Sunday, November 25, 2007

Big Horn!

The worst thing a single woman can feel is have an overwhelming need for sex and no outlet. Sure, there are options-- but these options do not fulfill the need completely.

Last night at the hostessing job, knowing I'd leave work at approximately 9 pm to travel home to the cold of The Hovel, I felt the frustration rise inside of me. How nice it would be to take a hot shower with a lust object, fall into bed (or onto any available horizontal surface) and take care of bidness. For about five hours. With a bottle of wine and a few candles burning on my nightstand. Not that I've thought about this carefully or anything.

My frustration doesn't go away for days and days. It has the fucking half-life of plutonium.

Sure, I could go out and find someone to aid me with my problem. But if I do that, it makes me a ho. Don't wanna be a ho. Not even sure I'd be able to find someone suitable-- i.e., someone I know and am attracted to that would want to help me at this very moment. Folks are busy on the weekends.

A couple of years ago I had the perfect setup-- a "friend with benefits". We met on several happy occasions and had fun. But then he went and met some girl for whom he had "feelings" and we had to stop seeing each other. My carefully guarded and much-enjoyed arrangement flew out the window.

The men I know with whom I'd like to be friends with benefits are married, or have serious girlfriends, or they aren't particularly comfortable with an "arrangement". Therefore, the FWB option dissolves like an antacid in water.

Toys? I have some. Not the same though.


Thursday, November 22, 2007


In my life, I have many things for which to be thankful.

However today I'm just thankful to have crawled out of my warm bed early enough to shove the turkey in the oven, chop most of the vegetables and arrange the table for ten with my Grandmother's china and my Great-Aunt's silverware.

I would have had a glass of wine to start the day off with a bang (it is 9:00 a.m.), but I'm waiting until 11:00 to imbibe. That's when The Brunette shows up with the booze.

What I love most about Thanksgiving, though, is this: my family celebrates this particular holiday together, every year, without variation. It's something I count on and it's something I cherish.

Readers, happy Thanksgiving to you and your families.

With love,


Friday, November 16, 2007


After attending the Episcopalian funeral mass of a friend this week, Dad (the non-practicing, non-denominationalist guy) asked me (a baptised Episcopalian), "So why do Episcopalians consider themselves Catholic?"

"Welllll... it's been a long time since my catechism classes. Let me see if I can explain it properly," I drawled, rolling my eyes to the ceiling. "First, we believe in the Holy Trinity-- the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. We also believe in the sacraments-- baptism, the communion--"

"No you don't," he interjected.

"We don't?" I asked.

"See, I've taken a catechism class myself," Dad pontificated, "And if you're a Catholic, they won't allow non-Catholics to take communion during their services."

"So what?"

"Well, today we took communion at the service."

"That's right. The Episcopalian Church allows people of other faiths to take communion with them."

"Yeah. So Episcopalians are not Catholic."

ALLLLLLLLLrighty then!


Looking at my cat Layla, Dad asked, "What kind of kitty is Layla?"

"She's an Abyssinian," I answered.


"Yeah, I'm pretty sure she is," I said, gazing at Layla, who gazed back with her seemingly kohl-lined, emerald eyes.

"I don't think she is," said Dad with great certainty.

"No? Why not?" I asked.

"Well. I've seen pictures of Abyssinians and they're much more elongated than Layla is."

Okey dokey.

Monday, November 05, 2007

For Inky

My nephew G and his cat Inky, Halloween 2007

The cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For, wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?

- Yeats

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Interiors, Three.

Sunday brunch with Mom.

Pushing her wheelchair into the elevator, she mumbled over her shoulder:

"I'd like to see your father."

"Dad?!? Why?"

"I don't know," she answered. Then simply, "I just want to see him."

Speaking as a woman who has been around the block a couple of times, I can certainly understand being hopelessly in love with one man your entire life. Stuff like that doesn't change.

A few days later, I telephoned Dad in Texas.

"Look--I need to ask you something and I know you can't give me an answer right away, but I'd like you and Fiona to discuss this and get back to me," I said.

"Gosh! What is it? It sounds so serious," he joked.

"Well it kind of is, Dad. I saw Mom the other day and she said she wants to see you."

"Is she alright?" he asked solemnly.

"She's fine-- I mean, well... you know how she is. She's as tough as nails. Stiff upper lip. But Dad, I've gotta tell ya, she's getting worse and worse every day. Me and the Redhead-- when we talk we wonder, 'How much worse can this get?', but it always gets worse and worse." I paused, feeling tears coming. I took a breath and continued, "So she wants to see you, Dad. I think she just misses you. And I miss you. It'd be really good to see you and have a visit. How long has it been? Four, five years?"

"Yeah... the last time we saw all of you was when Fiona and I came up and put Mom's new flooring in the condo. That's about four years ago." He cleared his throat and said, "Let me talk to Fiona and I'll give you a call back-- okay, Boo?"

"'kay," I sniffled. "Thanks, Dad."

So my Father is coming to visit next week, the primary reason being Mom. Because he hasn't seen Mom since the Parkinson's began to accelerate, the Redhead has been trying to bring Dad up to speed, to prepare him for what he's going to see.

"So my mouth won't drop open?" he laughed.

The Redhead answered, "Yeah, Dad-- that's right."

Clearly nothing we've shared with him over the last several years regarding Mom's worsening condition has stuck. Dad hasn't grasped the enormity of what Mom is going through, or possibly he thought we were over-dramatizing.

Being a supremely confident person, I think Dad felt he had a good grasp of Mom's condition. He once read a memoir some guy wrote, who was charting his life and experiences as his Parkinson's-stricken spouse became more and more sick. Dad was moved by the book because he thought it foretold what my sisters and I were going to experience, and he knew it was going to be tough for us. He said to me, "It would behoove you and your sisters to read this book."

"Behoove us? That's so stupid," said the Redhead when I told her.

"I know. Like we need to read the fucking book to figure out what's going to happen. Jesus Christ. We're living it," I said bitterly.

After calling Mom one day, Dad phoned the Redhead and said, "You know, I could barely understand her. I think it was nerves."

"Nerves? Like being nervous about talking to you?"

"Yeah. I think I caught her when she was painting and I interrupted her..."

She heard the sound of my voice and lost her composure. Typical.

"No-- no, Dad. You could barely understand her because the nerves in her vocal chords are dying. Pretty soon she won't be able to talk at all. She wants to see you now because pretty soon, she won't be able to talk at all."

The normally jocular and breezy Dad said, "Oh."

I once asked Mom if she wished she still had Dad around to help her through her illness.

"No," she answered. "He wouldn't be able to handle it." Mom knows him and his faults better than anyone.

So. All the mysterious things which are contained in the Hal and Mary Safe Deposit Box, those things that are only between the two of them-- these two people who love each other so much and who suffered in different ways while married to one another-- those things are going to be spoken of in private for the last time. Whatever is in the safe deposit box hasn't seen the light of day for almost 25 years. Now it'll be taken out, laid in the sun and given fresh air.

Whatever they think of their visit together will only be known by them. Those regrets Dad may feel (if any), that longing Mom will most definitely feel, will be laid out. Those things will be examined together, or more likely, will be considered privately.

Then Mom and Dad will put those things back into their box, lock it, and put it back on the shelf.