmeal shortbread, from scratch chicken pot pies with garden veggies (nothing whatsoever from a bag or a can, not one thing), sweet potato pie with a toasted marshmallow top, praline cake and chocolate butternut cupcakes.  The people in the office are alternately loving and hating me today.  That’s life, eh?  You can give ‘em what they want, but some people just can’t be pleased.  Because really, who doesn’t love cake?  People who don’t love cake are tragic.  And we are not tragic at all.  We who use cake as a euphemism for about seventy different things.  If Trixie says cake, she means that lovin’ that’s not from the oven.  If Jen says cake, she means the f-word but is in polite company and can neither shout it nor punch anyone.  If I say cake, I might mean money; I might mean love; I might mean something that makes no sense to anyone but me.  My life has been pretty cake rich for the last twenty years.  I stumbled into it after coming home from bootcamp.  I didn’t make it through, but that’s a story for another less happy day.  A chance job and a flash moment of bravery and there I was up to my elbows in buttercream, but not the good kind.  The grocery store kind.  It’s not all bad, but it’s the cake equivalent of a one night stand.  It can get you through a rough patch, but it’s far from true love.  Then I was off to California for a year, where I lucked into a job at a family owned bakery that had been in business since 1895.  I learned the art of it there.  Then a short stay in Florida at an Italian pastry shop where I learned a few more tricks and got to spend days whirling through chocolate in quantities that could make a girl weep.  And then suddenly I was back home and working in the office world.  It’s more stable, more family friendly, but hasn’t got nearly the soul that creating food and art adds to the making of a living.  A friend and I have been knocking around that fantasy again.  The fantasy of a lovely little pastry shop.  That “wouldn’t it be lovely if we could” dreaming.  So my mind has been a tangle of food the last couple of weeks.  Mocha orange torte, double chocolate mousse cake, Drambuie  laced pound cake, blueberry lemon cream, eight layer Carmen Miranda cake, praline cake, strawberry buttercream, Meemaw’s chocolate pineapple pound cake or fresh apple cake, bee hives, mother’s tea cakes, Marcies, cowgirl cookies, petit fors, real Halloween treats . . .  oh remember popcorn balls that were made at home?  So buttery and perfect that those sad little things you could buy in the stores today might as well be rice cakes.  Have you ever had a real one?  It’s a treat.  Come see me at Halloween, I’ll have plenty to share.  Chocolate potato cake for St. Patrick’s Day, panorama eggs for Easter, Kirsch hearts for Valentine’s day, oh, god I have to stop . . .  napoleons, croque em bouche, bouche de noel!, real king’s cake, baklava . . .  It’s no mystery why I’m a plush girl . . .  My mother used to have me pick out veggies to go with our dinner based on color.  It’s a lucky girl that learns that food and art are inextricably one from her mother.  And I was a very lucky girl.  My mother and I have made innumerable Christmas cookies and real egg nog from scratch (I dont believe Santa ever got Nabisco from us) and those sugar eggs for Easter that have the little scenes inside and we’ve topped pies with sculpted meringue and pastry shapes, and we’ve made the simplest foods into memories, too.  Grilled cheese and Jell-O and popcorn on the stove.  For all the trauma that we've survived, the years between toddler and teenager were so good.  Years absolutely filled with wonderful memories and wonderful food.  So, here’s my tiny piece of advice to everybody today.  Teach your children to cook.  If for no other reason than that they'll probably eat a tiny fraction of the chemicals and craziness that they would if they end up living on processed foods.  They’ll love you for it.  And so will their future spouses. 

Tried to go to the batting cages with Jen, but that didn’t work out.  No big deal, it’s just game for fun.  Arrive at the field, warm up with rest of team.  Lots of laughs, including jokes about how white some of our legs are and how some people have no intention of breaking either a nail or a sweat for this.  I get a chance to bat in warm up.  I don’t think I’ve swung a bat in 15 years.  First pitch, first swing, nice little fly ball drops right between the third baseman and left field.  Hey, not bad.  *grin*  Second pitch, little weak, but grounder the same direction.  Cool, am not total loser.  Yet . . .  *bigger grin*  We take the field first, I’m in right.  First batter swings, nice fly ball over the first baseman’s head, it bounces once, I field it cleanly . . .  but as I start to straighten up to throw it in to second my foot slips on a lump of freshly mowed grass and bloop!  My ass is on the ground, my feet are in the air.  Glad we got that out of the way first thing, aren’t you? 

The rest of the game was just as comical.  Lots of laughs all the way around.  Have I mentioned lately how much I love my job and the people I work with? 

10 things I learned today about inter-office sports: 

1.  Reginald can slide into home without getting dirty . . .  how the hell? 
2.  Jen can hold out until the last inning before she lets the f-bomb fly at one of her teammates who missed a catch.  Good job honey!  I didn’t think you’d make it out of the first inning.  ; ) 
3.  A coach who quotes the Godfather is a good coach, but don’t piss her off . . .  “SO HELP ME!” 
4.  When you play a friendly game during an office picnic, don’t let one of those innappropriately competetive people pitch. 
5.  When you play a friendly game during an office picnic and get hit with a pitch, you win a free MRI. 
6.  If you go to pee in the middle of the game, the ump will call you out. 
7.  Tiffany got a hit!  Tiffany got a hit!  Tiffany got a hit! 
8.  If you make a joke about one of the other teams players being a marshmallow, he will knock a home run right over your head. 
9.  The girl who didn’t want to break a sweat and who swore she had the whitest legs and who’s perfect hair was cutely tucked back with a little visor will step up and replace the player who went for an MRI and will make one hell of a catch in the last inning. 
10.  Nothing like a friendly game to remind you why you need to keep taking your ass to the gym! 

The people who predicted they’d be the worst players . . .  not so much.  Now there’s talk of getting together a station team.  Yee haw!  I’m in!  Well, if they’ll let me play . . .  LOL 

Lugh this weekend, see any of you there? 

So I’m poor, right?  I have two kids and a mortgage.  That makes me poor, not a deadbeat, poor.  There’s a distinction.  Clearly.  We all cool with that?  Good. 

Okay, I was gonna give you the Reader’s Digest version of what’s happened to my life but instead, I’m just going to get on with it.  Because I’m sick of my life ruining my life.  Sheesh! 

“Real life is overrated.  It’s a lot of odd smells and disappointment.”  Very hot guy in Chasing Liberty . . . 

I’m gonna catch you up on some of the good and/or funny stuff that has happened in the last couple weeks.  That’s way better, right? 

So, How the Drama Fairy Shat on MY PATIO!?!?!? 

Friday night a couple weeks ago, just before I left for vacation with Nonnie, the tramps next door had a party.  For the four years I’ve owned my house, the house next door has been rental.  One family, the rest college boys until now.  Now, it’s college girls.  I’d never in a million years have thought that the college boys would be better, but lord are they ever!  So, that Friday night my boys are safely delivered to their Dads’ and I am out for a grown up night, I come home about 1 a.m.  The girls next door are having a party.  The front yard is full of trucks and they are all outside, the boys are making loud manly noises and the drunken girls are all squealing at something delightful, I’m sure, that the drunken boys are doing.  I glare at them as I drive by, playing my role as the old grumpy neighbor.  They do go inside so I go to bed and don’t worry about it anymore.  The last time they had a big party it was the same, the minute I got home, they took it inside.  The next day they all pranced out in their sports bras and boxer shorts and bare feet to pick up the empties from the yard.  Clearly none of them are rocket scientists.  So, I figure the next day we’ll have the same show again.  But, the next morning, I get up and go shopping for a bit, but as I arrive home and pull into my drive way, there is a beer can in the middle of it.  I don’t know how I missed that as I left, so I stop and get out of the car and angrily kick the can back into their yard.  (I’m like 20 minutes away from 29 cats and yelling for the neighborhood kids to stay off my lawn, aren’t I?)  Their yard is still full of party garbage.  It must have been a rough night.  But then, I notice something else.  My driveway wraps around the house onto a big concrete patio that takes up half my back yard.  And as I look back, I see that there is something on the patio.  I walk up the driveway.  As I get closer, I’m thinking in my head, NO FUCKING WAY!  But as I get closer, there is no denying what it is.  I stand over it for only a second, it’s all I could manage.  I go into the house and immediately call Trixie. 

Trixie:  Hello? 

Me:  The little fuckers next door took a shit on my patio. 

Trixie:  What?!?!

Me:  You heard me.  You can make that shit up.  (In the next several days I learned that I totally abuse the word shit.  Apparently, it’s my favorite, and there is hardly any end to the number of jokes you can make about it, well, when you hang out with Trixie and you're just 12) 

Trixie:  *snort*  Well, they can . . . 

Me:  I love how you are always there for me. 

Trixie:  You should get a shovel and fling it over the fence back to them. 

Me:  Yeah, ummm, now that I’ve seen what they do for fun, I’m pretty sure I don’t wanna know which way they go for escalation.  Besides, I don’t even want to touch it with a shovel. 

Trixie:  I can see your point.  So what are you gonna do then? 

Me:  I’m gonna call the police. 

So I did.  And the officer was so nice about the whole thing.  I answered the door and took him around to the back to see it.  It was an awkward walk there.  You know it was just weird walking a stranger into my backyard to show him a pile of shit.  Really doesn’t leave room for casual conversation or friendly banter.  The ick factor is just too too terrible.  The first thing he said as he looked down at it was that yes, it was what I thought it was, no denying that.  Then he said, I swear I’m not making this up . . . 

“I’m very sorry, ma’am.  You shouldn’t have to put up with this cra . . .  “  He paused mid-word.  We both had a good laugh over that.  We had a long discussion about how to deal with them in the future.  He said that they get more complaints on college girls then they do the boys, his theory being that the girls throw a party and then can’t control it.  Hadn’t thought of that.  It makes sense.  Since I didn’t want a neighbor war and there really wasn’t anything else I could do?  No way to prove who actually left the gift, so . . .  I filed a criminal mischief report so that if they get worse, I’ve got the history documented.  And he left. 

Then I took the water hose and sprayed it over into their yard. 

I got lots of fun suggestions of what to do in retaliation.  But so many of them involved actual participation with the pooh, that in the end, I had to take the high road.  Seriously, my friends are sick . . .  Bless their hearts . . . 

So recently I’d been saying how I would not stand for my children being any of those examples of little piglets you see everywhere these days.  Being disruptive in the movie specifically.  Well, I blew it, and with half the attendees of sweet baby Harry’s birthday party got to witness it, too.  Ratatouille was beautiful.  Unfortunately, it was not a kid’s movie.  Not a little kid’s movie anyway.  The animation was phenomenal.  I especially loved all the scenes over the Seine, the water and the fall leaves and the views of the city, it was so well done.  But, it was all talk talk talk.  With a couple of cute things thrown in here and there that the kids could enjoy.  But really, it was a grown up’s movie.  And Puppy, was just awful.  But he’s become very sneaky, he’s figured out my limits and he’s pushing the line as far as he can now.  He’d be quiet just long enough for me to think okay, he’s gonna settle, it’s okay now.  And then he’d pop up again.  And even worse, I didn’t think about his shoes.  They are those light up tennies.  You would hardly notice anywhere else, but in a dark theater?  I’m surprised the mother ship didn’t come to get him.  And when I tried to pull them off his feet, he was not having any of that.  So . . .  I apologize, one - for rushing out and not saying any decent good byes, and two - for Puppy being such a booger, especially to Charlotte, who was so patient sitting right next to us.  I am sorry . . .  He was so good in the other movies we’ve been to, maybe because two of the three were pirate movies, and he’s a pirate at heart.  Even wears the hat around the house almost all the time now.  

Maybe I could sic him on AOL.  Pirate on pirate . . . 

Well, at least Harry’s cake turned out okay, maybe they won't exile us completely . . .  

So I found out today that AOL has been automatic drafting my bank account for the last three months for AOL service that I don't have.  And icing on the cake?  It caused my car payment to bounce this Friday.  And guess what, you can't get in to speak to a human being on their customer service line if you don't know your screen name.  What a neat little system you're got workedout there, you assholes.  I'd love to cancel this account that I DON'T FUCKING HAVE!  BUT I DONT' KNOW MY SCREEN NAME.  So I had to cancel my debit card instead.  Now all of the bills that I have set up to handle automatically with my debit card will have to be changed and I'm now leaving the office to go file a fraudulent billing report.  And then I get to call my friendly car payment bank and tell them why they don't have their money.  And I'm sure they'll believe me, really.  Sure, honey, no problem, you just let us know when you get it all worked out.  'Cause banks are just so nice like that. 

Bastards . . . 

I sat down to make a list of all the things I need to do.  I became so terrified that I switched on the autopilot and embroidered in front of the television all weekend while Puppy was his wonderful ricocheting self all over the house.  It rained all weekend so I don’t have to feel guilty about not mowing the yard.  I watched A Man For All Seasons, which I’d never seen, lovely.  And I did finish the laundry.  This morning a friend and I were talking and she said I shouldn’t be so hard on myself and pointed out how I’ve been off my game for the last few weeks.  I have been to the gym once in the month of June.  The exact same number of times I’ve talked to my mother.  My vacation was lovely, but I’ve settled back into daily life entirely too quickly.  Can we go back to Lilies, Nonnie?  Please?  I know I’ve got my shit together on most things.  Most days.  But man alive, I’ve been feeling like I’m treading water and the seas are getting rougher.  Thankfully, I have the sweetest kids ever and I’ve got one of the best hobbies ever for stress relief.  Bad day, need some quiet time?  Embroider this and practice being still.  Worse day, need to rage a little?  Drag out the armor and go to fighter practice.  So clearly things aren’t all bad, I haven’t done that in six months.  But, I’ve been adjusting to some permanent changes that are tough.  The loss of some of my safety net.  And the loss of a dream.  But one dream remains.  I hadn’t said much about this in the past year.  Didn’t want to jinx anything, ya know.  But I just inched my way under the barbed wire budget fence this month.  Those of you who have to listen to me whine in person knew this, but I was potentially going to have to sell my house this year.  My house is the one concrete thing in my life that I've been able to point to when I get to feeling like a failure.  It's the thing that makes me feel like a real grown up, a responsible grown up woman who's managed to keep her life together against some pretty shitty odds.  Well, June was the make it or break it month.  And we made it.  But man it was tough.  And it isn’t gonna get much better for the next 15 to 18 months.  But we made it.  And we’re okay.  And I never had to tell Bear just how close we got to it.  So, if you miss us at events for a bit, now you know why, but hey, stop by the house.  ‘Cause it’s still mine.  And so are the people that I love. 

There is freedom within, there is freedom without
Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup
There's a battle ahead, many battles are lost
But you'll never see the end of the road
While you're travelling with me

Hey now, hey now
Don't dream it's over
Hey now, hey now
When the world comes in
They come, they come
To build a wall between us
We know they won't win

Now I'm towing my car, there's a hole in the roof
My possessions are causing me suspicion but there's no proof
In the paper today tales of war and of waste
But you turn right over to the T.V. page

Hey now, hey now
Don't dream it's over
Hey now, hey now
When the world comes in
They come, they come
To build a wall between us
We know they won't win

Now I'm walking again to the beat of a drum
And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart
Only shadows ahead barely clearing the roof
Get to know the feeling of liberation and release

Hey now, hey now
Don't dream it's over
Hey now, hey now
When the world comes in
They come, they come
To build a wall between us
We know they won't win

Don't let them win

(Hey now, hey now)

(Hey now, hey now)

Don't Dream It's Over Lyrics
Crowded House

The fictitious BBQ . . .  have I already told this story?  Hmmm, I think I may have, but it’s a good one. 

Four summers ago, I was out at the walking trail.  Around mile marker one I met a guy running.  I didn’t really pay a lot of attention to him other than noticing that he was cute.  Running, hello, they’re nearly all cute aren’t they?  Like the guys that deliver things.  Ever notice that?  Fed Ex, UPS, Coca-Cola, Pepsi, Budweiser, they’re all cute and all have great legs . . .  *sigh* . . .  wait, where was I?  Oh, yeah, running.  As he passes me, he turns and looks at me.  This is highly unusual.  I’m just not a head turner, not that girl, ya know?  But, I go about my business.  Around mile three, we meet again.  Just as he passes me he stops dead and says “Sara?”  Well, holy crap.  I look and realize this is a guy I used to go to church with about 20 years ago.  He was the dreamy college boy that all the youth group girls loved because he was older and mysterious and wise and dreamy and well, you get the picture.  I haven’t seen him in literally 20 years.  He says he recognized me because of my hair.  Thank you Wella!  Never let the grey give you away.  I turn around because no way was I going to admit that five miles was pushing it for me, this was in pre-running days for me.  But luckily for me he was done running and was in cool down.  So we talk and keep walking and he’s just as nice as I remembered.  We finally arrive back at the parking lot and I’m thinking I’d really like to see this guy again so I say “I’m having a BBQ Saturday, you should come.”  We exchange numbers and hugs and he leaves.  I drive straight to Trixie’s house, why?  Because I wasn’t throwing a BBQ on Saturday, and did I mention it’s like Thursday night?  I didn’t even own a freakin’ grill at that moment in my life.  So we get all crazy and plan a BBQ in 30 seconds flat.  I mad dash buy a grill the next day at work.  As I’m jumping through the hoops of making an employee purchase of a fancy grill (it’s a gas grill, it collapses for storage, has an ice chest in the bottom and actually after having owned it for a few years now, I hate it, it sucks, give me a good ole kettle) my boss asks why I’m throwing together this BBQ at the last minute.  I tell him the story, he laughs so hard he nearly passes out, I swear.  He told the story around the office for the rest of the day, dubbing it Sara’s Fictitious BBQ.  And so, voila!!!  The first annual fictitious BBQ is set.  The boy did call me that Friday night.  He actually called for awhile.  We had dinner once, later, but he was a no show for the BBQ.  All our friends grilled chicken and drank boat drinks and had a lovely time without him.  So much so that we decided to keep the Annual Fictitious BBQ, even if we didn’t keep him.  The next year the BBQ was enormous, full of people I’ll probably never see again.  And it was a potluck, no actual BBQ served, therefore fictitious.  Last year, somehow, we skipped it, bad bad, must do better.  This year, it was at Justin and Jen’s.  Somehow Dan got the impression it was Justin’s birthday, so now we’ve got the Fictitious Birthday BBQ.  Can’t wait to see what we do next year!  Moral of the story?  If you’re going to jump through hoops for something?  Make sure the most effort goes into having fun with your real friends while you’re doing all of that going all out.  Because if it turns out to not actually be worth it, you’ll have a great story to share with your friends for years to come, even if the cute boy didn’t work out. 

1. Never tip a king out of a foldy chair. 
2. Not all water journeys that start out with bailing turn out badly. 
3. I want to be Rus. 
4. If you don’t do what Dave and Rob want you to do, they will text you mercilessly all damned week. 
5. Prey should know when it’s prey. 
6. Gin is free-range and organic. 
7. Aelfgifu rocks. 
8. Glass bead makers are brave.  And should never wear fake nails. 
9. Fireworks at an event are a really special treat. 
10. Thuper Duper! 

Lilies is my now officially my favorite event.  You know that burn out you can get?  I’ve been feeling it lately.  This week of low stress was exactly what I needed to remember what I love about this hobby.  I was in an encampment of new people.  All new faces around me.  Met a lovely girl named Ceara (sp?) for about 20 seconds, didn’t get a chance to talk to her again.  And then about a dozen other amazing people.  I’m completely enamoured of Aelfgifu and Cecily.  Cecily amazed me making glass beads in camp.  Aelfgifu was so sweet to Nonnie and I all week that she even talked me into the lake.  Me, who hasn’t bought a swimsuit since the 80’s.  No, really, the 80’s.  And of course there was Mimosa Thursday.  You cannot go to war without Mimosa Thursday.  The pottery workshops where cancelled, so no lovely pots came home with me, save the one I bought.  But we took a couple of classes on Russian costuming and one class taught by a professor who’d been on an archeological dig in Russia, oh, the belt fittings alone . . .  *sigh*  I’ve even drug out all the lovely supplies I bought years ago for pysanka.  On the search again for primary sources to cite in documentation and have officially decided what to do with that ten pound brick of beeswax.