In Line at Macy’s

I stood in line with a Christmas gift in my hands at the only register open inside the entire Macy’s. I shifted my weight and tugged at my jacket. It was too warm to wear it, yet I didn’t want to take it off and have to hold it. To pass the time I struck up a conversation with all the other people waiting in line. We talked about the weather, it was in the 40-50’s outside, which is a bit warm for winter in Rhode Island.

“It’s hard to feel like Christmas shopping when there isn’t any snow on the ground,” I commented.

The other people all expressed agreement, and we all commented on the unseasonable warmth.

“When I lived in Australia, Christmas actually falls in the summer, you know, because the seasons are reversed? It’s impossible to feel Christmassy when all you want to do is go to the beach,” I laughed.

“Yeah, but just think,” the woman in line in front of me replied, “It’s probably freezing when they’re celebrating the 4th of July.”

It's All About Expectations

Todd: Don’t eat the cake I made.


Beej: Why?

Todd: It’s horrible.

Beej: Oh no, what happened.

Todd: I think it was a bad recipe.

Beej: Well, can I eat the frosting?

Todd: No, that’s not good for you.

Beej: I don’t expect it to be good for me.

Alternating

First I got stranded when the jeep failed to start when I went out to run errands at lunch. Then a few weeks ago I was stranded at the library when the jeep failed to start again. The library here in Podunk is right by the police station. A cop was in the parking lot and he tried to get the jeep started and to stay running. No dice.

The library is 2 miles from home, and it was a rare night that Todd was home before me. He came out and got the car to, kinda, stay running and he drove it home. Then it sat in the driveway until we got the chance to replace the alternator with one that, um, alternates?

I took turns driving Todd’s bitchen Acura, and our big red pickup truck, a.k.a the meat wagon, to and from work. I got home in the truck one day and said “You know, I am going to stack that firewood over there, and I am going to crank up my iPod inside the truck and rock out while I do it.” And then the music stopped a half hour later. And then the truck wouldn’t start anymore, because listening to music for a half a fricken hour in the truck drains the battery. (Does that sound ridiculously short to anyone else?)

“So, this only tells me that if I took the bus to work, the damn thing would break down and I’d strand dozens of people, that’s how bad my luck is with cars right now,” I complained to my sister on the phone.

“Don’t say that,” she laughed. “I am sitting in my car listening to the radio while the kids have soccer. With your luck you’re going to strand me now too.” But her car actually started though, because she’s got way better luck with those things than I do.

I am married to MacGuyver, and he replaced my alternator on Saturday, while simultaneously preventing a nuclear reactor from melting down and stopping a runaway freight train from derailing and plowing into an animal shelter filled with newborn puppies. Well, not really, but when you’re married to MacGuyver everything he does is astoundingly cool like that. And this morning on the way to work I was able to participate in the jeep wave again.

What I Miss

I miss how you never understood that the word “junk” didn’t have a plural. You’d say something like “I need to clean up these junks.” Thinking about it now makes me smile. But it also makes me sad because I’ll never hear you say that again.

I miss the messages you used to leave on my machine. Your accent combined with the awkwardness you felt when speaking to an answering machine were pure comedy gold. “Bih Jeh….. eet’s me. Eeet’s yurr Mum.” I used to smile and say “Yeah, no shit. How many people do I know talk that way?” I used to gather my co-workers in my cube so they could hear one of your adorable yet unintentionally hilarious messages. I wish I’d thought to tape one of them, because now I’ll never hear one ever again.

I miss walking out into the cold with you. You’d react to the cold blast of air the same way every single time. You’d jam your hands into your pockets, snuggle inward and say in Polish, “Oh how cold!” I can still hear you say it, as clear as day.

I miss your blueberry pierogi. I miss your homemade applesauce and crepes. I miss the apple pancakes you used to make for breakfast. I miss the way you did scrambled eggs with bacon pieces inside. I can’t seem to cook any of these things.

I miss the way you’d fill me in on all the family gossip, whether I wanted to hear it or not.

But most of all, Mom, I just miss you.

Where the Hell Have I Been

I’ve had an iPod for a few years now, but I’ve only used it for working out. I don’t take it in the car because then I’ll forget it somewhere, like at work, and I won’t have it for my workout. And then I won’t workout. And then I’ll eat something instead. And then I’ll see the weight creep up on the scale. And then I’ll fall into some sloth-like cycle. All because I forgot my iPod somewhere.

Yesterday I was in my car, and I looked at all the CD jewel cases all over the place—in around the emergency brake so it gets to the point where I can’t use the brake without having to move 8 dozen jewel cases. None of the correct CDs are even in those jewel cases anymore. And they’re all over the fricken place. Then I pulled into Best Buy. And then I bought the brand new iPod Nano.

I cleaned out the car, brought all those CDs into the house and plugged my new iPod in. I spent the entire evening loading CDs onto my lappy, and then dragging them onto the iPod. I still had a stack of CDs ready to go on, but there were only so many hours.

And then this morning I introduced myself to the world of podcasts. I had heard about a “Writers on Writing” podcast that I’d been wanting to check out. I subscribed to it and downloaded 6-7 episodes. I put the first one on as I drove to work, and then I put it on again as I drove over to the boat ramp at lunchtime. And then I listened to more of it on the way home.

I am in love.

And I ask, where the hell have I been.

Mimicking a Puppy

Normally I am a very good sleeper. I once slept through a tropical storm while tied to a mooring in Newport Harbor. I woke up after the storm had gone by, rubbed my eyes, looked up at the sun and said “So, did the storm miss us?” Todd shook his head and laughed. He’d tried to wake me up so I could see how the wind was blowing. No dice.

But when busy season at work hits, my brain wakes up at ridiculous o’clock and says “Now you are going to obsess about really dumb things that you cannot possibly change at this hour. Ready? And NOW!” And then I focus on things at work that I cannot possibly change. Even when I think about it and come up with a solution, I still think about it. Even after I smack myself on the forehead and say “StopitStopitStopitStopit you’ve solved the problem now go to sleep.” Boing, the eyes remain open wide.

Today was another fun busy season day. I had gotten my inbox down to 60 messages, down from a high of 108. (This is a lot for me. Normally I only leave what I am currently working on in my inbox, if it gets to 20 then that’s a lot for me.) I was on top of my game, and then all hell broke loose around 3 PM. The emails came flying in, my heart rate started to rise. The phone rang and rang. And then I found out that vendor I work very closely on a major part of my job made a very careless mistake. And of course the person in charge who works for my client got to see the result of this careless mistake. And then, of course, she cc’d my boss on the “What the hell is this???” email.

The email from the client came in as I was on the phone with the vendor. I saw it and gasped. “What’s wrong?” she asked me. “Holyshitholyshit, Holy. Shit.” I forwarded the email to my vender who also gasped and said “Holyshitholyshitsholyshit.” Then we hyperventilated as we tried to figure out what went wrong.

We hung up the phone at 5:30. We know what went wrong, but that won’t be good enough for the client as it should never ever have happened to begin with. And tomorrow morning will be messy when my boss is back from her day off and asks me what the hell went wrong.

I wonder how the obsession session will go at 3 AM tomorrow morning. I came home and jogged the better part of 4 miles. Then I ate a lot of food. If there was milk in the house I would totally drink a warm glass of it. I hope that I burned enough energy to sleep all the way through.

Thwarted

I am not afraid to admit it.  They're out to get me.  It would seem that every piece of technology I've touched lately has in one way or another stopped me from getting to point B.

First it was while we were on the 2 week leg of the trip this summer.  I filled my camera's memory card.  "No problem," I thought.  "I'll just dump these onto Todd's laptop."  I pulled the card out, slid it into the laptop, copied and pasted.

"What are you doing?" he asked.  I told him that I was loading my pictures on to the computer to get them out of my camera.

"Hey, what's with this funny icon?" I asked.  He took the computer from me. 

"Beej, this is my work laptop.  It's encrypted.  Now all those pictures you put on there are encrypted.  You'll probably never get them off of here now."  And then the tantrum ensued.  Luckily, Todd managed to unencrypt them, but I still haven't had a moment to get them off of his laptop and onto mine.

You see, my own laptop has been slower than weight loss.  I've complained about it, ad nauseum.  I've started negotiations for a new one "If you get me a new laptop, I will never ever ever pester you about leaving your dirty clothes in the living room ever again.  For the rest of our marriage."  The offer piqued his interest, but we've been too busy to pick a new one out.

"Ah, you don't need a new laptop.  Yours is riddled with viruses.  Let me take this into the office and get it cleaned up for you," he offered.

"What do you mean 'riddled with viruses'?  My manuscript is on there.  Man. U. Script."  Then hyperventilation ensued.  A lot of it.  A paper bag over my mouth may or may not have been involved.  I will neither confirm nor deny.

So, the laptop's in surgery.  I was supposed to go get it yesterday after work.  During lunch I ran some errands at the bank, got an oil change and the swung by the dive shop to pick up a tank that had been serviced.  I said goodbye to Red, the owner of the shop, and inserted the key into the ignition.  When I turned it nothing happened.  The engine didn't roar to life, I didn't pull out of the shop and drive back to the office.  Nothing. 

I got my jumpers out and went back into the shop and held them up as Red was on the phone.  He winced then followed me out.  We clamped the cables on.  I turned the key.  Nada.  I glanced at my watch.  I should have been sitting at my desk for a good 10 minutes by that point.

Phoned AAA.  Roadside assistance dude came out but was able to provide no such assistance despite the fact that I was near the road.  I turned the key while he hit various parts of my engine with a stick.  I didn't think that method would have worked anyway, but kept my mouth shut.

Three hours later the tow truck arrived.  The driver hit the engine with a stick as well.  He turned the key and the engine roared to life in perhaps what would be the last time the starter on my car would ever work.  I drove home, pulled the car into the garage and now I wonder if I'll ever get it out again when Todd and I take it to the mechanic next week. 

I arrived home after 6 by that point, frustrated that I'd missed an entire afternoon of work.  I turned on the desktop computer that I rarely use and attempted to log in to work.  Access denied.  Tried again.  Access denied.  I swore.  I threatened.  I negotiated.  I used various phrases starting with the word "mother" until finally something went right and I got in.

I worked for a few hours and stumbled upon an email from the surgeon currently operating on my laptop.

"Hi Beej, hoped it would have been ready but there are about 6500 pieces of spyware on it.  It keeps blue screening, but I am still working on it."

"That's OK," I wrote back.  "It's not like I was going to get there anyway.  It would seem that my jeep has about 6500 pieces of spyware on it and the starter blue screened today."

But today is another day, and I am determined for it to go better.  It'll start with taking Todd's car to work instead. 

Squirrel du Soleil

Where there's a will... there's a way.

An Evening with the Ya-Yas

Years ago I read “Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood” and thoroughly loved it. I even envied the connection the characters had, the lifelong friendship, the brutal honesty and the got-your-back-ness that these characters have for each other.

And then I met these women in real life on the back porch of my friend Sean’s parents’ house on Sunday night. I hadn’t met Sean’s parents, or these women, before. But I heard the stories. Sean’s mom and these women get together every year—the get together usually involves consuming every drop of alcohol within a five mile radius and holding their sides from laughing constantly. They took me into their fold on the back deck and kept my margarita glass filled.

It was the margarita pitcher that first got my attention. It couldn’t have been more than 2 quarts, yet Kathy had upended the bottle of tequila into it. A salted glass was placed near my elbow as I helped Todd in the kitchen, I sipped it and felt my nose hairs burn from the overpowering tequila and who knows what else was poured into that pitcher. I swirled the glass to get the ice cubes to even out the drink. I told myself that after finishing this one, the next one would taste better—only because my tastebuds would be drowned.

When I brought snacks out to the deck, the women convinced me to join them. I had imagined I’d help Todd, Sean and Heidi in the kitchen, but felt superfluous in there as they buzzed around like bees in a hive. I pulled up a chair and listened to their stories, and their gossip.

They roped me in immediately. Cookie was talking about the group’s arch-nemesis, Nancy. I gathered that this Nancy character had a nasty habit of talking trash about the children of these women. I held up my margarita glass and declared, “Nancy Schmancy!” The rest of the women cheered. I was in. The subject of Nancy came up a few more times. I tipped my marg back, felt the tequila sting and then soothe my throat, and said “This Nancy chick is a downer! Let’s talk about something else.” They cheered again and my glass was refilled. Kathy agreed, “Let’s talk about the subject!” I set my marg glass aside, my hand covering it as if I was attending a frat party. I wondered which of the Real Life Ya Yas would slip me a roofie.

I didn’t end up getting roofied, but the chowder did. A few of the women occasionally left the patio and then came back minutes later saying “I’ve just been kicked out of the kitchen.” It happened to Donna. To Karen. To Cookie. I was talking to Cherry and didn’t pay much attention to the comings and goings from the kitchen. I assumed Todd and Sean were being polite “Go on the deck, have fun, we’ll take care of the cooking…” Because that’s exactly what they would say when cooking at a party.

Later on, as I helped with grilling the corn on the cob, I learned the real story. Todd and Sean fiercely guarded the pot of chowder. They’d left it unattended a few times and had drunken women spiking it with various spices. Out of the corner of his eye Todd saw Donna think aloud, without tasting the chowder, “This needs salt.” Before he could act she picked up the container of sea salt and, because she was drunk and lacked coordination, dumped a cup of salt into the pot. Karen desperately searched for dried parsley and peppercorns to lob in there. Earlier in the night Sean had tasted the chowder and said “Man, this is so salty…” he tossed some corn starch into the pot and I guarded it until Todd turned it off. Apparently the spiking had been going on longer than we thought. Sean’s sister ran out to the store to retrieve more milk and cream, Todd resuscitated the chowder as Sean's niece served as a rodeo clown to keep the women out of the kitchen and then dinner was served.

The lobsters glowed red from the platter. The stuffed quahogs (also very salty as Donna had mysteriously struck again) and stuffed lobster tails were lined in neat rows and ready to eat. I was pulling charred corn off the grill, and we feasted into the night.

We said our goodnights, and I received hugs from all the Ya Yas. On the way home I vowed not to get so caught up in my own life and be better at maintaining my own friendships. I also vowed to let Todd do the cooking and to keep my own hands off the salt.

Envy

I drove up to the mailbox, just like I do every night. I stuck my arm out the car window and deep into the recesses of the box. I speculate, as I do every night, as to how long the mail carrier’s arms must be. The letters, magazines and junk mail are always shoved up against the back of the box to the point where I have to open the car door and half step out so I can reach all the way back there.

I take a moment to drop the mail into my lap and glance through it before I step on the gas and drive the car into the garage. I never bothered to bring the recycling bins back to the house, and I leave the car so I can recycle the junk mail rather than bring it into the house.

And then I saw it; an envelope addressed to Todd with the “US District Court” on the return address. I tipped the envelope so I can see into the window, but I already know what it is. It’s the same survey I had to fill in when I was selected for jury duty. Jealousy washed over me—how I would love to serve on jury duty again. After Todd watched me go through it, he is interested in serving as well. However, because he is busy running his business and employing other Rhode Islanders, I suspect he won’t have the time. Which is a shame. He’d make an awesome juror.

My stint as a federal grand juror officially ended in April, but because we still have 3 cases pending my jury has been extended. We haven’t been called back in to hear any more testimony. But the extension is due to end in October, and I wonder what will happen to those three fascinating ongoing cases. Will we finally get to finish them? Will another jury have to re-hear everything from the beginning? Will we get extended again? Will the cases be dropped?

I am pretty sure that one of the three cases will likely be dropped, if it hasn't already. At the very beginning of each case, the Assistant US Attorney prosecuting the case tells us what the charges are and what laws the target of the investigation is suspected of breaking. As we heard testimony we hadn’t heard any of the witnesses say anything that suggested that the target had done what he was accused of doing. Unless the attorney brings in a witness who shows us that this person has committed the crime it’s unlikely that it will result in an indictment.

But there are still two other cases, and they are strong. On one of them we had already returned an indictment, and I’d read in the paper that indictment resulted in a guilty plea. The man we indicted will likely serve 10 years in prison. There are still other parts of the case that the witnesses are still fleshing out for us, and I cannot wait to get back into that deliberation room to hear more.

This morning Todd was reading the letter from the court. I know he wants to serve. I know he wants to give something back to our country. But I know that he’s already over extended as it is.

I am green with envy.

Todd's Inevitable Future

Back in April, I told you about the massive tadpole die-out that happened in our driveway after the flood. About now I bet there would be thousands of frogs hopping around in our lawn. 

Since the flood, we decided to have the driveway dealt with.  The pipe at the end of the driveway that serves as the culvert is falling apart.  The rain washed out the driveway to the point were I feel like I am driving over speedbumps every time I go anywhere, and I am tired of walking in pudding-like mud every time it rains. 

Just today I sent Todd an email:

It's a good thing we're having the driveway paved.  If the frog infestation continued, this is what you'd look like when you're old.

When Nerds Get Married and Send Each Other Emails

Recently Todd's jumped onto the iPad wagon.  At first he regarded it as a toy.  But the more he played with it and the more he customized it, the more he molded it into a useful tool.  For example, he's downloaded an app for tides, so now we can check the tide schedule for anywhere in the US.  This is handy for when we travel through the narrower parts of Long Island Sound next month.  Going with the tides will make a world of a difference in terms of defining our ability to get anywhere in a reasonable amount of time.

He's got the iPad dialed in to the point where he can access his work computer through it using some hoodoo voodoo called Virtualization.  Now when he sends me emails, they look like this.

******
Dear Beej,

Blah blah blah blah... Todd speak, yadda yadda.

Love, Todd

Sent remotely from a VMware virtual desktop
******

Just this morning he wrote to me, and it was in this format, with this "sent remotely from" thing appended to the end.

So I wrote back:

******
Dear Todd,

Blah blah blah... yadda yadda, Beej speak.

Love, Beej

Sent from a crappy computer on a desk whose load bearing properties are questionable.
******

Only in Todd's World

"I can't believe it's you," the woman approached Todd as he walked into the Supercuts in Warwick, RI.  "Wow, I can't believe you're really here!"

"I'm sorry.  Do I know you?" he asked, trying to be polite.

"No, you don't.  And I am sure you get asked this all the time.  But will you please do the 'Wolfpack' speech?  I love that movie!" she gushed.

Because, apparently, my husband looks like the character Alan from "The Hangover."

Well, maybe just a little.

It Must Be Love

In my single years I was a very intolerant girlfriend. I ended relationships on a whim, and often badly. You don’t call me enough? You’re outta here. Call me too much? See ya. You’re wearing that in public? Sayonara. You sing off key? Adios, muchacho,


Don’t even get me started on bad table manners, or bad manners in general. It is not OK to agree to go to a family function with me on a Sunday, but just have your date from the night before leave moments before I arrive to pick you up in the morning. And don’t go to a frat party when the last you heard from me was my voice on your machine saying “Hey, I’m stuck in Johnston, my car broke down. Can you please come and get me?” And don’t be surprised if I get really mad and leave a dozen messages on your machine calling you an asshole and my future ex-boyfriend for doing just that. And then don’t be equally surprised when you actually do become my ex-boyfriend the very next day.

A Google stalking session revealed that the boyfriend in the first scenario above married the woman who left his place that Sunday morning. The other boyfriend in the second scenario never understood why I was so mad at him, and I wonder if he’s ever told that story to his wife and I wonder whose side she took.

But marriage is different. Well, for starters I didn’t marry a man who has ever even thought of doing the above. There is something encompassing about marriage. The things that once annoyed the crap out of me about ex-boyfriends now don’t bother me so much because the man I married is so much more than the habits that once drove me up a wall.

For example, when I go to bed before my husband does, he routinely comes clomping up the stairs loudly talking to the dogs and wakes me up just after I’d managed to drift off. On the rare occasion that I sleep later than he does, he whistles the M*A*S*H theme song while he gets ready for work, and he does it loudly.

But there are so many great things that he does, that it doesn’t matter that he wakes me up. I mean, he talks to our dogs as they are all getting ready for bed and often covers Griffen with his t-shirt so he won’t be cold. He whistles the M*A*S*H theme song while getting ready for work. How endearing is that? Never mind all the other zillions of little things he does to put a smile on my face.

I spend my entire days at work gazing at pictures of Todd and missing him horribly, even though I’d just seen him in the morning and will see him in the evening. It used to be that going to work was a break from my relationship. But now it's an interruption.  A three day weekend is looming, and I am so excited that I will get to spend every minute of it with Todd. Friday afternoon cannot come soon enough.

So those other boyfriends? They were just practice.

Wah-ka Wah-ka Wah-ka

If you haven’t seen today’s Google logo, go see it now. I’ll wait here for you, go check it out.

And there goes my afternoon. Up in dots, ghosts and Pacmen. (And then I'll probably be fired.) 

Today is Pacman’s 30th birthday. It was, and still is, one of the most famous video games of all times. It appealed to both genders, as it wasn’t a shoot em up in space kind of a game that were so popular in the early 80’s. It was highly addictive as well, and I am sure the that the one at the Enfield Roller World, where I used to play it, weighted a metric ton from all the quarters I’d pumped into it.

I was 6 when the game came out. But I didn’t know about it until I was 8. My sister Margaret taught me how to play it one day after school. She took me along for the ride when she had an eye doctor appointment, and because I was such a good girl she took me to a pizza place where they had Pacman.

She shoved a quarter into the slot, and showed me the premise of the game. “You have to go around and eat up the dots. When you eat the big one, the ghosts turn blue and then you can eat them.” Then later on, as I got the hang of it she warned “Oh, watch out! They’re changing back and now they’re going to chase you again.”
Then she ran out of quarters. Then we got an Atari at home and we played it there. My neighbors had a handheld Pacman. Well, a handheld video game in 1982 was roughly the size of the laptop I am using to write this post. But it was yellow and awesome.

Before we knew it, Pacman was every where. There was even a song on the radio called Pacman fever. It was on an album sold by K-Tel. (OMG! Do you remember those K-Tel commercials??) Pacman machines showed up in every Mom and Pop pizza joint. They had the kind that you had to stand up to play and the table top kind you could sit at and play. Player 2 sat across from you and played his turn from there, while you nibbled on your pizza conveniently located on the game’s table.

And now it’s 30 years old. And just about every person on this earth knows what it is and how to play.

Well done, Namco. Bravo.

The Sounds of Summer

Thwap thwap thwap go the flip flops. I can hear them on my own feet, and on the feet of just about everyone else.

Crunch goes the pile of seashells at the high tide line on the beach when I walk across them.

The soft ba-dap ba-dap bad-dap of dog paws hitting sand, and the eventual sploosh of a Labrador gleefully bounding into the surf.

The chirping of the birds of the feeder. Just yesterday I saw the pair of cardinals again. She was resting on the deck railing while he went to the feeder. He took a single seed then hopped along the railing and placed it her mouth. Cardinals need to be seductive too, I guess.

The humming of the hummingbirds as they shoot by, flying upright in such a way that doesn’t seem aerodynamically possible.

The whooshing of the wind as we take the first topless doors off ride in the jeep. Followed by the crispy chomp into a sugar cone.

The low moan of a lawn mower somewhere in the neighborhood, followed by the fragrance of freshly cut grass.

The sizzle of burgers on the grill. Followed by the quick hiss of the bottle top on a cold beer bottle.

The soft sloosh of a sharp knife effortlessly slicing a watermelon, then the slurping of the juice before it inevitably ends up on my chin.

The sputtering as an outboard motor comes to life, followed by the high wail of turning the throttle all the way up.

Sabine’s diesel rumbling, then eventually it’s silencing as we turn it off and raise the sails. The sound is diminished, but the forward momentum is still there. It amazes me every time, still.

Waves gently lapping against the hull, the snoring from an afternoon nap on deck in the sun, and the satisfied sigh from a long stretch after waking from that nap.

The Darth Vader like inhalations off a regulator while underwater, and the gentle force of bubbles traveling upward and breaking the surface.

Why I Shouldn’t Be Allowed in Public without Supervision

Yesterday I was visiting a 3-story office building. I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for “3,” and an older woman came in behind me. She leaned toward the elevator control panel and verified that the “3” light was on. I waited for her to push the button again, because everyone pushes the button again. But she didn’t and it made me smile. And she needed to explain why she didn’t push the button; despite the fact that it had already been pushed.

Woman: I am going to the same floor as you.

Beej: I expected you to push the button again.

Woman: Why would I do that? You already pushed it.

Beej: Because everyone pushes the button, even though they know it’s already been pushed. It’s just a thing that you always see people do.

Woman: Really? I don’t think I’ve ever done that.

Beej: You do realize that pushing it again makes the elevator go faster, right?

Woman: Really? I didn’t know that.

Beej: Yep.  (Elevator opens on third floor, I get out.)

Woman: Wow, I guess you do learn something new every day.

Living with the Bubonic Plague

While I was on my technology induced blog vacation, I have contracted what seems to be the Bubonic Plague. So it’s just as well that I haven’t been able to post, as you were all spared the gory details of my annoying symptoms.

I am back to eating solids now. Kind of. On Sunday I got cocky. I ate all kinds of things. And what didn’t I do for a Klondike bar? Oh, you’ve no idea! I ate pizza! Glorious pizza! Todd made jambalaya from scratch. The recipe called for roughly 8 metric tons of cayenne pepper. I arrogantly ate a few bites, and then promptly held my hands against my jaws to prevent my face from melting from the heat.

Yesterday morning I struggled through a few bites of toast for breakfast, and fed the rest to the dogs. I boiled an egg, and then split it in half for each dog as well. I got cocky and tried to eat a plain turkey sandwich. It took three hours to get through about ¾ of it before I gave up. Will someone explain to me why I thought Greek yogurt would be a good idea? Because really? It wasn’t. At all. Todd made me the world’s blandest chicken soup for dinner, and I ate about three bites of it before I declared I was done eating anything for the rest of my life.

But today is a new day. I am feeling better. My energy is returning. It’s amazing the effect that food has on my energy. My fuel tank is full. I am not doubled over in agony. My stomach isn’t making noises only heard from caged lions. And I am about 3 pounds lighter. Win win!

The major downside to living with the Bubonic Plague, is the lack of energy. We’re getting ready to launch Sabine, and there is still oh so much to be done. Working on weeknights is largely a bust, as we’re both tired from work. (I don’t know how we used to do that all the time? It used to be that we’d work on the boat until a million o’clock on weeknights and still go do our jobs. Where have those days gone??)

On Saturday we went to the boat, and then Todd promptly drove me home again. I squandered the day in a disoriented haze of illness. On Sunday, we made another stab at working on the boat, and declared the day a wasted effort as well. The new fuel tanks are inside the boat, but not hooked up to anything. The radar, while now functional (!!!) still needs to have the wires chased up the mast and through the interior of the boat. The boat’s a damn mess and it smells bad, too.

But there’s always next weekend.

Lonely

Well, lonely and jealous I guess. Todd and his dad are currently in a plane bound for The Bahamas. The Fricken Bahamas. I am stuck in Rhode Island, doing pesky things like going to work, and he’s on his way to the Bahamas. Their plane departed Boston this morning, and after a three hour flight they’ll be having lunch and fruity umbrella drinks on a white sand beach. I am sure you’ll excuse my jealousy.

He goes on a trip with each of his parents once a year. In February he had a conference in Vegas and took his mom along for the week. Concerned that she’d be bored while he was at the conference, he arranged for his cousin—a close friend of my mother-in-law—to join them. Of course, he did not tell his mom about this arrangement, and surprised her on that Sunday. And of course they all had an amazing time. He arranged for a day in the spa for the two of them, they went to something like 3 dozen Cirque du Soleil shows. He won gobs of money at three card poker, and turned it all over to his mom so she could have some mad money while he was in class during the day.

Now he’s off to The Bahamas with his dad, where I am sure they’ll do fabulous things like renting a sailboat, snorkeling, and drinking lots of rum.

More than jealous, I am lonely. Before I met Todd, I lived alone. I liked living alone. I enjoy having my own space. I used to look forward to Todd’s trips just so I could have the joint to myself for a few days. Last night I made a very disgusting and disappointing dinner. Of the two of us, Todd’s the cook. So, I lamented his absence as I dumped the chicken fried rice into the trash. I had found the recipe in the Providence Journal, and in my incapable hands it turned out entirely inedible. Relieved, I discovered both cereal and milk in the kitchen—a rarity—and polished off the quiet night with a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

But this morning I woke up and the house felt empty, despite the beagle hogging the bed. Even though I lived alone, and quite enjoyed it, I find myself enjoying an empty house less and less. I never wanted to be one of those married people who couldn’t exist without her spouse, and I am scared that I am turning into that person.

While he’s away, I am filling the time. Tomorrow night I am dragging some friends along to see Willy Porter in concert. Then on Sunday I am going to a cook-out.

But it’s just not the same without Todd.

Circle of Life, Disrupted

A few weeks ago our driveway, along with our entire state, flooded. The entire driveway was one large ankle deep puddle. The weekend after the flood, the sun came out and the weather teased us with a taste of early summer. Our waterlogged lawn kept on flowing water off to the side, and the driveway dried out a bit except for a large network of puddles on the far side.

That summery weekend frogs took up residence in the puddle and proceeded to throw a froggy orgy. Frogs left their little keys in the bowl and proceeded to pair up all over the driveway. It was to the point where we couldn’t drive in without having to get up and interrupt the action so we could move them all to the side. I joked about blasting some Barry White out the living room window. But it didn’t look like we didn’t need to do that. They were getting on just fine without our help.

Last weekend I was near the puddles getting some firewood. I looked down and saw millions of squirming black tadpoles. Millions of them. I ran into the house to get Todd, and we excitedly watched them all squirm. We speculated as to how many frogs we’d have hopping all over the place.

Todd went inside and researched on the web about raising tadpoles into frogs. We learned that we cannot fill the puddles with the hose, because the copper from the pipes in the house would kill them. The puddles were still several inches deep, so we didn’t think it would be a problem.

On Monday the sun came out, and the temperature rose to the high 60’s-low 70’s. When we got home from work, the puddle was a bit smaller. Then on Tuesday we had another nice day. When we returned home the puddle had disappeared. Left in its place were oily looking black splotches. We looked closer and saw that the millions of little tadpoles had died when their home dried out.

And I wonder how long it’ll take for Nemo to roll in it.