That's...disturbing.

Yesterday, while I was at home for lunch, and Pudge and I were in the backyard, I took the opportunity to meander to the front corner of the yard (on the side of the new neighbors) to check the progress of my hardy hibiscus (they're budding--yay!). There is a smallish, annoyingly positioned tree in that corner of the yard, which stands over the hibiscus, and I noticed a dead, twiggy little branch hanging in it. I assumed it was a remnant of my recent, fairly drastic pruning, and reached up to pull it down. I started to toss it away and then thought...there's something weird-looking about it. I took a closer look. That's just a dead leaf there on the end, isn't it? Or is it...OH MY GOD, THERE'S A DESSICATED FROG IMPALED ON THE END OF THE STICK. Yep, someone shoved a stick right down that frog's throat. Then tossed it into a tree.

For the sake of neighborly relations, I'm going to assume it wasn't anyone who actually LIVES there (I'm looking at you, slacker friends), and I'm further going to assume that the frog was already dead when the stick was stuck, because otherwise....who DOES something like that? Who makes frog popsicles and tosses them into their neighbor's tree? Shudder.

Let's change the subject before I get too freaked out.

I have several opportunities for socialization this weekend, if I can force myself to actually, you know, be social. My guitar player's wife suggested that, since we recently relearned all those songs, we should have a pickin' party at their house tomorrow night, so there's that. On the plus side, since nobody's paying us, we can drink all we want and not worry about the effect on our music. On the minus side, this is that particular group of friends where I am currently the only single person, and that's going to be a little depressing. But I'm sure I'll go, and I'll drink, and I'll sing, and I'll deal.

(Okay, just in case you're wondering, my recent silence on the topic of New Guy should not be taken to mean that I'm "getting over him," or that I miss him one iota less than I did a month ago. I'm not, and I don't. We talk a couple of times a week, not particularly thrilling conversations, since there are generally children fighting for his attention and/or lost toy crises to solve while we're talking, but we talk. I'm hoping to go visit him once he actually gets his own place (he's still living out of a suitcase while visiting family and friends), but nothing is set. Yes, it's depressing. Moving on.)

Sunday afternoon is my church's annual picnic and music-fest, but I don't know how much of that I can take. It's outdoors, you see, and the outdoors is hot, miserably hot. Not even the lure of vestry members in a dunk tank can counteract much of that for me. Though maybe if the junior warden were to get in the dunk tank, shirtless...heh.

Sunday evening is our monthly women's "stitch and bitch without the stitch" potluck, carefully timed to coincide with what I'm told is a decently spectacular fireworks display at the church next door. But in order to get to the food and the margaritas and the explosions and the singing of patriotic songs (in drunken multi-part harmony, I'm sure), I will have to drive wayyy to the other side of town, and having just driven wayyyyyyy to the other side of town for the pickin' party the night before, well....we'll see.

It all really depends on the state of my dog's digestive system. Pudge is a little...sensitive, you see. He doesn't like thunderstorms, fireworks or workmen outside, and recently we've been deluged with all these things. It's been a little upsetting to him, if you get my drift. He wants me close by, and when I'm not able to be close by, I occasionally must pay upon my arrival home. Pay how? By cleaning up diarrhea, that's how. I love my dog!!! Poor, overly sensitive, clingy thing that he is. (And please do not, as my bass player recently did, suggest that I just leave him outside by himself while I'm gone. That would NOT be a good thing. Pudge is not an outdoor dog, and that would simply compound the problem. And really...he's very good at holding it. VERY good. He's only had a couple of accidents, and is it his fault if I'm not home to hear the "please let me out right now" bark?) We just have to make it through the the Fourth of July weekend. And the rainy season. And the "but we're just trying to improve your neighborhood" sewer line and road repairs. (Which may give ME diarrhea before it's all over.)

Sometimes my life is crap. Crap, and dried frogsicles. Sigh.

But at least it's the weekend! Have a good one!

$5,000 for that thing?

Lately I've been obsessed with "Old Things Roadtrip." (Okay, that's not really the name, but you know the PBS show I'm talking about, don't you? Just trying to thwart the throngs of "Old Things Roadtrip" googlers. Though I don't know why I bother. Nothing could be more disturbing than the numerous hits I'm still getting for "hairy boobs." What's wrong with people?)

Anyway, for some reason, I can't get enough of "Old Things Roadtrip." I'm not sure why...but I think, aside from the little history lessons, and yes, I am a geek, that it's the (almostly certainly vain) hope that someday I'll be watching, and old Milly will be sitting there with the [random knick-knack] she inherited from HER Aunt Tilly, and the expert will say "this is one of the finest [random knick-knack]s I've ever seen, and I'd put it up for auction at ONE MEEEELION DOLLARS," and I'll jump up screaming, "I HAVE A [RANDOM KNICK-KNACK] JUST LIKE THAT ONE, ONLY MINE IS EVEN BETTER!"

(Wow, was that a heckuva sentence there, or what?)

I know, intellectually, that I'm not going to strike it rich with the contents of my house. I have a number of things passed down from family members, particularly my maternal grandmother. "Passed down," you see, and not "inherited," because "inherited" implies a certain value, and the things I have...acquired? Well, I like them..both on their own merits, and because they remind me of Nanny, but I'm well aware that their value is primarily sentimental.

And still, when I watch "Old Things Roadtrip," I can't help but wonder (how very Carrie Bradshaw of me) if THIS is the time I'll see it...MY [random knick-knack]...and it's worth REAL MONEY. Of course, if that ever happens, I wouldn't want to sell it, because it reminds me of my grandmother, and I'd get all nervous having something that valuable in the house, and I'd have to take out special insurance or put it into a safe deposit box, and that would certainly take all the fun out of owning it, so...maybe I'm better off as I am.

I won't stop watching, though. 'Cause you know what else is fun about "Old Things Roadtrip?" Watching the faces of people realizing they paid waaaay too much for some assembly line knock-off worth a hundred bucks. That's some good television right there.

Like living in a soft drink commercial

When I got home from work Friday evening, my neighbors were outside working on their yard, and one of the kids was actually playing on the trampoline. He was all zipped up inside the netting, bouncing away for all he was worth. Of course, he's a teeny-tiny thing, so he wasn't making much of an impact, but he seemed to be enjoying himself, and it was pretty cute, I must say. The cuteness must have had some sort of effect on my shriveled raisin of a heart, because I felt moved to smile and give a big wave hello.

You know the cheesy commercial where everyone is "paying forward" smiles, and lending hands, and oh, isn't the world a better place when we're all nice to each other? Well, it was kind of like that.

The girl instantly came over to the fence for a quick chat, like she'd just been waiting for the opportunity. We chatted very briefly about the heat and the mosquitos, and then Pudge and I went on back inside. A few minutes later, there was a knock on my front door. It was my neighbor.

"My husband wants to know if it would be okay with you if he goes ahead and mows your front lawn, too, as long as he's mowing. I told him I couldn't see why you'd mind."

I laughed. "I can't think of a single reason why I would object, if he really wants to. Thanks!"

He mowed AND weed-eated the front yard. For the record, my sidewalk and driveway haven't been weed-eaten since LAST summer, when my neighbor on the other side did it for me once. ("I hope you don't mind...I went ahead and did your edges." WHY WOULD I MIND? I HATE weed-eating.)

I'm not sure if they were just making a friendly overture, or if I truly seem old and decrepit and in need of help (they are SO young), but hey...whatever the reason, I'm not turning down free lawn mowing, even if it is just a gesture of kindness toward a sad spinster lady. Heh. Of course, now I feel obligated to bake them some cookies or something...my god, where does this "neighborliness" thing end?

And now I'm remembering how my parents used to occasionally send us kids over to mow our various widowed neighbor ladies' lawns, but those women were REALLY old, weren't they? Please tell me I wasn't mowing the lawns of 40-something women who could perfectly well have done it themselves! Hee. (For the record, I'm pretty sure all of our neighbors at that time--almost all of whom were widows, for some reason; not a good block for male longevity--were at least in their 60s, and they seemed ancient to me then. Now my own mother is in her mid-60s and still incredibly active--were things that different back then? Or is it just my perspective? Hmm....)

In other news, our little gig Saturday night went really well, once we all got there and got rolling. It's always incredibly flattering to be told repeatedly how fabulous you are, and to be asked with amazement why you don't do this for a living, since you are so incredibly wonderful, etc., but it's a little bittersweet, too. Why DON'T I get to sing and act for a living? Oh yeah...because I live in a place where almost no one does. Sigh. And I am too old and tired (and have too many animals) to go off and try to "make it" somewhere now. (Ask my BFF how much fun a rep theatre company is when you're twice the age of everyone else there. Hee.) We are considering trying to find some regular monthly gig, at any rate, just for fun. And a few bucks. (We each made fifty bucks Saturday night. Whoo hoo? Plus I got a glass of wine purchased for me, a loaf of yummy hot bread was given to me afterwards by a kind waitress--I was starving, and scavenging the leftover bread from the table-- and the ladies presented me with one of the lovely floral centerpieces. Whoo hoo!)

My parents came to town yesterday to bring me some hair balm and lipstick (yes, my mother is an Avon lady), and took me to lunch. I am really worried about my dad--I think he's the skinniest person I've ever seen who didn't currently have cancer or anorexia. He's been having trouble swallowing food for the last year or so. The doctors have done every test in the book, and can find no physical/anatomical reason for the difficulty, and we're all beginning to suspect the trouble is in his head. My mother is always nagging him to drink Ensure, which he can swallow, but I don't think he's drinking nearly enough of it. Stubborn man. It's worrisome.

I mowed the back yard (all by myself--what's THAT about?) after they left, and that was my weekend. How was yours?

The squeaky wheel gets...the weed-whacker.

Yes, the view-blocking weeds have been removed from their offensive place on the corner. Yay for being a cranky old lady!

'Cause I'm pretty sure I'm going to continue to be cranky for a while....at least until these ceaseless thunderstorms CEASE ALREADY, for cryin' out loud. I am very glad that we're not actually flooding here in Tulsa proper--steps were taken after some really big floods back in the 80s (the Great Flood of '86 springs to mind, though the BFF and I simply referred to her as "Betty") wreaked havoc, and, who'd a thunk it, those steps actually worked, and Tulsa is now something of a model for flood control. (If nothing else. Stay off of our pothole-ridden streets. Heh.)

In less jubilant news, Pudge had diarrhea all day yesterday. Whoo hoo! Including just a little bit in the house! And he puked all over the place! I love my dog! (I do...but he has thunderstorm anxiety and I guess that anxiety had to manifest itself somewhere.)

And, in seriously less jubilant news...the "litter box brigade" has been officially disbanded. My cancer-stricken friend has finally found homes for all her cats, and just in time, as she has begun to worsen very rapidly, and is going into hospice. I did my very last scooping duty last night, and was hoping to be able to chat a bit (she was asleep last week when I was there), but she was...not up to it, to put it mildly. I've never seen anyone go downhill quite so quickly. I think at some level she was just hanging in there for the cats, and now that they're taken care of...she's ready to go. And it will be a blessing when she does, truly. She needs to be free from that pain. CANCER SUCKS!!! Please direct your thoughts/prayers/good wishes/vibes toward a peaceful "transition" for Jan. Thanks.

I'm going to go now, 'cause I've made myself all sad, and I think I might require some chocolate. (I'm still at work--I can't have liquor yet.)

What's next?

Daring young men on a flying trapeze? Any day now I expect to look up and see a tightwire strung between the trees.

Which is my way of saying that my next-door neighbors have added to the carnival. Over the weekend they installed....a trampoline! (Complete with safety-netting, thank goodness.) I wouldn't be so fascinated with the cavalcade of playground fun, except that I truly almost NEVER see those kids outside. Why go to so much trouble and expense for kids too young to use and/or appreciate it? There had better not be any late-night trampoline carousing by the slacker boys, is all I'm saying.

Yes, I am officially a cranky old lady.

And, to celebrate, I called the mayor's action line again today--this time to report that the people on the corner haven't mowed between the sidewalk and the curb yet this year, and I can't see to pull out onto the busy street. I mean I really can't see. With all this rain, the weeds are about 4' high, and the street takes a pretty good rise at that point, and I absolutely can't see if cars are coming my way. So I have to nose out into the street to get a peek, hoping I don't get creamed. And then I'm that person I HATE, the person sitting there with her car nosed out into traffic, causing people to swerve around (and glare at) her as they pass. I HATE that person. I refuse to continue to be that person, so...civic duty done. We'll see how quickly they respond.

Then, of course, I'll have to find another reason to be cranky. I have a sneaking suspicion I'm up to THAT task. Heh.

Is it any wonder we're BFsF?

Friday night, 10:43 p.m. Liz is asleep on the couch, and has been for...well, a couple of hours, if we're being honest. (Yes, sacked out before 9:00 p.m. on a Friday night--don't pretend you're not envious of such an exciting life.) The phone rings.



L: Hello...


BFF: Sing the theme song to "Land of the Lost."


L: (instantly, of course) "Marshall, Will and Holly, on a routine expedition, met the greatest earthquake ever known. High on a mountain, it tossed their tiny craft, and sent them down a thousand feet below. To the la-and of the lo-o-ost."


BFF: (relays this to someone else) Thank you. The power's out here.


L: Oh, okay.


BFF: Bye.


L: Bye.



And....scene.

Diggin'/Not diggin'

Diggin':

• "So You Think You Can Dance." Dancing! Cat Deeley! Jidges! Twitch! Hot tamale trains! Wade Robson choreography! And my, oh my...how handsome is Debbie Allen's little protege, Will? (He's over 18, right? I'm not going to hell for lusting, or anything?)
• Maybelline Mineral Power makeup. I held off on trying the mineral foundations for the longest time, 'cause I just couldn't see how a mere powder could cover my rosacea areas. But it does! Whoo hoo! It stays on, AND I don't end up with stubborn makeup stains on my clothes. ('Cause not even the fabulous Tide pen will take that out.)
• Kathy Griffin has gone back to her darker red shade of hair, I see. I approve. That strawberry blonde shade she was rocking last season washed her out.
• Fresh basil from my very own plants in my sandwich wrap for lunch. Nothing packs a flavor punch like basil.
• It's not hot outside today. (Of course, that's because it's all cloudy and rainy, and I am SO tired of rain, but I'm trying to be all Pollyanna about it.)
• Smart Cars. I want one!
• I have twice overheard Male Co-Worker (who is slightly younger than me) telling Female Co-Worker (my exact age) that she should stop coloring her hair and let the gray grow in, 'cause "look how good Liz's hair looks." Awww...sweet. (Not sure I agree with him right at the moment, but still sweet.)
• I have posted five days in a row. (Granted, they haven't been stellar posts, but nonetheless.)

Not diggin':

• This guy. Asswipe.
• That Mentos commercial where the woman leans over and drinks from the guy's mouth like he's a water cooler? GROSS! It makes my skin crawl. She's drinking spit! She's gonna need a Mentos for sure after that. Blech.
• Thunderstorms.
• I have friends struggling with physical and emotional issues, and there's not much I can do to help. Sigh.
• Gas prices. Food prices. Utilities prices. (And when was the last time I had a raise? So long ago I can't even remember when it was. Depressing. Good thing I like ramen.)
• The messy, dirty, inconvenient, never-ending work the city is doing in my neighborhood. Aargghh!

Happy Friday the 13th, everyone! Go out and kiss a black cat. Under a ladder. Hee.

It's the little things that get you.

Today the local newspaper food critic reviewed a restaurant I went to several times with New Guy (and never with anybody else, so I have no memories of the place separate from him). Don't mention the cajun chicken, don't mention the cajun chicken--too late. Sigh.

We've been rehearsing for our upcoming charity gig, and, since the rest of the band lives on the opposite side of town from me (actually, two of them live so far on the opposite side, they're actually in different towns), I've been driving out there for rehearsals. No biggie, right? I hate that highway, that whole side of town, actually...but it's just a few times. What's the big deal? (Other than $3.79 per gallon for gas, but whatever.) Well, the deal is...this is the highway I always took to New Guy's place. I've been on that highway more in the last few months than I have the 20 years I've lived here...but only to go see him. Now whenever I pass "his" exit, it's like somebody has just punched me in the stomach. If the guys have noticed my damp eyes when I arrive at rehearsals, they've been too nice to mention it. Sigh.

I pull my trashbin out to the curb for pickup, and I remember that, on our last evening together, he insisted on being a gentleman, and pulling it out for me. Sigh.

Silly, silly little things. And yet they stab me in the heart. It's getting easier, mostly--I mean...I'm not crying every day anymore. And there are plenty of times I think of him and smile...but it's the little things. Sigh.

And now, simply to avoid ending this post on such a somber note, I will share with you that I DID take my "Nensa" card out and wave it around last night at rehearsal. I was kidding, of course, and my band boys just laughed. And swore that merely touching the card raised their own IQs a couple of points. (Hee.) But I would also like to state for the record that, re: whether or not the chords they were playing at one point of one song were WRONG, that I was right. They were wrong. Of course, that has little to do with IQ, and more to do with the fact that I have good ears AND more familiarity with that particular song, but still. I WAS RIGHT. I'm just sayin'.

Don't make me wave my card in your face

Dear...oh, let's just affectionately call you "Mr. Too Stupid to Live," only without the affection:

If you begin a conversation by acknowledging that I am the "resident expert" on a particular subject, then why, OH WHY, do you then refuse to accept my answers? This wasn't a tricky one. This is information that anyone who has done what I do for as long as I have done it has at her fingertips. I could share this information in my sleep. Truly. If you stood over my bed and asked "what kind of blank does a blank use?" I would answer "a blank" without even breaking my snugglehold with Pudge. (And then I would wake up and say "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY BEDROOM?")

It would have been the perfect opportunity to shove my newly-minted "Nensa" card in his face, but, alas, the conversation took place over the phone. I think if I began saying "Do you know what this is that I'm holding? Do you see how I'm waving it around in the general area where your face would be if you were here?" it might not have quite the desired effect. Sigh.

It's a miracle

I just went home for lunch. Said lunch involved yellow mustard, beet salad and cheetos (that wasn't the entire meal--there were also yummy vegetarian corndogs, hence the mustard), all of which were eaten while wearing a mostly white shirt--and said shirt is not currently emblazoned with yellow, magenta or day-glo orange splotches. How did I manage THAT?

And, on a completely unrelated note, am I the only dog-owner bothered by the name of that new "my dog can do better tricks than your dog" reality show? The GREATEST American dog? You know what makes a dog great? Two things: a) that he/she is YOUR dog, and b) that you love him/her. That's it. I think I have the greatest dog in the WORLD, and all he can do on command is sit. Sometimes. If he's in the mood. But he loves me unconditionally, he makes me laugh, he never has "accidents" inside, and he spoons with me at night. Plus he lets Ruthie the cat show her love, which is immense and involves gazing adoringly and throwing herself at him and rubbing her head against various parts of his body, with much grace. That, in my opinion, is a great dog. Would he be any greater if he could catch a frisbee in his mouth while wearing a beret and riding a unicycle? I think not. (Though I'll bet people would throw their loose change at us if he did it in public. Especially if I was also a beret-clad unicyclist. Hmm...if gas/food/utility prices keep rising I might have to reconsider this.)

I think I will leave you with that mental image. Heh.

I bet you wish you was as smart as me.

Note: possession of this card will not make you any less prone to stumbling into your own desk and smashing your thumb, five minutes after arriving at work. (More's the pity.) It will, however, get you discounts on hotel rooms and rental cars. Um...whoo hoo?

Stuff like that there. In bullets.

Bits and pieces, bits and pieces.

• Still sad


• Am I becoming a cranky old lady, or just a conscientious and concerned citizen? In the past few weeks/months I have: a) called the city to complain about the trashy and junk-filled yard behind me, b) called the city to complain about my trash collectors being lazy and sloppy, c) called the city water distribution department to demand they send someone to fill the giant ruts in my street caused by their never-ending sewer/water main replacement project combined with a LOT of rain and d) called the police to report that a black pickup truck had just driven aimlessly past my house for the 6th time in half an hour. (It was 2:30 in the morning, you see, and I was having a little insomnia, and I couldn't think of a legitimate reason for someone to be doing that. The dispatcher agreed, and did actually send an officer by.)


• My on again/off again "band" has a gig later this month--a charitable event at a country club. They're paying us a few dollars, which will probably just about cover the gas needed to drive to rehearsals and the event. Oh, well.


• Yay, Obama!


• I keep getting spam, from various "people" with the subject line "you look really stupid my first initial/my last name." And a link. Yeah, what genius thought this one up--let's insult people PERSONALLY--that'll suck 'em right in! "Oh, you think I look stupid, do you? Well, I'm going to click right on this link. So there!"


• I haven't seen the Sex and the City movie yet, and I'm not sure I want to, since from what I understand Steve cheats on Miranda, who's gotten all brittle again. No! Steve and Miranda (and Harry and Charlotte) were what SATC was all about for me. (Carrie and Big? Oh, who cares.)


• I have a garden party to attend this weekend, with some of my favorite women I don't see often enough, where the focal point of the menu is always cheetos, and which sometimes involves middle-aged women in hats waving their napkins and saying "helloooooo" to passers-by from the front yard. Sounds like fun, no?


• I still haven't received my "Nensa" membership card, but I'm told by their national office that it was scheduled to be mailed on Tuesday, so...maybe today! I'm sure mere possession of the card will cause all future blog posts to be more coherent and well-structured. Or not.


• How much do I love "So You Think You Can Dance"? Answer: lots. It's what "American Idol" wishes it was.


• It's already been in the 90s here--that's too frickin' hot for June!! Plus it's been raining like crazy. Rain + heat = mowing, mowing, mowing. Gah.


• On the plus side, the slacker dudes next door haven't been out in the yard much--maybe they don't like the heat, either?


• I can't seem to get motivated to start working out again, now that the sciatica is mostly gone. Somebody do me a favor, and tell me to get off my lazy butt and exercise, already, please. (And that tub of chocolate ice cream in the freezer is NOT helping.)


• The sciatica is only MOSTLY gone. I still have a tiny bit of numbness in my foot. Should I be worried about that, do you think?


• You know, I kind of thought...back when it started to seem that New Guy would be moving sooner rather than later...that when he left, I'd throw my online profile back up, and try to go on some bad dates to remind myself why being alone isn't all that bad. But now that it's happened, I can't think of anything I'd less rather do. I can't even stomach the thought of it. It seems pointless. And unfair, perhaps, should I actually meet someone with sincere intentions...why lead someone else on, when I don't have the intention or ability to make a connection right now? (And besides, I guess there's a part of me that won't stop hoping that the Story of Liz and New Guy somehow gets another chapter someday.) So, for now, here's my "boyfriend." Isn't he handsome? And SUCH a good snuggler.
  
  
  

He's gone

New Guy, that is. Headed out Saturday morning. We were able to spend an evening together last week. It was lovely. And broke my heart into little pieces. I miss him. Lots.

Yes, we're staying in touch. No, I don't know when I'll see him again.

Hell yes, I'm depressed.

And life goes on.

Out of the mouths of babes. Or, it's not just me.

My next-door neighbors (not the new neighbors, but the retired couple on the other side) quite often take care of their young grandchildren in the late afternoons. The kids like to come over to talk through the fence when I take "Fudge" outside after work. (The little girl--she's about four--can't quite wrap her head around the fact that his name is "Pudge," and she keeps substituting "Fudge" instead. It's cute.)

Yesterday the little boy--he's about five--looked over at the super carnival fun festival extravaganza and said, "man, they sure do got a lot of stuff over there."

Yes, they sure do.

See, even a five-year-old thinks it's excessive. Heh. And he's a pretty sharp little guy. He noticed the Shih-Tzu (or maybe it's a Lhasa Apso--something along those lines) that's been hanging out over there a bit recently (I think it belongs to her mom), and said, "they should be careful not to go down the slides headfirst...they might get their faces in dog poop." Hee!

There were four young men in the backyard next door--naked!

Okay, calm down. It was the two toddlers and their friends, in their New! Inflatable! Swimming! Pool! which has joined a hammock and a small bench in the carnival of fun.

The slacker dudes weren't around overly much, with the notable exception of one who was passed out on their front porch when I went out to mow Sunday morning. I mowed several strips, about 10 feet from his head, before he finally woke up and stumbled inside. So sorry if my mowing disturbed you, slacker dude who doesn't live here. (I'm really not sorry! Ha!)

The rest of the weekend was...well, long, hot and lonely. With a powerful surge of adrenaline at 1:30 a.m. on Saturday (yes, that's 1:30 A.M., meaning the FIRST 1:30 of the day) when someone KNOCKED ON MY DOOR. Pudge and I both nearly had heart attacks. It was some young guy looking for "Derek." (I don't think he was connected with the dudes next door, though, though my reason for thinking that is completely racist: all the dudes next door have been white, and this young man was black. I stand beside my conclusion, though.) He muttered a quick "sorry" (this was all done through the door, of course--I didn't open it!) and left quickly, and eventually my heart stopped racing, and I went back to bed. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? Why would you knock on ANYBODY'S house at that time of night--particularly when there are NO lights on? (For the record, this is the third time in the three years I've lived in this house that someone has showed up late at night looking for someone who isn't me. Does someone get drunk and forget their address, and give out mine instead, I wonder?) He didn't appear to knock on anyone else's door (and I'm sure 3carnations will be relieved to hear that I was happy that he didn't knock next door and wake the kids!) and I didn't hear the neighborhood dog chorus go crazy, so I guess he headed back from whence he came.

What else, what else? The party Friday night was fine, except for the moment when it dawned on me, looking around, that at some point I apparently became the only un-coupled person in that particular group of friends. You can imagine, as New Guy's departure becomes increasingly imminent, how fun THAT realization was.

Saturday I ran errands, Sunday I mowed, yesterday I bought some tomatoes and herbs and planted a little container garden, which was nearly washed away last night in the monsoon that hit. Wowza--that was SOME lightning. Apparently it hit something fairly close by (though not the house next door again, thank goodness), and I was awakened by a couple of firetrucks racing past my window at 4:00 a.m. I was awake for awhile, watching the light show outside my window, and at one point, the lightning was so bright and so sustained that the streetlights thought it was morning and switched off briefly.

So, that was my weekend. Long, hot and lonely--a perfect preview of coming attractions, I guess. It feels like it's going to be a long, hot and lonely summer. Sigh.

For those of you wishing to see pictures of my "prom king" costume, you may be in luck. My mother took some pictures at the time, and she'll try to unearth them. The picture-taking itself was pretty funny, actually--I was living next door to my parents at the time, and my mom wanted to see us all fixed up. So we went next door and she made us stand together while she took pictures of us, just like we were really going to the prom. I guess since I never went to my real prom, that was the closest she could get. Hee.

I'm sure you'll be relieved...

I think I know where my mom's subconscious got the whole "hairy boobs" thing. I remembered a conversation we had recently. My sister has a catering business, for which my mom is her unpaid assistant, and recently Mom mentioned that they had catered the prom for a really small-town high school near my own small town.

I reminded her that years ago, in college, I won a Halloween costume contest (the only time ever) by going with a male friend as the prom king and queen for that high school. Only, of course, I was the "king," and my 6'5", well over 200lb friend Joey was the "queen." I wore a fabulous green polyester leisure suit, stippled five o'clock shadow on my face, stuffed a sock down my pants for a nice bulge, and snipped fur off a stuffed animal and glued it to my chest. (It goes without saying that my lovely polyester shirt (complete with those wonderful full-sail lapels so popular in the 70s) was opened far enough down so that the hairy chest was nicely on display.

Joey wore a cute little blond bob wig, and a "lovely" bright red taffeta/lace prom dress, which he bought unworn, tags still attached, from a thrift store. (The saddest thing was that it FIT him, and imagining the girl who bought it, and then took it to the thrift store unworn...well, it makes your heart hurt a bit, doesn't it?) He was unable to find heels to fit his enormous feet, so he made do with a little pair of white Keds. We paraded around all evening underneath a beautiful sparkly archway, and for the actual contest, we played sappy prom coronation music, and had people blow bubbles as we processed in. And then, of course, we had to play up the whole "lay one on the queen" routine, as I jumped up and down, attempting to land a kiss on his way-above-my-head lips, as he simpered coyly. Genius.

At any rate, my mother remembered the costume instantly--"remember the sock down your pants?"--so it's only a wonder that she didn't dream about me having some sort of sex change operation, I guess. Heh.

Dream Interpretation Needed

'Cause my mother called a couple of days ago to tell me of a dream she had about me, and it was a doozy!

Here it goes: I was getting married, see (ha--fat chance), and had asked her to stand up with me, and because it was a morning wedding, I wanted her to wear lingerie. (But of course. What else would one wear to a "morning" wedding?) Well, she didn't have any lingerie she thought was appropriate (go ahead and try to imagine the lingerie that WOULD be appropriate for a 67-year-old woman to wear at her daughter's wedding--I'll wait), and she was very stressed about it. At some point while she was fretting about her lack of suitable garments, I showed up, dressed for the wedding, in a bright purple outfit that included a little jacket. "Oh, she's wearing purple...then I should wear white." (Because of course the only thing less appropriate than wearing lingerie to your daughter's wedding is wearing white to your daughter's wedding.) The jacket kept falling open, and she noticed with horror that it exposed my boobs. My HAIRY boobs. Yes, you heard that right (and you really must imagine my mother giggling insanely as she related this point)--my boobs were hairy. She kept trying to subtly reach over and close the jacket so nobody could see them, but apparently I had no such qualms re: the display of the hairy boobs and kept slapping her hands away.

Her question to me (and now my question to you): "What the heck do you suppose THAT means?"

Come on, throw some interpretations at me. The more entertaining the better. I could use some laughs.

'Cause I'm DEPRESSED. I'm dealing with it the best I can, but I am S-A-D SAD. Some time next week I will see New Guy for the last time. (The last time ever? Who knows. I don't know.) It does look like we may actually get a little alone time--his son is going to stay with his grandmother for a few days while New Guy packs and loads, and his teenaged stepson is going to come back with him to help, instead, and TS should be okay entertaining himself for a couple of hours while New Guy and I go to dinner or something. (I'm hoping for "something," myself.)

So, umm....maybe your dream interpretations on my impending nuptials should NOT include references to New Guy, 'kay?

And, in "creepy slackers next door" news, last night I was outside with Pudge about 10:30, when we heard the back gate next door creak open, and somebody in a dark hoodie slithered through to the back of the yard where the chairs are currently located under the trees. The yard is really, really dark, so I can only assume one of the dudes felt the need for a bit of late-night stargazing in his buddy's backyard. Pudge barked like crazy, as did every other dog within earshot, and I HOPE IT WOKE THEIR KIDS UP!!! (Is that hateful of me? I'm not wishing permanent distress on the kids, just that they made their parents' lives hell for a moment or two, before going peacefully back to sleep.) There were a couple of guys outside today when I went home for lunch, and when Pudge went crazy barking at them, for the first time, instead of saying "it's okay, boy" in a soothing tone, I said "Good boy!" And glared at the dudes.

This may soon require action on my part. Gah.

Looking forward.

Since the thought of the next few lonely weeks (months, years?) is too depressing for me to take "in toto," I'm just trying to break my future into little bits, and trying to find something to look forward to in each little bit. (Hey--this technique got me through a lot of otherwise dreary school weeks, back in the day.)

Last week, I looked forward to the outdoor music/art festivals that were held downtown over the weekend. Check! I went, I ate greasy fried things, I listened to music, the weather was gorgeous (if bordering on a bit too warm) and I bought a delightful little bird pin that looks something like this (only even cuter, because its little legs are wearing black-and-white striped stockings and ruby slippers, a la wicked witches everywhere, and there is no college sports team aspect to it):

Isn't that adorable? Check out JustPlainJane for other little bits of fun.

This week I was planning to look forward to receiving a pair of diamond earrings I purchased on "e to the bay" from a woman named Phyllis in Atlanta for a red-hot bargain price.. (Do you know her, Sauntering Soul? Don't you hate it when people ask questions like that, as if the fact that two people live in the same city, despite the size of the city involved, must mean that they are acquainted? And don't you hate it when someone asks that and you really DO know the person, and you have to get off your high horse with the 'tude and be all "hey--small world"? I digress.) But I can no longer look forward to that because they came in the mail today. (And I only bought them on Thursday!) Here they are--aren't they sparkly?

They are now residing in the bottom pair of my "upper holes." Which means I now have three diamond studs in each ear, with the bottom pair of holes reserved for the fun earrings du jour. (Yes, that's a total of four holes in each ear. What can I say--I like jamming needles through my flesh. Okay, I don't...but I do LOVE earrings.) For anyone reading this, thinking "hey--I'm going to track this chick down and steal all those diamonds right out of her lobes," PLEASE don't bother. They're sparkly, but they're not very big. Totally not worth the risk of possible jail time.

So now I'm going to look forward to getting my "Nensa" membership card in the mail, which should happen in 5-10 business days, if the email I received, confirming the receipt of my test results, is any indication. (That and the fact that they have already debited my bank account for the membership fee.) Then I can carry it around and wave it in the faces of those who dare to challenge me. I wish "Nensa" had enough of a sense of humor to have the card proclaim "Certified Smartypants," but I'm sure that's not the case. (BTW, I think you should all become "Nensa" members as well, and we can call ourselves "smartypants bloggers," instead of "mommy bloggers" or "personal bloggers." Hee.)

I'm also looking forward to the 50th birthday party of one of my guitar-playing friends this weekend. There is going to be an actual stage set up in the backyard, and lots and lots of picking and grinning. And eating. And drinking. Should be mucho fun! (And perhaps an opportunity to play the "smartypants" card? Hmm....hee.)

So...those are my "looking forward to" items for this week.

What else is going on in my little world? Not a whole lot, truthfully. The sciatica continues to improve, but damn--I'm all tight and twisted! I've tried to do yoga a couple of times, and I'm feeling pain in muscles I never felt pain in before. No fun.

You know what else is no fun? My newish next-door neighbors--you know, the ones with the playground in their backyard. Really, I'm all for kids having a good time, but they're out of control. It's like living next door to a carnival. Think I'm exaggerating? Here's what they've got out there:

• 2, yes TWO full-sized metal swingsets with slides
• baby-sized covered swing
• one see-saw
• one jungle gym
• one merry-go-round
• 2 of those cube-shaped castle-y things with different-shaped holes and a slide
• turtle-shaped sandbox with cover
• portable basketball hoop
• child-sized picnic table
• adult-sized wrought-iron table with umbrella and chairs
• barbeque grill
• mini-trampoline
• about a dozen identical large plastic balls
• trikes, trucks, wagons and assorted things you push around

All this for two small toddlers who I almost never see outside. Is it just me, or does this seem excessive? Am I just out-of-touch with the entertainment needs of today's kids? When I was a kid, we had a swingset, period. (Well, a swingset, and trees, and a creek, and the whole OUTDOORS.) Was I just deprived as a child, and therefore now a cranky old thing?

You know what really bothers me, though? Not the kids--like I said, they're hardly ever outside, and they're cute, and their mom seems sweet (if horrifyingly young to me). It's their father's seemingly endless supply of late teens/early twenties slacker dude friends. Seriously, EVERY DAY there are at least 2-3 (not necessarily the same ones each time) guys just hanging out on their porch and in the backyard, smoking and drinking, making themselves at home on the playground equipment while the tenants themselves are not home.

And maybe I am a cranky old thing, but that bothers me. They just come over and hang out in the backyard for hours at a time, letting themselves in through the back gate. They often show up mysteriously without a car. They're just THERE, all the time. It makes me (and Pudge) a little nervous. I mean...I don't know these guys. They don't live there. But every time I go outside, there they are. I like to sit outside and enjoy the nice spring air while Pudge does his business. (I used to also enjoy communing with Dolly occasionally, but she rarely shows up before dark these days.) I don't linger as much as I used to, because...there they are. Mostly during the day, but sometimes in the evenings. Just sitting there. Smoking. Staring. It occurs to me that they know I live alone, and they probably know way more about my daily routine than anyone who doesn't live in my neighborhood needs to know. And maybe (probably) they're completely harmless...just bored (don't they have jobs?), and enjoying the nice tree-shaded backyard of a buddy, and I do appreciate that they're usually pretty quiet, but...I don't like it. I don't like that they're there when I'm not, because they don't live there.

If that makes me cranky and old, so be it. But what do you think? Would that bother any of you?

And stay off my lawn, you damn kids!

Does saving bees make up for waterboarding a stray cat?

I MOWED MY OWN LAWN THIS WEEKEND! WHOO HOO!

Okay, I'll stop with the screaming, but this is exciting. "Did her lawn need mowing that badly?" you're asking. Well, it needed it pretty badly, to be sure, but the primary reason for the excitement is that I finally felt physically able to accomplish the task. I kept my cellphone in my pocket, in case a sudden back spasm landed me in the middle of the yard with the mower on top of me, but I didn't need it. Lawns mowed: one. Back spasms: none. Feeling of accomplishment after weeks and weeks of feeling like a decrepit old thing: priceless.

I have a couple of patches of clover in my backyard, and as I mowed down the bigger one, I thought about the fact that I only saw one bee last year, and hadn't seen any this year. (So sad, the plight of the humble honeybee.) A few minutes later, as I aimed the instrument of destruction at the second patch of clover, I saw him. A bee! Sipping clover nectar for all he was worth. I managed to take evasive action in time to not mow him down, and decided to leave the clover patch unmowed. When I went back to look later, he had been joined by a couple of friends. Yay, bees! Drinks are on me.

Hopefully my care and feeding of the bees will negate any negative karmic points I accrued last week with the near drowning of the poor stray kitty.

On the economic stimulus front, I spent two hours in the mall last Friday and left empty-handed. There was not one thing in the WHOLE MALL I wanted to purchase. (Who decided that all women want to look like they're pregnant while wearing pastel colors? Where are the clothes that don't make me look like I'm trying to hide something? Though, speaking of hiding--where are the clothes that don't completely expose my somewhat flabby upper arms? Where are the jewel tones? Speaking of jeweled--I already have sparkly flip-flops--isn't there any other shoe being sold?) So disappointing. Saturday I made a trip to the bookstore (I have never in my life voluntarily left a bookstore empty-handed), and the big box mart, where I stocked up on exciting items like an aerator for my bathroom faucet and a snake-y thing to unclog my bathroom drain. I ended up spending quite a chunk of change on boring...stuff, so the economy may consider itself stimulated. Me, not so much. Gah. I did send off my official application for membership to "Nensa," so I guess that will count as my splurge. My life--it continues to be a constant source of joy and wonder. Sigh.

But hey--at least I'm no longer in physical pain. Look at me--all optimistic and shit.

The one where I nearly drown a stray cat.

Okay, maybe "drown" is too strong a word. He wasn't really in any danger of drowning. Catching a nasty chill? Yeah, that's a pretty sure bet.

A few days ago, in an effort to keep whatever happened to McBeady from happening to Dolly, I decided to open up the access to underneath my house for her. She's long been in the habit of going for shelter underneath the houses next door and behind me, and while that was fine when those houses were unoccupied (which they have been, quite a bit, off and on), it makes me nervous now that there are people living there with a)children and rowdy friends and b) large dogs, respectively. So I thought I'd let her hang out under mine--what could it hurt? She's healthy and flea-free, and she could take care of the occasional small rodents I see signs of from time to time.

It worked beatifully for a couple of days. She was in heaven, popping in and out like crazy. She didn't leave the yard at all, and seemed to love the extra attention. Then I guess her innate wanderlust just overcame her, and she started roaming a bit again. Okay, fine. She'll still have a safe place to hid in my yard if she needs.

Then I went out the next morning to find a little black head peeking out from under the house. I got excited for a moment, but no...it wasn't McBeady returned home. It was a completely unknown long-haired black cat, one I'd never seen before. WHERE THE HELL DID HE COME FROM? How did he KNOW, after only a couple of days, that there was a hidey-hole in my backyard? There are houses all over this block with uncovered openings for him to hide in--how did he land in mine? I thought maybe Dolly had brought him home (the little slut), but no--she jumped into the yard, saw him, and instantly swelled to twice her size and ran away, not to return until the interloper was gone. He wouldn't let me too close, but he wasn't completely wild, either, and I eventually managed to lure him out with some canned food, far enough away for me to lunge and cover the opening, and he ran off immediately. Okay, problem solved, right?

Except not, because I am an idiot. I waited a few days, saw no further sign of him or any cat other than Dolly, and decided to uncover the opening again, as we were having storms off and on, and I hated the thought of her caught outside somewhere.

And everything was fine, until I went outside Wednesday morning, and there he was again. WHY? I don't leave food out any more (the birds were eating it all)--I put it out only when Dolly is standing there in front of me--so what was he seeking? WHY MY HOUSE? It was raining cats and dogs all day (maybe THAT'S where he came from), so I decided to wait until after work, when the rain would hopefully be gone, and I could lure him out again.

This time I went straight for the big gun. I pulled the large live trap out of my garage (yes, I also have a small one, and a large wire cage--are these not the normal trappings of life?), baited it with some tasty canned food, and set it just outside the opening.

The little bastard went in and out of that trap THREE times without tripping it. Damn! How's he doing that? I was running out of time (I was going over to New Guy's to visit with him and the kid), so I decided to set it one more time, and this time I put a board underneath it for more stability, and I set the triggering device right on its edge, hoping it wouldn't flip down on his head and break his neck in the process. Then I left, not bothering to, oh...check the weather report before I did so. "It won't hurt him to sit in the trap for a while." (I had made sure to set it under the eaves, so he'd have some shelter.)

Long story short--another big storm front rolled in suddenly, this one complete with tornados and sirens and the attendent televised hullabaloo, and by the time I got home three hours later, I was crossing my fingers that I hadn't doomed the poor thing to a watery, windblown grave. Well, he wasn't dead, but he was soaking wet and spitting mad, and headed, hissing, for the hills as soon as I opened the trap. I reached down to remove the trap and realized the wire bottom was sitting in about three inches of icy cold water. Poor stray kitty! He must have been absolutely terrified and miserable. I felt awful. And yet...I feel pretty sure he won't be returning to MY house again, so that's good.

Dolly must have been watching his ordeal from very nearby--she showed up mere seconds after I released the intruder, wanting to eat and be petted. And yes, the opening is still covered--Dolly is just going to have to fend for herself, I guess, if she won't keep other cats from taking advantage of my generosity.

My life is just ridiculous, isn't it?

Wait, you're saying...back it up a bit...that parenthetical up there? You finally visited with New Guy and his son?

Okay, yes, yes I did. Why put that in a tiny parenthetical? Why isn't that the main subject of the post? 'Cause I'm trying very hard to wrap my head around the fact that very soon he will be only a parenthetical in my life, and not the big story. I'm trying. With limited success, to be sure, but I'm trying.

And yes, the visit went fine. Son answered the door, and (with a manner that would be most excellent for greeting a pesky Jehovah's Witness-hee) asked who I was and what I wanted. When it was established that I was a friend of Dad's, only there to say hello, he went right back to playing his Xbox with his CD player headphones on, ignoring us completely, and New Guy and I chatted over him.

Since the television was being dedicated solely to Spiderman, New Guy hadn't watched the news, either, so it took us both by surprise when the tornado sirens went off. There were some tense moments when we had to force Son to interrupt his game to sit in the hallway as the storm went over, and it took a while to settle him down after, but soon everyone/everything was fine. I left shortly thereafter to let them get ready for bed. (And I had a possibly drowning cat to check on, of course!)

I would guess we'll do it another time or two before they leave town. And that, as they say, is that. Sigh.

I have this afternoon off from work, and I think I'm actually going to brave the mall and see if anything sparkly catches my eye. It's my patriotic duty, after all.

Have wonderful weekends, everyone!