Three Little Words

"Seriously?!" exclaimed my next-door cube neighbor in disgust today. "I think developers just select words at random to use as street names. I just got a literature request from someone on Technology Forest Drive." We all laughed - cubicle walls don't really exist in our office etiquette-free environment - and she added, "Really, it could be anything. Flute Potatoes Avenue."

I didn't laugh as enthusiastically at that one, because frankly, I was kind of jealous I didn't think of it first.

We complain - or at least I do - about words being used without regard to their meaning. Yet I'm rather forcibly reminded, by a recent episode in my nineteen-year-old daughter's dating life, of how certain words have lost a great deal of the impact they used to have for me.

Katie has a new boyfriend she was very excited about a week ago, and is thinking about breaking up with now (assuming she hasn't already). A few days ago she came to me with a furrow in her young brow. "I told Jake I love him," she said, troubled. "We were at a party and I'd had a couple of drinks. But I really don't love him."

I didn't particularly see the problem, but Katie felt the need to call Jake the next day and clarify that she was, in fact, not in love with him. "Are you breaking up with me??" he asked. "Oh, no," she said, "just I don't actually love you, that's all." "Oh," he said.

Personally, I would have just let it go. Saying "I love you" to men you don't actually love, I tried to explain to my innocent young daughter, is just a normal part of the female condition, and probably male as well. You say it. You didn't really, really mean it. Worse yet, you say those tender yet insincere words to someone who responds with something awkward like "Ummmm," or a little more debonair, such as "Awwww" or "That's sweet" or "Thank you." Which is what Jake did (I believe Katie told me he is an "Ummmm" man, and I can respect that; awkwardness is not a quality I disparage in any way).

But it's funny, now that I think about it, because when I was in my teens and twenties, those three little words seemed to matter far, far too much to be uttered in vain. And that's not just a girl thing. My first serious boyfriend, my sophomore year in college, once took me to a Moody Blues concert at Zilker Park. They sang "Nights in White Satin." We clung together throughout the song and he sang along softly in my ear, and it would have been only THE MOST ROMANTIC THING THAT EVER HAPPENED ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH, except that every time the chorus got to "I love you" he switched to humming. Words meant things.

Now that I'm past 40, "I love you" doesn't seem quite so untouchable, so sacrosanct. I don't say it dishonestly, but there are so many kinds of love, aren't there? As in, I care about you - or it would be personally devastating to me to do something that would cause you significant pain - or I hate to see what you are going through right now - or I know you well enough to be truly comfortable with you, and being comfortable feels so good. I remember somewhat the fiery passion of "True Love," but it never really worked out in the end, did it? Maybe it turns out that, like every other expression of human language, "I love you" refers to some unspoken middle ground between what the speaker and the hearer believe it to mean.

So do you spend your life stressing about whether you really mean it when you say "I love you"? Or do you teach yourself contentment, and settle down with your sweetheart and your thirty-seven cats in a cottage with climbing roses and a white picket fence on Flute Potatoes Avenue?

I have no clue. I'll have Katie figure it out and get back to you on it, in about 25 years.

Did Not See This Coming

So apparently we're actually keeping the kitten.

Who knew?

I Can't Get No Respect

My elaborate road-trip plans having fallen through today, due to softball tournaments that did not (despite all the frogs in the known universe) get rained out, late-night drinking binges, parental visits, emergency haircuts, and other reasons not particularly worth going into, transpire (read it again, it actually does make grammatical sense), Tony and his friend Josh took me out to lunch today at Magnolia. I'd already eaten.

You can always find something worth having at Magnolia Cafe, though. This is one of the very first echt-Austin establishments I was taken to, at the tender age of 17, by my then-30-year-old boyfriend, when I was a little freshman newbie to Austin and he was the creature of the world, showing me the ropes of the place. At that time, I remember, Magnolia Cafe had a mural depicting (among other things) Superman with a Hitler mustache. I expect that was meant to be a Nietzsche reference. Whatever it was, it's gone now.

So today I had cottage cheese and a flamingo sandwich (tomatoes, avocadoes, swiss cheese, and alfalfa sprouts on grilled whole wheat bread - I removed the sprouts), and the boys had more substantial fare, and polished off my discarded alfalfa sprouts, to boot. They're big muscle men. Of course.

Then we went to Redbud Island. I've lived in Austin - and adored it with my whole heart, which probably goes without saying - for about 23 years now, minus the year I spent back with my parents in northern Virginia, and the two years I had the insane notion of living in Corpus because it has a beach. I'll tell you what: rotting seaweed, dirty sand, the occasional stinging jellyfish, and zero nightlife make for a lousy beach. Go for the weekend, if you will. Several of us will be down there, getting drunk and possibly less-legally impaired, and painting the town some chic and unexpected color, for my 40th birthday in May. But live there? I can't recommend it.

Redbud Island is really nice. I would have liked to be led to know beforehand that we were going, because it's a beautiful leash-free park with decomposed granite trails, plentiful poison ivy, gorgeous rock-studded river vistas, and joyful, exuberant, incredibly wet dogs, and I was in a skirt and high heels. No matter: the views are incredible and the atmosphere is so relaxed. Tony, Josh and I climbed around for a bit, then settled ourselves on a bench in the tree-dappled sunshine, some twenty feet from the water's edge. A guy was resting at the shore about fifteen feet in front tossing sticks to his slightly oblivious dog, which I don't think ever actually retrieved anything. We chatted in desultory fashion about dogs, animals, turtles (Tony's pet of choice), cats, and things that sneak in through the pet door, such as raccoons and possums.

"Oh, you have to watch out for them," chimed in the guy sitting by the water with his dog, "they can be really vicious!"

We got to talking about parallel parking (finding parking at Redbud involved, I might mention, rather a significant amount of obscenity from Tony, despite his Lenten vows); and Josh - about 10-12 years younger than Tony and me - said that he never had trouble, because his Jetta's side mirrors automatically adjusted to point at the curb when he parallel-parked. Tony and I were slightly outraged. When we were his age, we didn't have amenities like that.

"Did they even have cars when you were my age?" Josh teased me; but before I could wind up for a proper smacking, the guy on the shore turned around. "Oh, they did," he said, "but they were the kind where you had to stick your feet out the bottom and run."

Oh! No! You! Di!N'T!!!!!!

We left the park - me, flowing skirt, high heels and all - and got a latte at Mozart's on Lake Austin. Where this thing happened, about which I am about (are you ready?) to blog.

Tony and Josh and I had coffeehouse drinks, and as I was polishing off my iced latte, enjoying the cool early spring weather, a guy at a neighboring table got up to walk inside, but turned and gave me a brief, but fairly dark, significant and serious Look.

"Oh my God," I said to Tony, as the guy walked away and went inside, "that guy is really cute."

Tony turned and looked. "That guy," he said calmly, "looks an awful lot like (you-know-who, dammit)."

"Oh. Shit," I said, putting my head in my hands, because the guy (who didn't really look all that much like him, but had that certain quality of Somethingness by which we tend to group the people we meet in our heads, thereby figuring out in quick order how to deal with them) was unarguably of that type. He looked a bit like a loner, like the type of guy that people tend to misunderstand: intelligent, capable of great insight and humor, defensive, and (as far as my experience goes), perhaps not entirely sane.

Whatever that means. Like I'm claiming I am.

I thought of Agatha Christie, and Miss Marple, and was talking about this still when our neighbor returned to his seat. "Miss Marple's theory," I was explaining, "was that there are really only a fairly limited number of Types of people in the world; and that therefore, as you become older, and get to meet more and more people - however limited the society you live in - you get to recognize and understand them, and to predict the way that the new people you meet will behave, based on the way the people they remind you of have acted in the past.

"And therefore," I went on - probably within earshot of this incredibly fascinating guy, who on second examination did not look that much at all like the person he reminded me of, "we should go ahead and leave, maybe now."

Which we did. As we walked out I turned back briefly and caught his gaze again, and there was that brief electric shock again. Hello, I thought. I had someone to psychologically torture me, and I seem to be fresh out. How about you?

I need a road trip. NOW.

The Seeds of Love

Since we're on the topic of gardening (yes, we are. Don't interrupt), here's one of my favorite Tears for Fears songs on the subject. Time to eat all your words, swallow your pride, open your eyes... and wait a minute, does that say the Daliy Chronicle?!?

Well, nobody's perfect.

Kissing Lessons

I'm really good at kissing. It seems simple enough; but there's a finesse to it, an art that a lot of guys just don't understand. Let your lips just brush your partner's at first; pull back slightly, whisper something sweet, laugh a little, lightly touch her face, her hair. Start off almost hesitantly - savor it. It's delicious. The anticipation of the kiss is the best part.

So what you don't do, I'm saying, is lean over and stick your tongue right down a girl's throat. Why?? do guys do this??? There's no clearer signal you can give that sex will be perfunctory and mechanical, and that the most lasting impression your partner will bring away is that your ceiling could probably stand to be painted.

I don't mean to complain, though. Last night's was my first kiss in nearly a year. It wasn't a particularly good kiss, but at least somebody wanted to kiss me. Plus it was on a boat under a starry sky on Lake Austin, which is kind of a plus. It's a start.

Lucky me, I have so many friends. You can identify them by their soggy shoulders. I've been so unhappy... Yesterday I officially made the decision to get better, although actually this past week was already a lot better than the weeks before it. Last night, Tony took me to a happy hour reunion of school buddies at Hula Hut, where we met the cute guy with the boat. It was a wonderful night for me, but I'm not sure Tony had quite such a good time: the cute guy's friend was fairly drunk and possessed of a full complement of not-entirely-intelligent opinions, upon which he expounded at great length while his friend was cuddled with me in the driver's seat, showing me how to steer. I wouldn't have gone on the boat with them without Tony. I owe him one - or more.

Robbie came down and took me bowling tonight. I probably bowled the best game I ever have, with a score of - sit down, now - over 100!!! 116, to be precise. I'll have to look into it, but I suspect that might be the highest score possible in bowling. Of course, I had to sacrifice a thumbnail. And the rental shoes didn't smell at all the way I would have liked them to.

We went to Zilker Botanical Gardens, practically overflowing with brides and photographers on this lovely sunny day, then an early dinner at Freddie's before bowling. (I like Freddie's a lot, but I don't recommend the chicken-fried steak - I finally had to spit out a wad into my napkin when it wouldn't go down after chewing on it for three minutes.)

Robbie is a better bowler than I am. Granted that being a worse one would be no small feat. One of his pins fell down and forward, into the gutter along the lane; it lay there for several frames. Finally Robbie rolled a gutter ball that hit the pin and actually kicked it up into the standing pins for the most amazing spare I've ever seen. I had to sit down for a little while. I thought about him - a serious bowler. I thought about how much he would laugh at that. I teared up.

We went to Dominican Joe, Robbie bought me a mocha, and we took our coffee to the park by Palmer and watched the water fountains spraying in their ballet of changing colors, as skaters, bicyclists, and lovers gamboled nearby under a huge earthshine-lit moon. What could be more beautiful? I'm still grieving for kisses that were never possible to begin with; why? With all the friends and love and blessings and beauty that surround me?

It does and will get better. Didn't I just say that anticipation was the best part?

Life Goes On, Yeah

If there's one thing I've learned over the past three years, it's that you should never go anywhere without a camera.

Thank goodness for friends. I have some great ones, and there are times in your life when you realize how badly you need them, how heavily you rely on them, and how terribly lost you'd be without them. Last night I went to Tony's for movies and champagne. We watched Fool's Gold, not exactly the greatest movie ever made, but quite nice for drifting off to sleep on your friend's shoulder.

Robbie came down today in some hopes of buying a new coffeemaker at IKEA. We had thought of going last weekend as well, but never quite made it: it's too crowded there on the weekend, and if Robbie's driven all the way down to Austin to hang out with me, why would he drive me all the way back up to Round Rock, then drop me off down here again, then return to Georgetown? It's a lot of driving, even for a normal person.

I had a dream about another friend of mine, one I love dearly - I guess I should say a former friend. We've had a falling out, probably irreparable I'm afraid, and are not speaking now. I dreamt I asked him, anxiously, if he were seeing some other girl (since I've been accustomed to considering him as my own personal property). He hemmed, he hawed, he was evasive. Finally it came out that he had indeed met a girl and the relationship was quite promising - except she lived on the other side of town, and he didn't like to drive that far out of his way, so it wasn't going anywhere. In my dream I was jealous and upset. Once I was awake I laughed until tears were streaming down my face. That's exactly how it would be! Dreams are not supposed to be quite that realistic.

Robbie sent me an email week before last. "We need to go to IKEA," he wrote. "I need a fresh prince. I leaned down too hard and the glass broke, and ever since that I've been supporting Starbucks."

I was confused, and for several minutes pondered typing, "IKEA sounds good. What the fuck are you talking about?!" Then I remembered that a fresh prince is what we call a French press.

Bed Bath & Beyond has them, but they cost three times as much as they do at IKEA (although they might be more durable). So we gave up on that, had lunch, got Robbie a new iPod nano (ooh they are pretty!), picked up some coffee from Dominican Joe, and spent a couple of hours at Little Stacy. Someone's placed a cement Buddha there by the creek, which just goes to show that an afternoon spent with Robbie is always a religious experience. But a picture taken with his phone didn't come out well enough to post here.

We're starting to talk about another Corpus trip, over Memorial Day weekend. That Friday, the 22nd, will be my fortieth birthday. Forty! My God! That's, like - well, I don't know. It's forty. It's hard to pretend you aren't a grown-up when you hit that age.

But as God is my witness, and with the help of all the friends I can muster, I damn well intend to try. And there will be pictures.

Paying the Piper (Through the Nose)

"If my love for you were nickels and dimes," a guy I dated in college once told me, "you would be able to buy a mound of cocaine the size of Greenland."

To this day, it's possibly the best thing a guy has ever said to me, and its impact is in no way lessened by the fact that a month or two later he dumped me for another girl in our co-op. Still living with an ex is fairly unpleasant. Living with an ex and his new squeeze is highly contraindicated.

Geographically speaking, Greenland is really not all that big.

Last week, coming out of a two-and-a-half hour staff meeting, I realized that I absolutely love my new job. Obviously I've been aware that it was better than the one I came from, which still blows the socks off Corpus marketing hell, I'll tell you what. But it wasn't until this staff meeting, which ran over its allotted time solely because all of us were having so much fun talking and laughing and working, too, genuinely exchanging ideas and being productive - that I came to realize I'm simply in love. How did I get so lucky?

The number of times, by the way, that the subject of how to request time off, and the fact that everyone persists in doing it exactly wrong, has come up in staff meetings during the five months that I've been there, is zero. Nor is there guilt, blame, or finger-pointing; and I don't think the panicmonger (God rest her, um, work ethic) ever held a single meeting that didn't loose every single one of those particular workplace demons.

Not that I'm merely basking in an absence of negativity, because I actually quite like and respect my bosses, the feeling appears to be mutual, and my coworkers are hardworking and competent, every single one of them. And most of the work is interesting and downright fun! It cuts down on blog fodder a bit, which is a pity. But I can hardly complain.

So the unpleasant task, the fly in this ointment, is Tropical Storm Dolly, gaining intensity as she spins west-northwestward across the Gulf of Mexico. She's only projected to be a Category 1 hurricane, possibly Cat 2. But she's only the first of who knows how many there will be this year; and the problem with landing this plum of a job just now is that over the next few years, I expect hurricane season will expand until it encompasses approximately February - December, and soon I will be doing nothing except answering the phone to the stranded, angry and frightened traveling public. And do you think they're going to be interested in where the wildflowers are? I'm betting they won't give a rat's ass.

I suppose if things get bad enough I can always move to Greenland.

Mother's Day Part Deux: Parenting the Human Male

Last night my son Eric walked into my room, looking glum. "What's the matter?" I asked him.

"Nothing," he said, and sat down on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

Well, you know, you can't push a kid if he isn't ready to discuss his problems, you just have to be there for him. So I went back to my book, but after a moment, Eric said, "You know, Mom, girls are confusing."

Ah. I put my hand on his arm. "People are confusing, honey," I told him. "Relationships are confusing. Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. Poor baby. I know exactly what he's going through, really, I do.

"Would you like to go buy some shoes?" I asked.

Eric gave me an odd look. He seemed not to understand the question. "Um, no, I have a pair already, but thanks," he said.

Boys are confusing.

BFFs

My totally awesome friend Vicki called me today. I haven't seen her since before moving to Corpus in early 2004, and though we've been in sporadic touch, we haven't really kept up with each other over the past few years.

When I met Vicki, I was 22 and she was 39. She doesn't have kids, but has a particular warmth to her that I always found maternal. She's extremely smart, tremendously funny, good-humored, perceptive, and very, very kind. She was a mentor to me, as well as a great friend. She was a temp working in the document storage room at Sematech, and I was brought in on a six-week temp assignment to help out.

The weeks grew to months. Vicki got hired on as a permanent employee, and (after almost two years!) I did too. We had the big storage room all to ourselves, with only the most infrequent visits from management. Well, we knew our job well; it wasn't rocket science, but anyway Vicki has a very strong work ethic. We worked really well as a team, so everything got done. We always had KUT playing on the radio in our work room. It was a fun place to be; other people at the company often came to hang out and visit, including such folks as Debby, the sister of someone I would eventually marry; and Mary, the wife of Robert, who would someday be my lead worker (and who has come to be a good friend in his own right) at the organization where I work now.

Eric was 17 months old when I began working there and got to know Vicki, so she was a little thunderstruck today to hear that he's about to turn 18 (years). I got pregnant with Katie just after starting that job.

She reminded me today of Salvador. How could I forget Salvador?! Working among boxes and boxes of technical documents, and occasionally doing bulk mailouts, we sometimes had to transport multiple boxes to the mailroom. We had a dolly for the purpose. Well - what else would we name a dolly? He was called Salvador, of course. The sweet thing is, apparently he, complete with his nametag, is still in use.

We also had a publicity photo of the dearly-missed CEO, Bill Spencer, which I had cut out and placed on a brightly colored background. I had various different costumes and props for him for different times of year - like a paper doll, you know. He had a Santa hat, an Uncle Sam costume, a pot of gold, etc. For Easter I had a big decorated egg with holes cut out for his eyes. I had totally forgotten about that.

I worked in that area for a while after Vicki had moved on to another department. Requesting a document, she once made fun of a former coworker who had asked for a technical document, volunteered to come pick it up, then heard where in the building we were and asked to have it delivered instead. Vicki came to the room to pick up her document, threw herself onto the floor, and clawed her way along the carpet with her fingernails. "So far!" she gasped, "so very, very far!"

One of the marks of a true friend is that, even after not talking to them for years, you find that the flow and spark of conversation is just as free and spontaneous and fun as it was when you hung out together every day. It was like that with Vicki today: checking up, laughing, on one another's latest developments; me asking after her work and her husband (he's such a cool guy!); her asking after Daddy and Joyce; kids, friends, work, life. And we will get together very soon.

Happy Easter; here's to the dear and wonderful friends who bless us and make our lives so well worth living!

Overly Emotional

I don't really know how to write about yesterday (my last day at the old job). I guess I'll just write anyway. Why I have this feeling that everything I publish on here has to be a masterpiece anyway, I am not sure, because who am I kidding? Besides, nobody reads it but friends, family, a snopester here and there, and the occasional buttlicker - in other words, a very forgiving audience, and people who will take what they can get.

My immediate work group took me out to a wonderful going-away lunch at Magnolia Cafe - all my coworkers except the panicmonger supervisor, who can't function in the same building as meat (this would explain a few things), plus my boss' boss, plus Cheryl's Bitch with Pinche and Don Juan from his work group. It was so nice, and so kind and flattering to be thought so well of. My boss' boss has something of a reputation for turning a cold shoulder to people who leave her group, so I was really happy that she came to my lunch.

But there was sad news, too. Robbie could not make it to my going-away happy hour, which he had organized for me; but family friends whom he hadn't seen in years came unexpectedly to town. And, displaying appallingly poor timing, here in this universe which revolves entirely around me (or so I would appear to believe), the grandfather of another beloved 3MBG alum died late night before last, leaving his grandson too bereaved and exhausted to party. Do ya think?!? I was terribly disappointed, and ashamed of myself for being so.

It made me cry to leave behind such kind friends. I even hugged the panicmonger. Bubbly Bitching Nonsmoker, who sits in the cube opposite, hastened to inform me that I would not be doing this to her - so I'm sorry, Robbie; I did not get to "boop" her on the nose like I know you were wanting me to.

Still, she was awfully nice to me, wishing me lots of luck and congratulating me sincerely. "Break a leg, kid!" she called in parting.

Happy hour was great fun. Any snopesters reading? Well, Kev came out for it! He's in a similar situation, having just received an internal upwards transfer where he works. So I'll be at his happy hour next Friday! Other 3MBG alums were there, plus lots of other good friends. Unfortunately I sort of forgot to eat - in evolutionary terms, perhaps one of the stupidest things you can do, especially when drinking heavily. By midnight, even the graffiti in the restroom at the Horseshoe Lounge was not enough to perk me up, the party said goodnight in front of the bar, and I got dropped off at home.

So there were a lot of tears yesterday. Sad ones, bittersweet ones, and happy, happy, happy ones, because someone I love wrote poetry for me. I don't think anything will top that for a very, very, very long time - even though the feeling does not appear to be mutual (sigh).

It's okay. I don't really mind. I'll take what I can get.

Love Is Good for Anything that Ails You

I know it's a classic song, but this is patently untrue. There are a lot of things that might ail you that love is no good for at all.

Syphilis springs to mind.

Love is good for doubt, uncertainty, worry, and even PMS, but it's not much help for lovesickness. But new shoes work wonders for all of these ailments. So Katie and I, in the name of making a decision about the job offer, went out and bought three pairs of shoes, a really cute top, a couple of pairs of tights, some nail polish, and a bottle each of neon pink and electric blue hair dye.

Those last items were for Katie, although I suppose the start of a new job would be as good an opportunity as any to change up my look a little.

Also good for many of the things that might ail you is a long walk and a long think in the most sensible of the new shoes: down the length of Stacy Park and back up Alta Vista and back down Travis Heights, listening to sad songs on the iPod, the evening breeze rapidly cooling the air, and all the houses lighting up silently one by one under a darkening sky.

Why should I feel so sad? I have no excuse for it. I have new shoes. And I don't have the clap!

Anna's Hypothetical Situation Game

Anna wants to play a game. "I'll say a question," she tells me, "and you say the answer."

And it goes something like this:

Anna: "If cats wore shoes..."

Beth: "Their feet would hurt."

Anna: "Good answer! Now it's your turn!"

Beth: "If cats didn't have fur..."

Anna: "Not all cats do have fur!"

Beth: "That's right!"

Anna: "If cats live in a box..."

Beth: "They try to open it up so they can escape!"

Anna: "Wrong answer! They would die."

Beth: "Oh no! Okay, if cats want to go outside..."

Anna: "They would want to go back inside later."

Beth: "Very good! Dingdingding!"

Anna: "If a dog eats a moose..."

Beth: "It would be so full it wouldn't even want to eat a mint afterwards."

Anna: "Wrong! It would want to sleep, because it would have a tummyache, and it would want to sleep so that later it could poop. Poop the whole thing out at once!"

Beth: "D'oh! If snakes were on a plane..."

Anna: "People would get eaten!"

Beth: "And then what would happen?"

Anna: "Then they would die."

Beth: "Would there be a movie?"

Anna: "Yes!!! If dogs could talk..."

Beth: "They would say 'Bark! Bark! Bark bark bark!'"

Anna: "No. They would say, 'Hi. Hi. Hi hi hi.' I meant talking like people."

Beth: "If garden slugs were delicious..."

Anna: "Everybody would want to eat them!"

Beth: "But what if they still looked like big boogers and left slime trails everywhere?"

Anna: "Maybe they were just crawling around there and lost their trail and then it was crawling around a tomato and it tasted like tomato! Then they would eat it. Yum yum! Remember, they wouldn't live if someboedy was 'Ung-a. Ung-a. Unga. Unga.' They wouldn't live if somebody was chomping with their teeth."

(You've got to admit, she has a point there.)

Anna: "Mkay. Three more left to do. If dirt tasted like chocolate..."

Beth: "Would it have lots of calories?"

Anna: "No, it tasted like dark chocolate, and the dirt would be made out of chocolate. Ooh! The dirt would be made out of dark chocolate!"

Beth: "Ummm... Would it have bugs in it?"

Anna: "No. No bugs. Only bugs made out of candy would be in the chocolate dirt."

Beth: "Well, I'd eat it!"

Anna: "Whee!" (jumps on bed)

I like games where everybody wins.

Happiness

Cats could teach us a few things about how to be human.

I'm sitting on my front porch, Bingo and Slappy White next to me. Bingo's been sound asleep for a while: his eyes are closed tight shut, his head resting uncomfortably on a coil of the garden hose. Cats don't fret over details.

Slappy White is licking his nether regions.

They are perfectly content with life and all it has to offer. The sun is shining after days and days of rain. It's very warm, but not too uncomfortably so. There's enough to eat and nothing to worry about. Why shouldn't they be blissfully happy?

Of course, they're neutered.

Life seems a lot harder to me, most days, though I'm grateful for moments like this, when mosquitoes are the worst calamity fate could hand me. All of us have to discover our bliss one way or another. It just takes humans a really long time.

This song seems perfect right now, and I dedicate it to the priceless friends who are there for me in times of trouble - and in times of not-trouble, too. I love you.

Dating

When's the last time you asked somebody for a date?

It is, of course, an unbearably awkward experience. There's the phone number scrawled on a yellow sticky-note, under the name of a relative stranger with whom you know you have at least a few things in common. I dread the phone anyway, so that makes the whole ordeal that much worse.

But if you gotta, you gotta, right? So I pick up the phone and call. The person on the other end appears to be very glad to hear from me, but is on the other line with work right now, and will call back tomorrow. Fine with me! I'm just glad to get off the phone. Oh, but wait. Don't you need my number?

"The number you're calling from? Actually, it's on my phone."

Huh huh, oh yeah, I guess it is, I'm such an idiot. Is any of this actually worth it?

And it is, of course, because I get off the phone and tell Anna, "Okay, I set up your play date with your friend for Saturday," and she shouts "Hooray!" and hugs me tight, and bounces joyfully around the room for about seven minutes.

What can I say, I'll do anything for love...

It's a Fact!

Did you know...

...that Dogfish Head Indian Brown Ale is almost as appetizing as the name implies?

...that, if I am locked out of my house, I can crawl in through the cat door?

...that St. Patrick's Day commemorates the driving out of Ireland of all the snakes by St. Patrick?

...that this in turn symbolizes the driving out of the indigenous pagan religions and the conversion of the country to Christianity, and that therefore I tend to take the snakes' side, and if you pinch me for not wearing green, you will be in terrible peril?

...that falling in love is one of the sillier things an otherwise rational person can do?

...that Anna has a wet butt because she went wading in the creek and fell down?

...that bicycle helmets, no matter how stylishly designed, brightly colored, and diligently worn by safety-minded cyclists, are nonetheless irretrievably uncool?

...that today is such a spectacularly nice day that the Dogfish Head, sipped on the back patio, tastes almost bearable?

Well, now you do.