Cutting the Cord

"Where are they?"

Like many people, my husband and I are looking for ways to cut back on expenses.  One of the luxuries we’ve been examining is the cable bill.  What started out as a “reasonable” price has ballooned into ludicrous amounts, inching its way up like a kudzu vine.  So, when my husband asked what I thought about it, I cried out, “Cut it!”

He looked at me, frowned, blinked a few times and shook his head.  Yes, I am the very same woman who upon waking and heading downstairs, beelines to the t.v., turning it on even before starting the coffee.  The same woman who turns on the t.v. upon entering an empty room. The same woman who sets the sleep timer on the t.v. so that it’s the last sound she hears.

And now, without a moment’s hesitation, I’ve told my husband to cut it.

It’s like a junkie telling their supplier they’re done.

O.k., not quite.  I didn’t tell him to toss the t.v., I just said to get rid of cable.  But really, what is there on “regular” t.v.?

On the other hand, what is there on cable?

Oddly, there aren’t many shows that I feel compelled to watch.  I like Grimm, but I’m not shattered if I miss an episode.  The shows in which I do have any sort of “dedicated interest” tend to be “short term” – shows that run maybe a dozen weeks, and then finish.  Project Runway and Downton Abbey were my recent shows.  I used to watch Top Chef and Dancing with the Stars, but I didn’t like the drama on Top Chef and Kate Goslin bores me so I quit both shows.

Then, what the heck am I watching all those many hours that the television is on?  Frankly, I haven’t the faintest idea.  Most of the time it’s just on for noise.  Granted, in the morning it’s the news.  Not serious news.  I don’t want to be smacked in the face with a sledgehammer first thing in the morning.  There’s something lulling about hearing, “Lindsey Lohan blah, blah, blah and in other news, yet another suicide bomber has destroyed a school that also served as a home for invalids, nursery, and animal shelter, killing dozens of women, children, disabled people, infants, elderly, and several kittens and puppies. Oh, how sad.  But now, pastel jeans.  Are they the new black?”   If there’s something that’s caught my interest, I’ll either look for more information online or I’ll turn on NPR.

Even when I actually want to watch t.v., I spend more time looking for something to watch than actually watching anything.  Ninety percent of the time, I end up watching one of the Law and Order shows, just because it’s the lesser of the many evils and that Dick Wolf is a clever monkey with all his ridiculous twist and turns of plot. I used to resort to HGTV until it became the House Hunters channel.  The Food Network is turning into the Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives channel, which isn’t awful, but does make me hungry for something drippy and greasy.  Whether I’m channel surfing 30 channels or 200 channels, it doesn’t make much difference, even if I throw in free On Demand.

In addition, what I’ve discovered - and indeed I know I’m quite late to this “discovery” - is that pretty much any show I want to watch is usually available online.  To my great horror, I watched the entire first two seasons of the BBC version of Being Human in two sittings.  Yes, I know.  What a time suck – especially considering how this season started. I also watched 2 full seasons of the BBC version of Shameless (quite good, and not just because that little biscuit James McAvoy is in it), both seasons of Downton Abbey (which I started watching on t.v., but then grew impatient), missed episodes of Dancing with the Stars (when I was still watching it), and movies and documentaries galore.  Whew.

There’s also our dvd players which can stream YouTube, Amazon, Hulu, Vudu, and Netflix, although I really can’t go back to Netflix after the snarky letter I wrote when they doubled their prices even after they’d lost streaming rights to Sony productions.   And there’s pay-per-view, of course.

So, my enthusiastic call for dumping cable really isn’t that big of a sacrifice.  We’ll be reduced to channels 1-30, meaning I can still watch the “news” and public television, but will have to watch everything else online, which is fine because the t.v. is behind me when I work at the computer and I’m getting neck and shoulder pains from twisting.

This just in:  it looks like our cable has been granted a reprieve.  With all the trading and bargaining for internet access, phone lines, security systems, and cable television, my husband has negotiated a price that will allow us to keep channels one to 100.  HGTV, TNT, Food Network, USA and History Channel live.

I have to say I’m a little disappointed.  I was looking forward to bragging about a life without cable.  Sure, I can choose not to watch t.v., but now I figure if we’re paying for it, I should watch it. 

 

Hm.  E! channel. Ice Loves Coco.  Surprisingly, not as awful as one might imagine ….

Picture This

Having a GREAT hair day in Dublin!

After a friend posted gorgeous photographs from her trip to Alaska, she stated that she was eager to see my photographs of our recent trip to Dublin.  The thing is, there’s only about a dozen or so, and that includes the photos of a bound pork leg and wax figures of Bob Geldof and Liam Neesom, pictures that serve no purpose except for momentary amusement.  I’m awful about taking pictures.  I generally don’t like being in photographs but I’m also bad about recording events with photography. 

It’s not that I don’t want to remember moments or locations, but at the times when I should be “preserving the moment,” I’m usually so wrapped up in participating that I forget.  For example, while we visited the Dead Zoo (an excellent name for the Dublin Natural History museum), there were various scientists posted throughout the museum offering hands on displays.  One scientist brought giant bugs.  While I wasn’t about to hold the tarantula, I did hold the giant millipede.  Later, it occurred to me that people usually photograph moments like that.  I’m not sure if it’s to celebrate bravery or just to preserve an encounter with a rare creature.  Of course, it was too late at that point.  Still, I’m not likely to forget the sensation of a foot long creature’s hundreds of legs creeping along my hands and arms.  But later, I photographed a shop display of meerkat figurines dressed in various costumes.  They weren’t even taxidermied meerkats, but they were cute.

Generally, there are three items I deem photo-worthy:  architecture, plants, and animals.  People rarely make an intentional appearance.  My husband only appears in one photograph from our trip.  I don’t appear in any.  There is, however, a photograph of a knife and fork burnt into a tabletop at Avoca, something I thought would be an interesting idea should I decide to re-do our kitchen in Irish country chic.  There’s also a photograph of the front counter for the same reason.  Somewhere, there’s a similar photo of Balthazar’s counter in New York, also as inspiration should I ever get around to redoing our kitchen.  But there aren’t any pictures of us on any of our New York visits, although I’m pretty sure I was there.

Another reason why I don’t take many photographs is that I don’t know what to do with them afterwards.  I’m not big on hanging personal photographs on the wall.  I have some photo albums, but the last time I organized my photos in an album was for our first trip to Ireland 15 years ago.    Even with digital technology, out of roughly 200 photos, I’ve only bothered to print maybe 10 images and of those, only perhaps 5 are framed, three of which were from my sister’s wedding.

I do like photographs, per se.  I post a photograph almost daily on my private FaceBook page that I call “Beauty of the Day,” which mostly consists of flowers and leaves that I encounter while walking my dogs, some of which appear in the Gallery portion of this blog.  I view my photographs as a form of artistic expression, like painting or music rather than a way to record a memory.  And then there are the occasional forays into “photo as proof,” as if Photoshop doesn’t exist.  But I’ve pretty much given up on photos of a personal nature.  Even photos with friends.  I’m incredibly un-photogenic.  Back in the day when one actually had still photos taken of their wedding, my sister raved about our photographer because he was able to get at least a few photos with my mouth shut and both of my eyes open.  In group photos, I’ve taken to positioning myself on the ends so that I’m easily cropped out, thereby preserving the moment and esthetic appeal for the rest of the group.  Thank goodness for video still shots.  That’s how I manage the self-portraits taken for this blog.  I film five or ten minutes of footage, and no joking, I go through it frame by frame to get what appears “in print” – and sometimes things don’t appear, which are the entries without portraits.

I think part of the reason why many people take photographs is to share them with the next generation, to prove to them that indeed we were young at one point and led a rather interesting life pre-parenthood.  It’s one of the things we missed with my mother.  Her family destroyed their family photos because they feared repercussions during World War II, so I’ve never seen my mother as a child.  The oldest photo we have of her was taken in her 20s, when she was a model, and she looked hot.  But when she regales tales of her childhood, I can only imagine what she and the places looked like.  My nephews and nieces have grown up seeing photographs of their parents at all ages and laugh about their fashion choices and how they’ve lived their lives.  But my husband and I don’t have children so photographic documentation is mostly for our own amusement and nostalgia, and even so, we never look through old photo albums together.

Meerkats in Dublin - at least they're not as creepy
 as the tea party kittens in Potter's Museum of Curiosities.

Still, I’ve one upped an idea from Nicholas Sparks’ sappy story, The Notebook.  I’ve started putting together scrapbooks of pretty pictures cut out from magazines and postcards.  I figure, if I ever get Alzheimer’s or other form of dementia, my husband or maybe even my nieces and nephews could just grab one of those scrapbooks as fits their fancy for the day.  We can flip through the pages together in the convalescent home and they can tell me about my life as one of King Henry VIII’s wives, or how I lived as a courtesan in the demimonde of 19^th Century Paris.  I also have one as a noted member of The Algonquin Table.  How would I know the difference?  It certainly would make for an intriguing past, and no one would have to worry about getting the story “right,” not to mention the pictures are lovely.  Why not? Over time our memories of the origins of actual photos fade anyway, and frankly a picture of the Tower of London, where I awaited my execution makes much more sense than a photo of a meerkat figurine display in Dublin shop.

Bag of Illusions

Travel is a great way to tweak first and only impressions.

“I’m going to Ireland for work,” my husband announces.

I can’t help it.  My lower lip automatically protrudes and I glower.

You don’t even like Guinness or Smithwicks, or steamed mussels or jigs or - -

“Want to come along?” he asks.

I’m just about to scream “yes,” but then I realize I’m tight on cash and I have appointments.  My car needs some repair work and we don’t have a dog sitter who lives close by anymore.  Such is the price of modern married finances.  Separate is not equal – although it keeps spending arguments to a minimum.

My lip starts to quiver.

“I figure since it’s our 15 year anniversary, we can relive our honeymoon,” he continues.  “It can be our anniversary gift.”

Gift?

My lip pops back in and the glower turns into a grin.  My husband laughs.

“I guess that means, ‘yes?’”

YES!!

(Good thing I got the passport renewed!)

I find a dog sitter.

I pull up the old edition of what needs to be done, emergency contacts, and maps. Much has changed over the couple years since we last traveled together.  I’m adding, adjusting … and deleting.  My finger pauses, hovering over the delete button each time it’s something that relates to Uber Hund.  I feel guilty about erasing him, declaring him irrelevant. Is it foolish that I save the old copy?

I clean house like a madwoman.  Nothing makes me realize my lax cleaning habits more than having guests over, and having someone living in our house while we’re gone makes me even more aware.  I even vacuum the box springs.

I get the Euros.  I haven’t seen them before.  I spread them out and my husband and I study the various denominations.  We hold them up to the light, looking for “secret” watermarks.  We gripe about how dull our monochrome money is, despite the portraits getting their facelifts.  I still have Irish coin from when we went to Ireland for our honeymoon. I kept it in hopes we’d go back someday.  Who knew they’d completely change currency?  They’ll make nice charms.

Now the fun part.

I look up things to do in Dublin, make a list and add restaurants.  I probably won’t go to any of them, preferring to be inspired by serendipity, but it provides a good starting point.

And then, there’s the “travel wardrobe.”  My husband doesn’t understand, but I’m pretty sure most women do.  It’s like preparing for the first day of school. A fresh travel wardrobe is about making a good impression, putting a best foot forward, creating a fantasy.

“You’re not going to see these people again, in fact, you’re not even going to really be meeting anyone at all,” my husband says. 

There's more to Ireland than Guinness and craic.  At least,
that's what people tell me.

“True, but that makes it all the more important to make a good impression,” I say.

In a strange way, because I know I won’t be seeing any of these people again, a vacation wardrobe grants creative leeway in my sartorial selection.  Vacation attire (not to be confused with “resort wear”) allows me to project a fantasy image of who I would like to be during that time – someone who doesn’t have to worry about muddy paws, potential dog bites, and dog treat bags. 

I check the weather for Dublin.  Not surprisingly, it’s cold and rainy.

I opt for the spending-the-week-at-the-country-manor look:  sweaters, boots, my overcoat, scarves, tweed and cashmere.  I don’t want to scream tourist, but it’s not like I can blend with the native population any way.  Still, I’ve traveled enough to know that tennis shoes, especially white tennis shoes, baseball caps and shorts are typically American. I can also spot German tourists, especially male German tourists. 

“What you should do is pack really old stuff,” my husband says.  “That way you can throw it out after you’ve worn it so it you’ll have more room in your luggage for souvenirs on the way back.”

I stare at him.  It makes complete sense, but it’s a disturbing image.  Somehow, borderline homeless never figured into the wardrobe fantasy.

That’s really what vacation is about, isn’t it?  Fantasy?  It’s not just the clothing, but the lifestyle as well, staying in hotels, eating out, exploring, living a life of leisure.  In a way, vacations also give our imagination a break.  That’s what makes vacations magical.  They  make our dreams reality.

A House Is Not a Home

Not every man's home is a castle.

“We need to move,” my husband said as he walked into the kitchen for his morning coffee.

I’d like to think he’s saying this because he’s done something slightly shady, and we need to leave town before some dangerous (but not really dangerous) people figure out our whereabouts.  Or maybe because Chevron has discovered vast amounts of black gold under our house and is willing to pay three times as much as what we’d paid for the house, just to keep up appearances rather than slant drilling a couple miles away.  But I know that’s not the case.  He’s got itchy feet.

“You know we lived in the townhouse for 4 years, the other house for 5 years, and this house for almost six and a half years,” he offers as explanation.

What makes it weird is that even though we’ve lived in this house the longest, it’s felt the least like “home.”  In fact, each residence has felt decreasingly like “home” even though we’ve been living in them increasingly longer.

Perhaps it’s a California mentality.  I watch shows like “House Hunters,” and marvel that there are young couples looking at houses that they anticipate being their first and only house, or “forever home” as we say in the animal rescue world.  They talk about attributes that will be great for raising their children (of which they have none), how rooms will be adjustable as the children grow and how the couple will be able to sit on the porch in their rockers watching their grandkids.  The house they purchase is often over 2,000 square feet with a good sized yard and nice school district.  Even with professional couples earning double incomes, the first property most coastal Californians wind up purchasing is a townhome or condo, which they anticipate selling and moving up as the market improves and the family expands.  It’s just not possible for young people to buy “forever homes” on their first real estate venture.  Although, for many couples, their first purchase becomes their unintentional final purchase, especially when the real estate market takes a dive, as it did recently.

I like exploring new places, but in my mind, I’m counting down to The One, the “gentleman’s farm” where I can have a horse, some chickens and room for my dogs to play and bark without annoying our neighbors and our neighbors don’t annoy us.  It needs to be close enough to a major city for my husband to find work and to keep me amused.  “Major city” for both of us translates to San Francisco, New York City, Boston, possibly Chicago or Seattle/Vancouver.  We’re “done” with Los Angeles.  We understand that’s a tall order and we’re willing to bide our time.  We try not to ask ourselves if there will be enough time to get there.

As a child, I moved once, when I was six months old, from the Marine Base to the house where my mother currently lives.  After I left for college, the moving bug struck, and I haven’t remained at one residence for any more than the six and a half years we’ve been here.  Still, I’ve always “nested,” decorated everything from my dorm room to the houses in a manner that made me comfortable and expressed my taste at the moment, trying to make each place feel like home.  But the “decorating” and the settling were never complete.  In the back of my mind, I was and am always thinking about what if I have to move?  With the houses, it’s a question of resale value.  We can’t afford to put in the personal quirks that would make things more enjoyable for us, the things that made us look in disbelief and wonder “what were they thinking?” when we were looking at other people’s former “forever homes.”

But I’m getting older and tired of living in limbo.  I’m relating to my father’s stance that “The only way I’m leaving this house is in a pine box,” although there still isn’t anything that ties me to this particular house.  So I guess that means I’m not really “there.”

The idea of permanency doesn’t appeal to my husband.  He doesn’t form the same connections that I do to co-workers, community, or abode.  I don’t know that he wants outside connections. He moved several times as a child and adolescent and likes the idea of novelty and illusiveness.  Since we’ve been together, he’s seen each place as a mini-life, an opportunity to slip into a new and different lifestyle.  I suspect, in his perfect housing world, he’d be one of those people who buys houses completely furnished, designer perfect, but having the personality of the house, rather than of the people who live there.  He’d remain for a couple years, then sell, furnishings intact, and move on to the next new thing.  Kind of like really grand hotel rooms.

Being "under water" isn't as fun without the singing crab.

It’s all moot now.  We’re so far underwater that we can’t afford to move.  We can’t even afford to rent out the house. That makes the house strangely uncomfortable, as if it’s holding us hostage.  In retaliation, we have a grudge against it.  We’re slow to do things to make the house more pleasant because we keep hoping we’ll escape soon.  And every time something goes wrong with it (and since it’s an old house, many things go wrong), there’s a feeling that it’s acting out of spite.

Then again …

We are in an ideal proximity to a major city (and our favorite one).  This portion of the city where we live is zoned for chickens (including roosters) as well as horses, although we don’t currently have sufficient yard space.  However, the property behind us is owned by an elderly couple.  The house itself is the right size, with the right number and arrangement of rooms, despite its quirks.

So, maybe the house isn’t holding us captive, so much as biding its time. Maybe it’s like the storyline of several romantic tales.  Maybe this house is just patiently waiting, while offering all the best it has.  Maybe it knows that someday, we’ll realize we’ve been living in the perfect home all along.

A Public Health Announcement

You are not alone.

Do you frequently find yourself running into walls, chairs, tables, or footboards?  Are your shoulders, hips, buttocks and knees constantly riddled with bruises and you can’t remember why?

It’s not your fault.

You might have Floating Eyeball Syndrome (FES).

FES is the inability to recognize the existence of one’s body beyond the immediate viewing area.  Common signs of FES are the inability to negotiate corners, raise one head under objects, or walk more than three blocks without personal injury.

The symptoms of FES should not be ignored as they can be potentially fatal.  People with FES have been known to die by hitting low hanging objects at high speed or falling off curbs into traffic.

People with FES should not operate heavy or light machinery, ride bicycles or any other wheeled object, or brandish sharp utensils.  Wearing headphones, hats, or sunglasses can exacerbate FES and it is highly recommended that people with FES not be given cell phones, especially text capable cell phones, as they can significantly increase the fatality rate of people with FES.

If you don’t have FES, but you know someone who does, the following is recommended:

·         Step loudly or announce your presence before rounding corners or approaching an FES person from behind to prevent injury to yourself or to the person suffering from FES.

·         Do not open cabinet doors above people with FES or allow people with FES to reach for objects under tables or cabinets.  It is especially hazardous if you call out the person’s name while they are in these positions.

·         Keep cats and other small animals away from people with FES as significant damage can occur to both, such as squishing, tripping, and asphyxiation by sitting.

While there are some documented cases of FES resolving on its own, it is predominantly a chronic illness and should be treated as such.  With proper care and attention, people with FES have been known to live relatively normal lives, albeit with occasional setbacks, such as periods of sudden black-outs, cuts, and contusions generally associated with collisions with stationary objects.

While it might be tempting to wrap people with FES in significant quantities of foam rubber or to at least convince them to wear helmets, it would be more helpful to provide FES sufferers with devices that create awareness beyond the eyeballs.  A recent study suggests that implanting antennas all over the body of those with FES, not unlike those on caterpillars, holds much promise.  These antennas would emit sounds as objects near the FES sufferer.  The FES sufferer would then be alerted that danger was approaching, encouraging slower movement and caution.  There is much research yet to be done, but the current results are hopeful.

Finally, keep in mind that people with FES want to be treated like everyone else, with sensitivity and caring.  If you see someone you suspect might have FES, clear the path for them and offer them your hand (slowly) in friendship. They will appreciate your effort.

If you have FES, you are not alone.

How do I know this?  Because, I have Floating Eyeball Syndrome. It’s time that FES sufferers stand, very carefully, and be counted. 

Here Comes the Rain, Again

The only thing better than rain is post-rain.

 I love rain.  I love the sound of it on the roof and windows, on leaves and overhangs.  I love the feel of it, warm or icy cold as it dribbles down the inside of my collar, trickling along the part in my hair.  I love the smell of ozone that accompanies it.  I love gauging its intensity by watching the ripples on puddles or the distance I can see through it. 

As a native Southern Californian, rain was a novelty, a miraculous moment when moisture fell from the sky, rather than from a spigot. The media perpetuated this feeling of awe and mystery, sending rookie reporters wearing slickers and hip waders into dry stream beds and drainage ditches in preparation for Storm Watch.  Television shows were interrupted to announce if precipitation was sighted, perhaps even felt, just in case we weren’t aware of the sensation or maybe it was to prevent panic, a la Chicken Little.

In preparation for the “rainy season,” such as it was, my mother kept my sister and I well stocked on rain coats, umbrellas, and rain boots.   Rain coats were frequently left unbuttoned.  Umbrellas were just as frequently lost as used for rain gauges (upside down), or better yet as sails.  It was always much more entertaining to position an umbrella to catch the wind rather than to fend off moisture.

I love rain boots.  Part of it is the equestrienne aspect of wearing any boots.  The first pair of rain boots I remember were yellow with rabbits on the sole.  I walked backwards so that I could see the imprints.  Being naturally clumsy, this almost tripled my trip rate, which wasn’t a complete tragedy, because if I’d fallen forward, I’d actually have gotten wet, my raincoat being unbuttoned.  One time at school, a friend and I wandered to the back end of the field where there was a rather large puddle.  Wanting to show off the advantage of boots rather than shoes,  I waded along the length of the puddle.  About five steps in, I found myself thigh deep in water with knee high boots.   The weird sensation of body temperature water pulsing out of my boots as I walked back to class was equal to the initial horror and thrill of feeling the cold water rush into them.

My first thunderstorm was during a road trip to visit my grandmother.  I hadn’t seen lightning or heard thunder before and the Grand Canyon provided a spectacular introduction.  Despite being frightened of fireworks and popping balloons, I was enthralled by thunder.  The rumble and crack made my body vibrate, my hair stand on end.  My father taught my sister and me how to figure out if a storm was coming or going.  We continued to encounter storms and watched lightning bolts twisting through the sky as we crossed the Great Plains.

Frolicking post-rain in front of my Baton Rouge apartment.

My first summer in Baton Rouge, it rained every day at 4pm, flooding the streets knee deep as two to three inches of water gushed from the sky in roughly an hour.  It was astounding.  And warm.  There was no point in using an umbrella or raincoat.  Because the rain was so predictable, it was easy to hunker down somewhere, preferably The Chimes with a platter of cheese fries and an Abita, and watch the rain.  On the other hand, feeling that amount of rain wash over me was incredible. 

The storms weren’t without danger.  There were almost weekly reports of students getting struck by lightning as they crossed the Parade grounds of LSU – fortunately no one was killed.  Once a bolt of lightning hit a transformer across the street from where I was standing.  I can still hear the whirring buzzing noise as the bolt came down and feel the electricity that coursed through the ground and air afterwards.  Terrifying, but wonderfully exciting.

Although during our first year in Northern California there was tremendous flooding, the rain has progressively dwindled in amounts over the past few years.  When it does rain, I try to enjoy it.  Our current dogs don’t seem to mind it.  On days of heavier rain, I go through a raincoat for each dog.  I can’t understand why raincoats are “water resistant” rather than water proof.  We go to the creek to check the water level.  If I miss the peak flow, I look for the tell-tale signs of bent grass or debris line and then marvel at how quickly the level drops.  If it rains at night, I go upstairs to listen to the rain on the skylight.

Maybe my love of rain is because it forces me to take a moment, to put ordinary life on hold, to resign myself to Mother Nature’s will.  I don’t like to drive in the rain, so I’ll come up with any number of excuses to avoid it.  At the moment, I’m in a position that allows me to do so.  With our washer and dryer on the porch, laundry is put on hold.  Once the dogs are walked, I can usually stay at home. 

Mother Nature, I surrender. 

There are worse thing than a comfy chair, a good book, and a hot beverage, while listening to the susurrus of the rain.

The Rituals of Everyday Life

I had a dream there were
clouds in my coffee ....

My daily life is composed of a series of micro rituals, little events that I perform every day.  I don’t think they’re compulsive behaviors.  A compulsive behavior suggests doing something out of need, whereas in my case, I actually enjoy the events, not for magical purpose, just because they make my day pleasant.

The dogs know the rituals as well.  When I stir in the morning, I let The Rockstar out of his crate so he can snuggle on the bed until it’s time to “really” get up.  Right before we do get up, I do a big wake up stretch, which is a cue to the dogs to creep up to the top of the bed where I distribute kisses, belly rubs and scritches.  Their fur is soft and I can tell the position in which they’ve slept because they’re warmer on that part of their body.  I like the way they smell at that time, a little dusty and they even have morning breath, which isn’t as awful as it sounds.  We all stretch again, they shake off and step off the bed.  They glance back at me, tails softly wagging and an open mouthed smile, eager for the day to begin. 

“Think there’ll be squirrels today?” they seem to ask.

I’m pretty sure there will be - which makes every day a banner day for them.

The next ritual is coffee, dark roasted and fragrant.  Once it’s made it, I pour it into one of my favorite mugs.  It’s actually a “hand me down” from my sister, pretty, mustard w/ orange flowers on it.  I really like the tulip shape, which is funny considering it has poppies on it.  It’s footed.  It reminds me of my sister, her exquisite taste and generosity.  I pour the coffee, then the half and half.  I like half and half rather than milk because it makes beautiful cloud patterns, so I never stir it.  I pour and watch the billows drift and merge until the coffee turns light, and then I drink it, wrapping my hands around the curves of the mug rather than using the handle because I like to feel the shape of the mug and the warmth on my hands.

I put on my make-up.  I’m reminded of my mother and it makes me smile.  I’m looking more like her as I get older.  I put on foundation, powder, eyebrows, and I see myself echoing her gestures, but with modern tools.  I use brushes whereas she uses puffs and sponges.  When I’m done, I look a little less like her, but not intentionally.  I just don’t use black liner or red lipstick for daily wear.

"Ready?"

The Rockstar and I take our walk.  We’re both environmentally oriented, he with scents, me with sights.  I wait when he finds particularly interesting smells, and he waits while I take pictures. When either of us are finished we look at each other, smile/wag, as if to ask, “ready?” and then we continue.  If we go one route, The Rockstar slows as we round the corner and then looks at me.  He knows that’s where I’ll pause to look at the mountains, if it’s a clear day.  When we go by a particular fence, I’ll slow because I know he likes to look for squirrels there.  When we cross the street, we pause so he can sniff the long grass and I can gaze across the street at the field where there are deer sometimes.  We continue through the park looking for squirrels and other interesting things.  When we do find something, we exchange excited looks. 

“Did you see THAT?”

I like that even though we’re different species, we both share in those moments and enjoy each other’s reactions and company.

At night, after dinner, the Wee One likes to snuggle.  When he sees my husband go to the couch to watch t.v., the Wee One literally leaps onto the couch with him, which can result in some painful landings since the Wee One weighs sixty-five pounds. The Wee One starts out on my husband’s chest, then usually winds up on his back between my husband and the couch, mouth open, dream growling as Baby Cujo.  It’s one of the high points of Wee One’s day.  Both my husband and the Wee One are wiggle worms, so it’s nice to see the two of them quiet and cuddled together.

At the end of the night, we all, husband and dogs, go upstairs and everyone piles onto the bed to watch a little more t.v., get scritches, and talk and laugh.  I like all of us there together on that big bed.  I still see the hole where the Uber Hundus would’ve been, but we’re all there.  I like doing the mental roll call, seeing that we’re all together safe and sound, our little family, snug as bugs in a rug.  It’s a good place to be when the zombie invasion happens.  Everyone is comfy.  Everyone is loved.

And tomorrow it starts over again.