Hands

This has been one of those weeks. The kind of week you finish, but aren't proud of. It started well. Plans. Goals. Deadlines. And started to slowly sink as the sinuses reared their ugly head. And not breathing turned into not sleeping. And stuffy head turned into nose bleeds. And those turned into doctors. And I hate going to the doctor (no offense to any of you in the profession). In my misery state, box of tissues, nasal spray, blanket, hot tea, prescriptions I cannot pronounce… I thought I needed someone to take care of me, to comfort me and, well, baby me. I'm a handful when I'm sick, be warned. But then I stepped back in my miserable state and looked down. Down at my hands. These hands that write to you tonight. Someone once asked my if I were to retain only one sense for the rest of my life, what would it be. I used to answer with sight. Visual is still very high on my list, and there are wonders of the world that can only be partially enjoyed without sight. But the more I thought, the more I realized that touch is what I cannot live without. These hands. From holding a child seconds after it's first breath of air to touching a starfish the size of a dinner plate 20 feet under the surface of a vast ocean. Aiming a telescope at Orion's Belt, painting a room. Throwing luggage into the overhead to go find some new place and new friends. Where would I be without my hands? Where would I be. These hands. They pick up toys, they cook dinner. They make wine. They write code. They dial phone numbers. These hands. They walk the dog, they drive, they write. These hands. They help me find the way in the dark, they navigate through touch. These 10 things, 5 attached to each appendage to make my hands. These hands. Touch the stars. With my hands.  

Dad wants pie

Well, he does! I suggested that I would bring the normal drunken pumpkin pie for dinner tonight. And then I called him the other day and told him about the mamey sapote I had ordered for what I hope to be the last batch of wine this year (no, that's a lie, lavender is also happening this year) and somehow he got on the subject of sweet potatoes. And raisins. So the request changed to "Dad wants sweet potato pie with raisins" and my Caribbean rum loving self says, "and rum." Because what pie isn't better with rum! So yesterday, off to the store for sweet potatoes, milk and eggs. Yeah, no, I came back with all sorts of goodies. Ground lamb for chili tomorrow (unless Mom sends home leftovers and then it's Saturday chili night). Oh, and raisins. Which reminds me once when my sister and I were much younger, still living in Ohio, Mom had these little pie dishes and we made raisin pie. I don't recall if they were good or not, my 6 or 7 year old taste buds probably thought they were delicious. Or maybe it was just the fact that I was baking with my sister. I think we also made Cheerio pie once, who knows. Which then got me to thinking about where I am now. And yes, also about the Thanksgiving holiday. If there really even is one. I mean Black Friday was bad enough, only once in my life did I venture out. But no, now it's Fucking Thursday. And I don't mean the thing that happens in bed (or on the kitchen counter). Sure, you go line up at 7 PM at that Wally place to get your $69 LCD TV and your  $10 deep fryer. Because you know, that shit is more important. Damn, just come to my house and you can have my TV for free. But you will stay and have a drink and we can chat and hang out because I could give 10 shits about my TV, but I give a shit ton about you. All of you. Those people in my life that are friends, family, acquaintances. No, I don't "need" the holidays. I need my kids, my family, my friends, the people that make life rich and full of awesome sauce. The ones I would drop anything for and they would drop anything for me. That is what I am thankful for. And I can celebrate that every day of the year. But I am looking forward to sweet potato pie.

The boy gets an ice cream cake

Seven years ago today. My how time flies. To my son that sometimes doesn't listen. To my son that starts talking when his feet hit the floor and stops talking  when his head hits the pillow. To my linebacker. To my little boy that knows more about dinosaurs than I ever dreamed of knowing. To my son that now wants to learn just as much about other animals. For my frog catcher extraordinaire.  To the soundest sleeper I know.
s6000725

Christmas 2007, sound asleep on the floor.

To my camping buddy. My water gun canoe dude. To your curious mind, your creative thoughts, your positive outlook. I loved spending your special day with you (and guess what? time changes tonight, so it lasts an extra hour). Happy birthday! I love you to the moon!
Joey

I love Oreo Ice Cream cake

 

Save the queen, aw hell no!

I've been battling fire ants for what feels like ten years now. I finally found some good stuff to kill them, but it only partially works. And the bad part it that it smells like pure crap, rotten eggs, sweat and beer farts all rolled into one disgusting odor. What has been happening as of late is that I sprinkle the white nasty powder on a huge ant hill that mysteriously appeared overnight. Then I watch the worker ants slowly die. Then a few days later, no more ants. Then a day or so later, damn, another ant hill a few feet away. So what I'm wondering is if the queen counts her workers and if a large enough quantity do not return from their daily duties, she tells the whole colony to pick up and move. So yes, a queen in any other sense should be saved, but I'm ready to kill this bitch!

Send Mary to Paris

Mary, you have certainly rocked the world with your words. We met in NYC (sort of... virtually), you wrote It's snowing in New York and I read your words while stuffed into a small hotel room somewhere around 22nd and 6th ave. And trying not to wake my roommate, I snuck outside only to return back to my room having not seen the snow. And then I wrote back. And fell off to dream land. And woke up in the morning to snow in New York. And I've read every word since. And today... well, I read The Paris Promise, and by gosh by golly, I think you should go. So. What I propose is that you have a world wide campaign to send you to Paris and the only thing the world will ask for in return is for lovely pictures on your blog and the wonderful words you share with us. So Mary, set up a PayPal account or something, because I'm challenging the world to make sure you celebrate your 30th in Paris. Because we want to hear your words tell us all about Paris. And to quote you, "As long as I am choosing life, and honoring my passions and keeping my dreams alive and not stifled, I don’t think I can really go wrong." I hope to travel to Paris through the wonderful words you write. I will personally contribute to your Paris fund and I hope everyone that reads this will as well. It doesn't have to be a huge amount, a few dollars each and we get to experience Paris through Mary's eyes. And wonderful words. Cheers!

Can I mend a broken heart?

My Dearest Dyson, I remember the first time I met you, all clammed up in your box. You were my ex wife's pride and joy. She wouldn't let me touch you. I held back and respected her request, though I constantly admired your sleek curves as you gently rolled across the floor sucking effortlessly. It always gave me goose bumps to see you in motion. Sometimes when she was away, I would sneak in your room and turn you on, but it was always a quick turn on, I didn't want her to know. Then one day, she left and took you with her. I was devastated, but I remembered that one time when you used my cell to call your twin sister. So I went out on a limb and called her. We met at Target and she was just like you, all clammed up in her box at first. But once we got home and I took her out, she really opened up. We raced through the house, she was shaking her money maker all over my bedroom floor. Her curves, wow. We danced through the hall, sometimes I was only wearing boxers, but she never seemed to mind. Everything was turning out beautiful. Over time, though, we saw less and less of each other. Sometimes the house cleaner would come over and she would get turned on and completely ignore me. I was OK with it at first. But then something happened, times when I really needed her, it seemed as though something had clogged her head. She wouldn't do the things she used to do. I thought it was me. I nurtured her for awhile. Some days were bad, others just sucked. Then yesterday, I thought I had it all figured out. We sat down and I gently caressed her and finally cleared her head. And we went back to dancing down the hall and rolling around the bedroom until... I broke her heart. Well, actually it was the little red thing that you step on to get the vacuum to go into "sweep the floor mode." So, since you are sisters, do you think I should call your Dad and see if I can get a replacement heart or should I just let her slouch in the corner. She just won't stand up anymore. I. Just. Don't. Know. If. I. Can. Take. It. I love her, but it's killing me to see her this way. I want to fix it. But is it worth it? Please help! Yours truly, Me

Dear Lola

First of all, you didn't technically hack my blog, you have your own account you silly dog. Secondly, you did hack my FaceBook when you posted the link to your plea for me, uh, you. You should know what happens when someone hacks my FaceBook, I get pretty upset. Aside from that, I don't know if I should be mad at you or not. It was a very sweet attempt at trying to find someone for me, uh, you. I should probably let you know that "relationship" laps don't just magically fall out of the sky. It takes time, and commitment and energy and happy blissful feelings that make you all tingly inside. All in all though, you got most of it right. I am mad that you think I'm so old! As for that black stuff, it's called coffee and I will never let you drink it again after the last episode. Remember that? You drank the rest of my cup and bounced off the walls for hours. Yeah, that stuff is reserved for humans, sorry. Do remember that if your little scheme was to work, I could potentially owe my son a thousand dollars. Yeah, that's right, one thousand. The bet was he would have a girlfriend before me. I don't want to lose, but since you started this whole thing, and after thinking about it, it would be kinda cool, with the right person, er, uh, lap. Sorry. I assume you are going to want to meet her first? Please don't embarrass me any more than you already have. I'll be home when I get home. Remember, I pay the bills around here. Kidding, I'll be home at a reasonable hour and no, she won't take your side of the bed. You didn't think about that, did you? Quit stressing my sweets, these things take time, if it's meant to happen, then it will. Your lap will come along. Until then, please just be content with my lap. Let's go for a walk...

Dear available ladies

Do not tell my Dad that I hacked his blog. I'm being selfish, this is really for him. Really. But. I am a two lap dog, and ladies, he only has one. So. Yeah, it's kind of for me, too. I need another lap to snuggle on when we are on the couch. I mean he needs another person to snuggle with. He really is a nice guy. Short. Yeah. But I think you could just call him compressed and be OK with it. He works hard. But he takes plenty of time to walk me and play with me. I'm sure he would do the same for you. His kids are just adorable, I like to nip at their flip flops. Love me the taste of processed Wal-Mart plastic/rubber. It's wonderful. Oh, did I tell ya, the dude can cook! He makes some mean ass food on the grill. I don't normally get to taste it, but it sure smells out of this world. I digress. So here's why I'm here. Again, I need... my Dad, well, he needs... OK, fine. I need another lap. He's only 259 years old. Oh, that's dog years. Damn, he's old! He does this thing called work on a computer. I don't understand it, but he seems to enjoy it. Sometimes he has to go on trips and my aunt takes care of me, it's cool. She rocks. My Papa also takes care of me sometimes. But Dad always comes home to me. So, he is very loyal. You should remember that. We live in the country. I like to listen to the frogs and crickets at night. You should probably be OK with mosquitoes. If you wear cowgirl boots, that would be a plus. I think he would like that. He makes me listen to country music all the time. I'm starting to get into it, but honestly, I think 80's hair bands are the bomb diggity. You can take musical interests up with him, I can learn to love any type of music. Getting back to my point, he travels. And I mean loves to travel. So. You better be cool with that. If you strike the right pose, he might even take you to some tropical paradise. Maybe if you like him enough, we can all move there. That would be the coolest. He always talks about Chicago. I've never been there. I wonder why he likes it so much. I can't pretend to understand too much. I just know that somewhere there's a lady out there for my Dad, just like he is here for me and his kids. I wonder what color hair you would have. I bet you would give me an extra treat in the morning. Another thing, my Dad, he doesn't like a mess. There was one time that I tore up a pillow. Yeah. He was not happy. He likes to keep a really clean house. Everything. And I mean everything has to be in it's place. You could call that anal I suppose. But it is nice to not be walking around in a house full of cat poo. No, he doesn't have cats, that's just the dirtiest reference I could come up with. I can also tell you that he makes this black stuff in the morning, it smells heavenly. He doesn't put cream or sugar in it. I bet he would love to have a cup of it with you. He's silly, really. He flies by the seat of his pants yet is totally grounded and responsible. You really should consider. It might be the best thing you ever did.So again, I need a second lap to be comfortable. I mean my Dad, he's available. Shit, he's going to kill me when he reads this. Going to chase my tail.........

He quit

Yes, he quit. That guy that we all take for granted. He just up and left. I don't know how long I can make it. 10 minutes. 10 hours. 10 days. It's been close to 10 days. So I'm thinking maybe 10 weeks before I look for a replacement. Knowing me, it could be 10 months. It better not be 10 years. Meanwhile, I keep a flashlight handy for those midnight snacks. I don't know what I did or did not do to make the little man that turns the light on in the fridge quit. Maybe it was the benefits package. The pay. He was making way more than he should have been. Working conditions? Yeah, it's cold, but that was in the fucking job description. I suppose he just got burned out after 7 years. It can happen. He knew the contents so well, he shined! I'll miss him. All I can do is wish him a bright future as I search for someone else to light my fridge.

Just like heaven

It is funny that I think of you tonight. Well. Not funny in the belly laugh sort of way. Funny in what I am about to expose. How I feel. I'm not quite sure why I hang my hat on everything that is you. Be it thought. Be it dream. Be it crush. It will never be so. I will never hold your hand. I will never taste your salty tears. I will never touch your tender lips. You may as well be a ghost. A ghost in my head. Floating. You hold yourself ten feet tall. A height that I cannot reach. You are miles away. I get that. Miles can be broken. I need you. I need your questions. So direct. What do you think of that? It's bold, isn't it. Fuck yeah, it is! What do you think of that? You won't respond, you won't replay the memories that I have made we have shared. It is funny. Like that. Not in a belly laugh sort of way. And we don't have much. Time. I go on. You go on. I dream of hedgehogs. You dream of him. The him is not me. My hedgehog is not you. Or is it? I go to this place. In this place. In the end, it always is you. You are in my place. Because I want you there. I don't know if you want to be there. You laugh, it's funny. The way I slowly draw the knife. The way they would teach you in culinary school. I didn't go there. Or did I. It's not a belly laugh funny moment. Deeper. River of blood. Thick. Crimson. Pain. Lust. I sit here in a pool of tears. I never told you how I felt. I could not tell you. I just swallowed it up. That you would never love me. I laugh. Not the belly laugh. The I'll be OK laugh. And I am. I think. I'm not. Because I'll never touch your tender lips and never taste your salty tears. Tonight, I think of you, ten feet away from my heaven.