Fire Ants

I should know better. Seriously, I've been dealing with this stuff my entire life. Actively, directly since my mid-teens.

The outbreak from October subsided some, made a couple less invasive returns over the winter months, but was mostly under control. My skin, though showing some discoloration from the recent attacks, appeared to be mostly on the mend.

Until the tomato sauce incident.

I consumed a meal with a tomato sauce base some weeks ago and the next day felt as though my skin was being chewed from the inside out . . . by fire ants, I've decided today. I didn't trust that it was the tomato sauce, because over the years I'd thought I'd developed a certain resistance and it wasn't that much.

Well, a couple days ago, I did it again. And again, itching now into the second day, though not as bad as yesterday, is still pretty aggravating. And though, feeling much better today I still must wash, rinse, and re-salve my face every hour to keep the fire ants at bay So, it's official. It's was the tomato sauce.

My outbreaks have been (historically) food based, specifically, citrus. I've avoided lemons, oranges, limes, grapefruit and products containing those items, flavors as well as products containing citric acid. Tomatoes in and of themselves have not been a problem, but tomato sauce and tomato paste, have been. One year I went to dinner and ordered (& devoured) a most decadent lasagna. The next day I had to leave work for the outbreak was that severe. I rubbed my skin raw, all over. It was horrible.

My tolerance changes over the years. I spend weeks, months, avoiding certain things, then consuming formerly taboo items, in moderation. I've been enjoying a return to having an occasional (some weeks more than occasional) lemon, lime, and grapefruit. I've had lasagna since that infamous outbreak and a number of items containing tomato sauce (though I'd continued to avoid tomato paste) with no incident. It appears my tolerance is changing, again. For the worst.

Not only am I being sent around the bend over the tomato sauce I consumed, but I appear to more prone to suffering the skin-crawling heebie jeebies over seeing peeling paint, certain repeated patterns, not to mention crawling, flying bugs, just to name a few things. Just typing that, having the image inserted in my head, made me itch and twitch, just a tad.

I do so hope ALL of this is another temporary affectation of my life-long allergy. It would really blow to have to give up tomatoes and tomato based products. Not to mention being unfazed by (or maybe even, less fazed by) that which is fazing me much. For now, until I'm completely clear skinned, I'm staying away from all things tomatoey, acidic, and and otherwise triggery. Or at least, I'll try.

I really should know better. I've been dealing with this my entire life.

Are You Into Women?

Though a seasoned urban walker, I was not precisely prepared for the query posed by a pan-handler yesterday. There I was, walking along Michigan Avenue, minding my own business, taking in the sights, watching people, and thinking; thinking about the art I just saw, whether I should walk through Millennium Park or just along, and where I should have a late lunch, early dinner.

Though a seasoned urban walker, I was still taken aback a bit by the guy's question. A stumbling, stammering (it was clear what previous donations financed) Q & A later indicated that he wasn't so much interested in my sexuality, well, actually he was (as he'd admitted to looking for a soul mate, ostensibly to entice me to consider . . . ?) but he hadn't presumed I was a lesbian. He was looking to determine if I, the feminist he apparently had presumed me to be, would be amenable to giving him, a man, a donation.

At least that's what I surmised from the bits and pieces I could understand, for as I say, the back and forth wasn't exactly lucid. He walked with me for a block or two, our disconnect arriving just as he began asking about my church affiliation.

The seasoned urban walker continued south down Michigan Avenue, still thinking about where I might take in a meal. I began to chuckle about the various people who'd approached me, the snippets of conversations I heard and those I participated in. I began pondering the relationship between lesbians and feminists and vice versa.

Then of course I returned to thinking about being into women . . .

Head vs. Body

5:00 A.M

Head: Hey, it's 5:00

Body: Shut up

Head: No, it's 5:00 (am)

Body: We're giving it until 5:15

Head: No, it's time to get moving, now.

Body: SHUT UP. 5:15, give us 15 minutes.

5:15 A.M.

Head: Hey, it's 5:15

Body: Shut up.

Head: You said 5:15. It is now 5:15. Shake a leg.

Body: Feet are ready, the but knees are balking. Give us 15 more minutes.

Head: No, you don't want to get the slacker reputation. You need it rock n roll. It's time to, "get up and at 'em". Come on, let's gooooooo!

Body: Shut Up. 15 minutes. That's all. Just 15 more minutes.

Head: Oh, all right. 15 more minutes, but you'll be sorry. If you don't get to moving now, you'll have to double-time. That . . . Body: SHUT UP ! ! !

5:30

Head: ::sing song voice:: Rise n Shine. Good Morning. It's 5:30.

Body: Shut up.

Doubt

While the collar has restricted some of her movement, it hasn't dampened her spirit (too much). She still seeks to "body up" Pete as often as possible. Their sharing the recovery blanket is a pleasant turn.

I doubt this sudden closeness will remain after the collar is gone.

But, we'll see.

An uncle died last week. I attended his funeral was today. It was a typical affair, a coming together of family from near and far. Full of amens and alleluias. As is usually the case with these affairs (at least in my family) folks are full of promises and proclamations.

I doubt . . .

Well, we'll see.

I hope some of what was said, comes to fruition. It'd be nice and my Uncle Daniel would be pleased.

S P R I N G on Hold

Sixty to snow in a single day. Happy first day of Spring. Not.

Hi-ever, not to worry. Spring will arrive, eventually. I have it on good authority. I met a woman a couple of weeks ago who, determined to force the issue, decided to stow away her boots and wear only light jackets. She talked with me about being convinced this action would force nature to see things her way. I'm sure to her mind, today (& tomorrow) are merely blips.

Ok, maybe not good authority, never-the-less, spring will arrive, eventually.

For me the blip spells time indoors. I was going to get going on some spring clearing / cleaning type projects this long weekend anyway. The weather blip spells no guilt about being in rather than out as well as eradicating any possibility of being distracted by the sun and warm temps.

That doesn't mean I'm not distracted by other things, but those things are not germane to this post. The point is getting on with a number of projects. For instance, one bike to de-commission and another to prep for action.

Spring will arrive, eventually.

Oh, For The Love of Ivy

A couple (maybe three) weeks back I made mention of some kind of weekly feature. Well, it didn't happen, not really. So there. . . . this was going somewhere, I know not where, now.

Anyhooo...

Margaret called today. Margaret is a vendor representative. Margaret got me reaching, screaming really, for the end of the day at 10:00 a.m. Margaret repeated herself repeatedly. Even after I made it perfectly clear that I understood. I got it, her company screwed up, my company was harmed (a bit) by that screw-up, she thought she fixed it, but didn't, and is trying to fix it now. I'm not mad, just fix it, move on, and GET OFF THE PHONE. I got IT 45 sentences ago.

Moving on . . .

Can you read and walk at the same time? Not billboards, street signs, and the like. But the screen of your device (a phone is no longer a phone, don'tcha know) for instance. For that matter, can you walk and manipulate your device at the same time?

I can't. I have to stop moving. Not always to read, but certainly to type. I'm not annoyed that I can't, I'm annoyed that those who can and who do don't watch where they are going and as such are annoying as they tend to walk erratically thus creating a need for creative sidwalk navigation.

How annoying is it when folks have music, pod casts, or whatever playing from their device on the bus or train and they don't even bother with the headphones, ear buds, whatev; never mind the inadequate private listening devices, but to eschew them altogether?

Yeah, that annoying.

On the positive tip, today is my Friday.

YaY.

Sweet K I S S

To honor the day and in anxious anticipation for the season to come, I've gone green. I'm drinking green tea out of my leafy mug, ate a slightly green banana, and will have some salad greens for lunch. I'm not wearing any green unless you count the stripes on my panti...ok, tmi.

The header name change thanks to Maggie, per her comment in my other Irish post.

Daughter's planning Orange Chicken (not homemade, frozen) for dinner. I'll have to plan something else for myself, that option likely has too much sodium for my taste and sensibilities. I'm still considering the possibilities.

Whatever happens for dinner, the after dinner treat will be whatever Irish beverage currently on hand. Given the son's taste, it will be a shot of Jameson, (I would have linked, but the site declares my DOB invalid...I must be of legal drinking age to enter... hahahahahaha, lovely) his current fave. We, the son and I were just having the "carded" conversation.

And on that note, Happy O'Humpy Day.

whereas, pursant, therefore

1. Ok, I am an idiot wrong eyes

2. loosely translated: I wore the wrong glasses to work

3. There is no RIGHT day to wear the WRONG glasses. But, of ALL days, Monday is the worst.

4. Not counting repeated phrases to the cats, dog, and my mother, I can count on one hand the words I said aloud yesterday.

5. The folks in my office have a lot to learn about cleaning up after their microwave explosions.

6. The female who works for the owners other business washes her hands like a 4 year old, judging by the water spray pattern she leaves behind.

7. Hi-ever, it could be worse.

8. Part of me is hoping that there will be some of Sunday's dinner left.

9. For my own sake, part of me is hoping not.

10. . . . got me going in circles, round and round, I go

Dear Miss Flo,

You will have to forgive me for not using the more familiar “Auntie” title, but I’m not feeling all that charitable toward you these days. Let me say right from the giddy-up that it isn’t anything personal, it’s just that, well, WHY ARE YOU HERE?? Again? So Soon? And more stridently, STILL? What, did Frances in Kansas fete you with tainted beef?

I don’t understand. Last year you were sparse, nearly to the point of being rare. I was giddily hoping (again, nothing personal, mind you) that I’d seen the last of you. It HAS been a long, long time. Still, I remember your first visit as though it were yesterday. THAT was a day filled with mixed emotions. Boy/Girl, Girl/Woman, what the fuck, who the fuck? Mom seemed thrilled until it truly dawned on her what your visits really meant for me, “her little girl.” Her trying to watch me like a hawk kicked into overdrive that first summer.

I was barely eleven. All I wanted was to jump rope, play ball, and ride my bike around the world.

Now understand, there were some reckless days in my very late teens, early twenties when I wanted nothing more than to see you EVERY MONTH, like clockwork. I welcomed you with open arms, prepared a nice comfy spot to stay. You were kinder, gentler then. Hanging out for 2, 3 days tops and then on to the next assignment. It was, to my mind, the way it should be.

But ever since I hit forty-five, you’ve been on some kind of rampaging tear. I don’t remember who recorded that song, “Heavy Fallin’ Out” but that’s exactly what I feel like many of months. And yes, you have eased up the throttle a bit, and even disappear for months at a time. And then slam, bam, ma’am, DAMN, there you are again, not like clockwork and not at all welcome.

Flo, I’m a stone’s throw from 50 years old. FIFTY! And while some women my age may be holding on with clenched fists to their woman-hood, still feeling the want, desire to re-produce, please HEAR THIS: I AM NOT ONE OF THEM Don’t get me wrong, I love being a woman and I loved being able to give birth (well, maybe not the actual child birthing part, that shit hurt—but the idea, and certainly the reality of the actual child) not once, but twice…and for all those who want, but can’t, my heart goes out to them, but I am not that woman. The factory is closed, out of business. Or if you prefer, closed for re-tooling.

I know it is nature and I confess, I should grin and bear; that when the time comes to cease, you will. But, I just don’t feel that charitable. I want you gone. Today. And if not today, make this visit the last. I beseech you. Don’t make me call Frances!

Regards,

Deborah

Four, He's A Lovely Fellow

When Pete first arrived on the scene he spent a lot of time writing or at least deeply expressing his desire to feel a part of the writing process. Or just part of whatever. I'm guessing his desire to write was fueled by his questions.

Questions. He had (has) plenty of questions. Not of least of which I'm sure revolves around diva dog, since he happens to be her favorite humping candidate. Well, actually, only since Buttah won't let her anywhere near his . . . well, she doesn't get that close to him. I gather Pete doesn't understand that one whit. And so, questions. When Pete isn't writing (or eating, sleeping, pooping, drinking, licking himself or Buttah, being humped by the dog) he's contemplating.

He spends much time contemplating, for there is much to contemplate. Still, I think Mr. Pete (Peter, when we're feeling formal) is satisfied, dare I say, happy? to be here with us and while he may not have been the happiest camper on the grounds when diva dog and the Buttah boy came interloping into his quiet place, he's pretty much accepted his role as prince tabby number one. We are all (even Mike--since Pete pretty much leaves him be--Buttah, that's another story) are pretty happy to have Mr. Pete here with us.

Happy Birthday (#4) Mr. Pete a.k.a. Shawshank

Come On Over

Come on go with me, come on over to my place Sorry, having a T. Pendergass moment there. Memories, not all bad. Ahem, moving on . . .



Some time ago I made mention of having to write a bio for something I'd talk about later. Now is later. My pal Lori got with some of her pals and together they created a place, a sensation, a Gayborhood. A Gayborhood that is bright and pretty, fun and informative, warm and inviting. And I'm not saying those things because I'm part of it. Well, I am, but not just because. :)

Without getting all mission statement on you, one of my reasons for blogging was to improve my discipline and diligence with regard to writing. I've always enjoyed writing, but it also has been mostly a private affair, a way to excise the mutterings in my being. For the past few years, I've wanted, needed more. And so, have been seeking and taking some advantage of some opportunities that filtered my way.

It is an honor to have been invited to contribute to the 'hood. A few of the other contributors I know and enjoy via blogs, many others I didn't know prior to O B Gayborhood, but am finding everyone a joy to read. So, come on over, come on over to our place.

Live Blogging Sunday

7:00 a.m. Pete, Buttah, and Diamond cry for breakfast

7:05 a.m. Pete, Buttah, and Diamond scarf breakfast.

7:06 a.m. Pete and Buttah still scarfing, with Diamond sniffing and grunting, rushing them.

7:08 a.m. Pete and Buttah relenquish their claim on their respective bowls.

7:08 and 10 seconds a.m. Diamond finishes whatever remnants they left.

7:09 a.m. thru . . . . well, still sleep, snort, poop, drink water, sleep, snort, lick each other, sleep, nibble, snort, sleep, snort, lick each other, sleep, eat, poop, sleep, sleep, sleep, and

sleep some more.

Oh, and play, but mostly, sleep.

Re-Visit, Re-Vise

As you may recall your plucky (plucky?) Middle Girl began a quest at the beginning of last year. If you're interested in that journey, click: here. That post links to the related posts along the way. Also that post notes plans for moving forward.

Well, this post is here to tell you, shit happened. Oh, I was doing fine and dandy. Eating my sensibly put together meals, getting some exercise, and shedding a pound here and there. . . moving right along.

Then, blam. slam. flim. flam. winter. And what I feared would happen, happened. I stopped moving (so much) and starting eating more (and less sensibly). Spending more time inside has had a direct affect on my waist-line.

Of course, I can't blame it all on winter and being indoors (there were other issues, but still...) I saw it coming and should have been able to build the reserve, strengthen the resolve to solider onward. But alas, I didn't. It's on me, quite literally.

So, here I sit at the exact weight I was when I started the quest last January. And I'm here to tell you, 1. I'm annoyed and 2. I'm beginning again (The Quest 2010). Effective immediately.


Much like the 2009 Quest, the 2010 version will feature sensibly sized portions of figure friendly foods and beverages, as much physical activity as the heart and knees can muster, and an attention to stress triggers and a concentration on relief that doesn't involve food or other less than constructive acts. I enter Quest 2010 with a fierce, ferocious, nearly feral attitude. I'll need it to 1. begin immediately, what with the still 20 degree morning / overnight temps and 2. sustainability. I have to keep this motor running well through December, at least.

I'm planning to schedule my annual physical for later in the year. I'm hoping the desire to visit the doc many, many pounds lighter, with bp well in check, and cholesterol readings well under warning levels will provide enough incentive to power through November.

I have a proven track record and I'm not concerned about the ability to lose the weight once I focus, but sustaining that through the long, cold, dark, power sucking winter . . . well, that's proven the challenge.

Well, here I go. . .

. . . and the survey says

I've been guaging things on by scales lately. It's probably an offshoot of all the surveys I've been participating in lately. Or maybe it's a by-product of all the new juggling, rationalizing, and prioritizing I have to do at work now-a-days. Or maybe it is the result of the extra home stuff due to the extra person and re-adjusting to having a six foot tall man who was once my little boy, with his pizza and chocolate frosted doughnut penchants tormenting me every other day.

Whatever . . . every question, every issue, every thought is run through a numbered meter. On a scale of 1 to 10, how . . . etc. I probably always did, think in (& make decisions based on) scales, or degrees. But for some reason lately, it seems louder, or more obvious, or . . . something.

So, I thought I'd make it a feature, a device. Features are fun, yes? Yes. A weekly feature. this week's theme, annoyances.

On a scale of 1 to 10: (1 being, "heh, I'm oblivious to your stuff, doesn't annoy me a'tall" and 10 being, "oh for the love of Ivy! Please STOP NOW!!")

How annoying is / was:

1. the lady on the train who cracked her gum so hard and so loud that I thought she was breaking walnuts. 10

2. forgetting my ip*d shuffle at work twice in one week, leaving me more vulnerable to events like (see #1) 7

3. my downstairs neighbor who came home inebriated (again) and couldn't talk his front door into just opening for him (again). 8

4. the vendor who called to ask why we / (I) short paid an invoice (again) and I had to explain (again) that we / (I) deducted for a product not received. 6

5. my brother(s) especially, the younger. 9

Feel free to play along, share, vent, or whatever. I'm all ears, or rather, eyes.

My Hands, Our Hands

I haven't been wearing gloves a lot lately. As I was leaving mom's the other day she asked, "do you have gloves?" I do, several pair in fact, but I haven't been wearing them. I find I don't need them as frequently. My tolerance to the cold, how my hands feel in gloves, how having gloves on make it difficult to retrieve my bus card, so and and so on, being among the reasons I generally pass on donning my gloves, lately.

The downside is the effect the wind and cold have on bare skin. Can we say dry? I'm prone to dry anyway and with the eczema (though these days it is looking more like psoriasis) adds kindling to the fire. I must stay moisturized. Even more now that I haven't donned gloves much lately.

Anyhoo...I was looking down at my hands during one of my commutes in recent days and I saw an unfamiliar, un-settling sight, my mother's hands hanging beyond the cuffs of my coat. My mother's nearly seventy year old hands. Though, admittedly, if you were to look at her hands, heck, look at her, you likely wouldn't peg her to be nearly seventy, but I know what lies beneath the surface. I know the pain (physically and emotionally) she endures each day. I know the frustration she suffers as she works to maintain her independence. I know that each crack and crevice invading her once smooth skin is the result of decades long battles.

I know.

And now, I see those hands on me. Mind you, they only surface when over-dry and exposed to the elements. But still, they are there.

My hands are strong, still. My mom's are weak. My fingers are straight and relatively nimble (practice, practice, practice). Some of mom's are curved due to arthritis and not as sure as they once were, "please excuse the errors" she types at the end of all her notes. I can't think of mom's hands without picturing dad's. I know he has at least one curved finger also. His due to a gunshot wound suffered many, many years ago.

I think about our hands. I look at the long, strong fingers of my son and of my daughter. I wonder what shape their hands will take over the years. How different they are even today. I wonder how their eventful lives will reflect in their hands. Will they one day see my hands hanging out of the cuffs of their coats?

Thinking about my hands, my mom's and subsequently, dad's hands, and those of my son and daughter, put me in mind of my grand-mother's hands. My maternal grand-mother as she is foremost in my memory, and closer to my heart. I think about her hands, folded over and under one another as she surveyed whatever issue brought before her. Those hands, they were very, very strong nearly to the very end. I remember as her hand was placed under the sheet in the final moments of her final day.

I remember being able to take her hand in mine to say good-bye, one last time.

The flash of memory and the thoughts that tumbled forth, puts me in the mind to be mindful of my hands, and to treat them, well, better.



*image

A Beautiful Day

It’s a good thing I don’t have a window in my office / work space. The sun shone (or at least it was shining every time I got up to pe… well, got up) all day today. I could tell by the temperatures in the office (and the weather gadget on the home page) that it was very warm as well as sunshiny outside. It would have been even harder to concentrate on work today.

Today will likely wind up being the best day over the next several, but by mid-to-late February standards, the next several will still be pretty good days, provided the current forecast holds true.

Good news, which brings me to my point, being outdoors.

I am not outdoorsy in that hiking, camping, wind-surfing into your life, kind of way. I’m an urban girl, a pounding the pavement, walking, running (not for awhile now, but at one time), and biking (on solid ground) kind of girl. I like being outdoors in that way. Over the last few years I have even enjoyed rooting around in the little piece of earth in the front of our building. I won’t go so far as to say I’m a gardener by any stretch, but I have had some success and have enjoyed the fruits (though technically, I haven’t planted any consumable items—yet) of my labors. Neighbors have approached with praise for the effort.

I smile, nod, and thank them kindly.

It is still a long way from great, but as someone told me recently, your garden is never done or something to that effect. I’m looking forward to getting back into the mix. So with that, I’m eagerly anticipating many more sunshiny, warmer temps, melting snow, and getting out in the yard weather.

Whip It

Where O Where does a three day weekend go?

Two words: LUNCH NAP

In either order, but usually it wound up, lunch and then, nap on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. It was marvelous.

Hi-ever, after lunch on this Mon Tuesday, I am craving a nap. Point of fact, I needed a nap even before lunch, but now....yaaaaaawwwwwwwnnnnnnnn.

In other news . . .

I'll have to get back to you on that.

Meandering (2)

The two only because I've post titled Meandering and oddly enough it started out being about Pete, too.

Pete is going to be 4 in a few weeks. I was looking through my photo files and 1. there are a lot of photos of Pete, Buttah, and Diamond. 2. there are a lot of photos of Dani and to a lesser degree, Michael, unless it is them together. 3. I wondered if somewhere along the blog way I mis-stated Pete's age. Per the photo labels, tags, it looks like I made him three in 2008. But no, I checked the posts and each correctly reports his age, two and then three, respectively. In a few weeks he'll be four. We'll talk more about him, then.

For now, I'm struck. I have to write a short bio for something I'll talk more about later. Whenever faced (which isn't all that often, but still . . .) when such a request I'm always struck, well, stuck by what and / or perhaps more importantly, what not to say. Or perhaps even more, how to say whatever this is to say.

I have been meandering around this assignment much of the day, stuck in neutral.

Ideas?

forty-eight, twenty-eight, and three

The seventh of February is my younger brother's birthday. This year he celebrated birthday number forty-eight. I saw "Up In The Air" recently and there is a line (or situation) where George Clooney's character is confronted by one of his sisters and she says something like, you've been gone so long, so much, that you are of no consequence. That sums up the relationship with my younger brother (both brothers in fact). The younger brother's existence is more often a subject of conversation because he's closer geographically and he has children with whom I interact. But, mostly, in my mind, he is of little to no consequence.

The eighth of February is Michael's birthday. This year he celebrates birthday number twenty-eight. He, of course, is of great consequence. As you know, if you read the previous post, he moved back home recently. He became a casualty of the economic downturn. But, while it is very crowded, all is not dire. He's is working, he is acting (or rather, right now understudying) with the prestigious Steppenwolf, he is continuing to audition, network, and make all the right moves. Raising a class to my first born: Cheers! As fate would have it, Michael shares a birth date with his favorite cat, Buttah. Mr. Puss n Boots celebrates his third birthday on the eigth. I kid about he and Michael being best buds. Michael is not a cat person, and most decidedly not a Buttah person. Buttah though, LOVES Michael. Of course, Buttah loves everybody, especially if they are eating. Which come to think of it explains why he angles to be all over Michael. Many days have been bracketed by the phrase, "too many pets here" and most now and again, "I like that cat" (referring to Pete) "he's cool, he's laid back, he doesn't even make that much noise, but that one, he's a pain."

Hi-ever, I think Buttah is wending his way into Michael's...well, maybe not his heart, but certainly being seen as less of a pain as days go by.

Happy birthday boys, play nice.

It's Been One of Those

First off, it's been a year. And for the most part, I am better. Not necessarily happier, but better. We do talk on occasion and we declare our undying friendship. In reality it doesn't feel alive, like it's thriving, but it is there.

Second, there is no new love in the midst. I've met some wonderful women (the best, already in committed relationships) and have had some good times. I have some budding friendships and that is good. To be fair I haven't felt much like dating in that sense, well, until recently. Now, all there is to do is to find her, woo her, and . . . vice versa.

Third, when I say no new love in the midst, I should add . . . anymore. Well, it really hadn't gotten to that point yet but seemingly some potential for something more than friends. But whatever was, might have been seems to have fizzled, faded, moved on-ward to other endeavors.

Fourth, it's probably just as well.

Fifth, it's been a year and then some.

Sixth, hey, did I mention my son moved back home? It is temporary. It is crowded. It is hectic.

Seventh, diva dog is in an E-Collar . She has a thing (yes, medical term) very near her eye that is somewhat inflamed. She's on meds to bring the inflammation under control. After two weeks of meds she will have the thing removed.

Eighth, it's been quite somber. She is . . . sad.

Ninth, I inadvertently locked my son inside the apartment. He felt so strongly about behing late to rehearsal that he jumped (ok, climbed) out of the window.

Tenth, this one day after leaving rehearsal on a gurney on the way to an ER after having thrown his back out.

Eleventh, Lumbago diagnosis and a handful of prescriptions followed him home.

Twelfth, We (or rather, Daughter) is fostering a shelter cat. His name is Chaplin and NO, NO MORE PETS!! He's sick and wouldn't eat at the shelter. The hope is that he'll eat in more comfortable surroundings. Apparently we will, has. I feel for the little bugger, but NO!

And speaking of NO...the New Orleans Saints are IN the SUPERBOWL. And yes, I'm rootin' for them. I don't have a personal stake per se, but some friends do and, well . . . GO SAINTS, MARCH ALL OVER THE COLTS!!!

Finally, it's been a year. . . talking, laughing, loving, breathing, fighting, fucking, crying, drinking, writing winning, losing, cheating, kissing, thinking . . . dreaming.*

Being. Evermore.

*portion of "The L Word" theme.