Ladies who lounge

On a lovely Spring day, the girls love nothing more than a little sun and little luxury. 

Clockwise from L: Lucy the increasingly hairy Shar Pei (yay!), Patsy the Escape Artist (hence the lead), Eddie the cutie pie, and Sophie the old and largely unaware brown dog.

I love Karma

This weekend marks a significant milestone.

There are two weddings taking place that are among the first where Brian and Liz have outdone competing florists (vs. a couple of other weddings for people who already knew them and sole-sourced - or were spontaneous locals) to do the flowers for the wedding and ceremony.  Keep in mind that May 1 marks only six months of being in business - and business is FABULOUS!

In fact, they have multiple weddings already booked - stretching throughout the year.

What makes this weekend even sweeter is that one bride, who shall remain deliciously anonymous, had originally consulted with Brian's last employer - the one who did everything she could to tarnish his reputation and posted fake on-line reviews about the business (among other childish shenanigans) until our lawyers shut her down.

The bride arrived - almost in tears - after her encounter with the (adjective) (noun).  And with absolutely no mention of the previous working relationship or animosity (or lack of anti-psychotic drugs), she elected to go with Brian and Liz. 

It's going to be such a great 6-month anniversary gift, given all the crap that we've had to deal with.

I heard an interview on NPR the other day about a new book called "The Thank You Economy" which focuses on some real basics about customer care, acknowledgment and reward. It focuses on businesses being authentic, honest, creative and original - which is exactly what L& B are doing.  It's real, it's personal and it's successful.

There is Karma in this lifetime and I, for one, love that there is.

(and 500 Sparkly Princess Points to Bob in Smallville for calling it ahead of time!  Yay, Bob!!!!)

I have a cute post office

Apparently.

At least that is what I was told I said out loud in my sleep last night.

"I have to go to my cute post office."

You see, I've recently and suddenly begun talking in my sleep.  It's not something I've ever been known to do before except under post-surgery medication and that particular week was a bar none all-singing, all-dancing extravaganza of epic proportions.

No, the talking I do in my sleep is minimal. But we're still not used to it.

Much of it is unintelligible, but I seem to be speaking more clearly and more often.

One morning about a week ago, I was making cappuccinos and Brian sleepily stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen and asked:

"So.  Who's the asshole?  Me?"

I had apparently flung that little gem out in the wee hours.  But I assured him it was not meant for him.

What really worries me are the little gestures that sometimes accompany these late night shenanigans.

Let's just say that waking Brian at 2 am with a kidney punch is not something I ever hope to experience again.

But it's not all violent.  It is, however, frequently wet.

We both keep large acrylic (thankfully) tumblers of water at our bed side - y'know, the kind you buy for ice tea in summer, over-sized, gaily decorated,  and double walled for insulation (ours feature flamingos and palm trees).

On more than one occasion, said tumbler has been knocked across the room - usually full - resulting in a frantic search in the dark, foul language, a damp carpet and bedding, and an agitated, wet dog who had been innocently sleeping on her now-saturated dog bed next to the night stand.

I'm curious to see where this leads, but for now I'll be grateful that I haven't said or done anything to cause irreparable relationship damage (yet).

Wish me well.  And do come visit my cute little post office sometime.

What is it with Republicans and fetuses?

God on a wheel!

First, we have Babs Bush keeping her darling almost-offspring in a mason jar - something I am sure helped shaped the mental stability of both GW and Jeb as their lunch, testes and cerebral cortex all exploded out of them upon seeing their almost-sister removed from storage in the pantry where I am sure she was stored among the dilly beans and pickalilly.

Now we have Rick "Frothy Mix" Santorum - wait...that's redundant.

Google 'Santorum' and see what shows up first if you are curious.  I refuse to post a link here.  We are a family friendly blog, after all.

Anyway - Little Ricky wants to be president and has his own fetus story to tell.

When his wife - sadly - miscarried one of their children, he not only didn't he settle for the WASP protocol of see nothing - say nothing - show nothing, but he went  - in my opinion - a little nutsy-bo-bo.

Apparently, Mr. Santorum took the - pay attention here - 20 week old fetus home, wrapped in a blanket, showed it to his children and they sang songs and prayed and talked to it and stuff.  For HOURS.

WHAT!?

Okay - at the risk of being exposed as an actual feeling person - I get the overarching "kids - you had a little brother on the way, but he didn't make it" thing.

And side note - smell!?@!

But listen to me - I had two - TWO - almost-brothers that I thankfully never had to hold in my arms and sing to.  Okay?  I was in blissful ignorance until later in my life when my main goal in life was to make Brother #4 (the one who did make it - damn it to hell) nothing more than a bad smell in the attic.

But if I think about my parents bringing home a 20-week old fetus and expecting me to do some Sound of Music schtick for it - no way.  MMmm.  Not happening.

F that S.

I may have some room in my pantry now that the dilly beans and bread-and-butter pickles are gone, but - hell no.


It's bad enough to have the brother I do have back in my family's life.  If this were a game show, I'd trade him for one of the ones behind the curtain that didn't make it.  At least your brother who never quite made it doesn't steal your identity and spend three years in a Louisiana prison as you, which you only find out as you are being security checked to join a Fortune 100 company.

You bring home a dead baby in a snood and want me to meet it - and sing to it. That is some f***ed up sh*t.

That's called THERAPY.

I am so sick of these "holier than thou" sick mother-grabbers telling us how precious life is then working to deprive the rest of society from the same litmus test. 

While you're singing and praising your dead fetus, you're simultaneously pushing for the death penalty and the deprivation of the elderly, the sick and the poor through cuts to social safety nets - so your big business buddies can stay fat and happy - and OH yes - I also mean the businesses of the Catholic, Mormon, Baptist churches and all the rest. 

You, sir or madam, are a hypocrite and evil to boot.

Take your pickled fetus and shove it.

A moment in time

When I was a child, I can remember visiting my great grandparents on my mothers' mothers' side. Great Grandpa Charles was a somber and precise dictator. My Great Grandmother Lily floated in his wake - ephemeral and insoluble - as if she waited for his command to appear.

As such, they were far from the approachable and lovable people you remember from other people's stories - or the Waltons.

But Charles and Lily and their home held multiple fascinations for me. One was that children were to be seen and not heard - and preferably not seen. My response to this was, a) to occupy, fully clothed, the concrete in-ground birdbath upon arrival, and b) to bounce Charles' golf balls in unsupervised rooms where I might end up breaking a leaded glass pane(s) of Arts & Crafts/Mission style origin.

All resulting in an ass beating of epic proportions.

But the thing that fascinated me most was being alone in that turn-of-the-century Ohio Craftsman home - all dark oak, built-ins and leaded glass window panes - was the silence. When Mom was in the kitchen with Grandma Lily, I might be unattended on the sun porch, bouncing a harmless rubber ball. Or I might find myself eating a sandwich (God forbid - Charles must be golfing) seated on the prickly horse hair sofa in the living room.

And what I remember is the peace. The tick and tock of the grandfather clock in their house, the rare motes of dust floating in the sunshine through through the windows, and the warm, mellow smell of bees wax and furniture polish. To me - this was where time ended and heaven began.

In years since, I've striven to find this - to create it. But it never seemed quite genuine.

But today, as I was preparing for a brunch with our wonderful friends, I took a moment to look at our home through new eyes and I realized, the Eastlake clock on the sideboard, the Grandmother clock ticking away in the hallway, and the silence - (Brian was out getting propane for the grill) - made me feel for one moment like I was a kid again. Suspending time - and simply sitting in the sun and loving and honoring my family and those who came before me....

...and wishing I could travel back in time to tell them just what they meant to me.

Something I actually said to my dog today

So - our Lucy - a Shar Pei whose previous owners had neglected in diet to the point that she had lost her fur and was actually red hot to the touch just before we adopted her....

I'm pleased to report that constant attention to her diet, medicated baths and scrubbing the old stuff away - has paid off. Lucy is downy - she literally looks like a 30 lb. Easter chick. She has little white hair ridges all over her.

Just a minute ago, I was praising her and her new coat - remarking that she was so pretty - no longer the gray, emaciated thing we had adopted.

When I realized...

That was exactly what Brian's mother thanked for when I first met her.

"He's no longer gray. And not so thin. Good job."

I'm a rescuer. What can I say?