Every Wednesday we get a mass email from corporate which contains links to employee classified ads. There is a pool table for sale locally at a ridiculously low sum. It would have to be disassembled and reassembled. Thankfully, I know somebody with a truck who professes fondness for my cooking. [Brief pause while my children stop laughing and wiping their eyes.] Unfortunately for me, there is nowhere to set up a pool table in my beloved duplex. So his back and his knees and his truck bed and his sanity are all perfectly safe. At least from me. At least in terms of moving a pool table from Point A to my duplex.
I still remember the look of amazement on the girls’ faces when I sank four balls one after the other, smooth as Sea Silk, at Willow’s graduation party.
There is also a pot rack with two lights that is designed to hang over a kitchen island; you know, the kitchen island that I do not have. And somebody is looking for “a bike trailer that holds 1-2 children and any brand”.
Let me go on the record that children should be riding in the car, not strapped like deer onto a bike trailer. And they should definitely not be branded. Though I wouldn’t have objected to a mute button when mine were around four or so.
More wisdom from Dr. Wally. And from Larry Barkdull.
During a recent phone conversation, a friend commented on this renewed and continuing involvement in the care-giving for the children’s father. I told her I was just following her own good example. She is a very private person, so I will simply state that her ex-husband has significant health challenges, and she has the expertise to assist him, and she has set aside her issues to help him deal with his.
One of my co-workers has an ex-husband whose failings are many and spectacular; I think if you added the human weaknesses of my other friend’s ex-husband to those of the children’s father, and tossed in my own, there would still be room for more weight on our side of the scale. She questioned me closely over lunch the other day and concluded that there was a strong likelihood she would end up taking care of him when his health choices caught up with him. She was not looking forward to it!
You know, I have only ever wanted to be one of the sheep. [Well, maybe one of the more obedient goats. Goats are smarter than sheep.] Following the leader over hill and down dale, one foot after the other until I am safely Home. I have seldom consciously sought to be a leader, except with my girls. So it is unnerving to have somebody outside the family looking to me for advice, or an example worth following.
I will confess that when the girls were at home, I frequently felt like an underfed, unappreciated Sheltie. Yapping, nipping, getting in their dear little sheepie faces and barking until they changed direction. And occasionally dragging one of them bodily from the edge of some precipice. [I wouldn’t be surprised if each of them could show you scars from where I bit harder than was perhaps strictly necessary; even Shelties get exasperated once in awhile.]
I sure didn’t want to be in charge. Unlike some people. [Thank you, SuburbanCorrespondent!]
It is a very good thing that I no longer live in an apartment. When I watched that video, I chortled and hooted in a most unseemly manner. I was nearly as noisy as the Katrina refugees who held Mardi Gras day and night, upstairs from me at the Suddenly Scary Apartments. Unlike those neighbors, I managed to refrain from drumming on walls, countertops, and any other surface that might resonate into the next county.
Returning briefly to the topic of the children’s father, we appear to have more good news. The VA has found a nursing home for him that is not five minutes from Secondborn’s house. 2BDH says he will be able to drop by often and make sure that nobody is beating him.
I hear y’all waiting for the punchline. Well yes, there is the smallest possible charcoal grey lining to this rainbow-spangled cloud. He will not be in my ward, true; but he will be in the same ward as two men I have dated and the one that 2BDH would love for me to date. Odds are excellent that at least one of them will get assigned to be his home teacher.
We now return you to the all-me, all-the-time channel. The outfit I put together for yesterday, really worked. I got so many compliments, and I felt pretty all day, or at least until halfway through the drive home, when I just felt tired. Since I had a date with Middlest for pizza and chatter, I left the house early enough to park at the station where I usually go when I have Knit Night. Once I got on the freeway and was headed for the exit onto I-35, everything turned into a parking lot on both freeways. So I headed south, made a U-turn, and headed east on I-30 into Dallas.
So, no Trainman yesterday. He has no idea what a vision he missed! ☺ He won’t be on the train tonight, because he has Thursday nights with his kidlet. No, I am not pining. Don’t be silly. But I will definitely miss the good conversation, the restaurant recommendations, the cultural observations, and yes, the easiness-on-the-eyes.
Maybe there will be somebody on the train tonight who is almost as enjoyable and closer to my age?
Minimal progress on the socks yesterday, but they no longer resemble sunglasses [or a bikini top]. Secretarial training went well. And now if you will all excuse me, there is some cold pizza calling my name.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!