How Can You Not?

I can not comprehend how one does not like goat cheese or avacados...or pugs and camping and yoga.  Reading old novels or technicolor movies, VW Buses and hot sauce.  Sandy feet, walks in the woods, stapling 100's and patchouli.  Making lists, sitting in the floor on the dog's bed w/ him and tattoos.  Bike rides, talking to yourself or French vanilla coffee creamer.  Whipped vodka, ramen noodles and eclectic art.  Dark beers, reggae, stars....Solitude...

Death Perception

"Time is like an old man leaning over my shoulder" - me.

I've recently amended my self taught beliefs, it's part of what makes only believing what you want even better.  I'm straddled between whether it's a healthy move or just a mind game.  Either way, it was like someone flipped a switch in my head and suddenly I was able to deal with the loss.  I lost a friend in January and it didn't have to happen.  He's just part of a faceless statistic that fell between the cracks of a wrecked healthcare system.  His name was Jimmy and he had just turned 60 years old.  Jimmy was a work buddy, which makes the basis of our friendship somewhere between a shared hatred of people who order hot tea and our matching ability to make jokes about folks in front of them without their knowledge and a shared appreciation of leftovers from patrons plates.  Plus an inappropriate amount of talk around the subject of poop and crop dusting...basically a restuarant relationship.  I didn't realize until after he was gone all the conversations that I had only with him.  He was my book conversationist and we had the same taste in reads.  You don't understand how important this is until its gone.  In the restuarant world people come and go...a lot.  I had just lost one friend that decided to go into the family business and move back closer to her parents.  Another and her husband scored a dream job and moved to St. Croix.  They were gone...just like Jimmy.  Insert change in death perception here...in my mind Jimmy's now living in Panama or maybe Costa Rica or maybe he's just walking the boardwalk in Hollywood, Fl with a tan and a huge smile.  I think when he got to wherever it is that we go for a pit stop and refuel they said "Shit man, sorry about that bum heart, our bad...got an offer for you though...think its one you're gonna really like."  I can't be sad anymore.  I miss him and our conversations the same way as I miss my other friends that have moved on.  Healthy or no?

Around this same time that I was wrapping (or twisting) my mind around this, I had a dream.   One of those that you can remember almost every detail and it felt just like living it.  We had gone out of town and boarded the dog, which in my dream was Roger not Dexter.  When the trip was over and we came back to town I couldn't remember where I'd left my dog.  I was frantic to find him.  Somehow I was at work when I figured out where he was and left without turning in my money and reports...weird stuff.  Anyhow, when I got the the place that had Roger it was after hours and I thought I would have to wait til they opened, but there was lady that let me in to him then proceeded to set up a little microphone and some type of karaoke setup.  She played some crazy tune and woke up some of the neighbors celebrating our being back together.  I remember old people in night gowns opening up doors and glaring down the hallway at the noise.  I realized I still had my work money and decided to just wait up and call the bossman first thing to explain.  When he answered the phone he said "I just heard from them that they couldn't find your pulse."  I woke up instantly with this huge feeling of "Ok-ness" and maybe peace? I don't know.  To me, I had just experienced what it would be like to die and there was nothing bad about it.  I was so excited to be back with Roger and I had no idea that I had gone to where he was not the other way around.  There was no sense of loss for what I had left, only the completeness of being where I was.  I've always believed that the larger part of our soul is sitting up there somewhere whispering into our ears trying to lend a little guidance or nudge us the way we are supposed to be headed, but I had never put it all together like this.  My larger soul is sitting up there with Velcro's larger soul and all my other cosmic litter mates. And Roger is there with my soul and she's taking care of him, and she is me so I'm still with him.  I am so, so glad that I am not restricted by the beliefs that were taught to me and that most everyone else lives with.  They are very depressing.  As I write this, we are awaiting "the phone call" about another friend whose body is struggling to hold on to his soul.  I'm going to miss him when he leaves too, but he's moving away to a place just like Jimmy's and he's going to be so excited for whatever is waiting for him, just like my dream.  

We can't change life and death but we can change our perception.

A Day Before 43

The Truth in 13 Words - " Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what the fuck happened"

Do you believe in old souls...In reincarnation?  What about cosmic litter mates? (a phrase I prefer over soul mates). I have no true basis or source for my beliefs and I have held them long enough to prove they are more than just rebellion against my raising.  I believe that between my last lifetime and my current that I recycled rather quickly.  I have a strange awareness and draw to the old music and cars, almost like memories.  The response I sometimes get is that my parents must have listened to it when I was young and I picked up on it.  This is not the case.  The summer before 3rd grade we moved to a new, much smaller town.  I remember early on that school year they asked us to write the radio station we listened to on a paper and then everyone got to show their paper and talk about it to the class.  I use the term class loosely as there were about 10 of us that year.  We sat with our desks in a circle facing each other.  I don't recall what the other kids had written but can almost still see my paper.  E-Z 102  It was the elevator music station of the time.  There was no 60's or 70's Rock and roll influencing my young brain. That radio station truth exposure I believe was the door opening to my ass being kicked every damn day on the playground for the remainder of that year.  It didn't help that I was a red headed buck tooth Opie look-a-like.

My current read is Keith Richards life story, which is way outside of my normal reading comfort zone. Back in 97 I saw the Stones in concert.  It was a last minute impulsive ticket buy as they announced the day before the concert they had "production seating" meaning the stage hadn't taken up as much room as they had planned.  I was in the second row of the second section.  At 24 I had no idea of what songs the Stones had made it with.  At some point I had a greatest hits cd.  As I read this book though, at mention of a title from early or mid 60's the notes and lyrics come springing from the deep dark crevasses of my mind.  It makes me wonder what else "I know" that I don't know, that I know. 

The Lost Art....

What happened to consideration?  It makes me insane to look across a restuarant and see everyone on a phone ignoring everything and everyone around them.  The young ones almost have a pass because they have had technical devices shoved up their asses since they came out of the womb.  The 70 some year old women that can't put them down or even look up to order a glass of wine are the ones that get me the most...this has been in your life for like the last 5 minutes, step out of the way, put the fucker down, order your wine and have a conversation.   

On the conversation of conversations, it seems I've fallen into a pit where no one has real conversations anymore.  It's all about whatever sport happens to be in a play off or tournament situation or politics or the weather or someone's golf game.  I'm so starved of real conversation, I'm almost to the point of eating my own brain, which everyone knows will probably taste like vodka, pork rinds and hot sauce.  

I suppose it's my looming day of birth celebration that has me contemplating quality of time and life and what we do with what we have...and such heavy shit.  My Daddy died at 62 and a half, tomorrow I will turn 43.  That would leave me 19 and a half years, subtract the last 4 that he came and went with awareness, that brings it to just over 15 years.  The fuck.  I have got to get busy. I still have redwood forests and desert formations to see.  And mountains in Peru to hike.  And islands to live on...

Politics, Religion And A Litany Of Things That Make Me Drink

"Don't give me any shit, I know just what I'm gettin' in...sure it's a sin, but I don't really give a damn.  I'm drinking again." Corey Smith

The lack of knowledge, as it applies to the use of turn lanes is overwhelming.  Although it is a full size lane set aside just for you to get into until a safe turn can be negotiated, people will stick one wheel in, blocking the through lane like they are dipping a toe in the water checking the temperature.  Completely oblivious to everything behind them.  It could be because this is a tourist town and when folks go on vacation they leave all driving skills and sense at home like they forget to pack toothpaste.  It is no exaggeration that I have seen out of towners do a u-turn from the right lane across six lanes of traffic, not including the tricky scary turn lane, after accidentally passing the Alligator Adventure.  Because ya know going to the next light and turning around is just crazy talk.  I suppose the worst part of it is that it's not even Easter and we have an entire season of horrible drivers that haven't even put up room deposits or started bathing suit shopping yet.  

At work we have a few rules, No Religion and No Politics at the bar is top of the list.  As a matter of fact the same rule pretty much applies at home as well.  All of my adult life I have aimed to escape the "real world" and unplug from society.  Compared to where I came from and from where most people are I suppose I have on some level.  But I'm talking away from everything.  Lately, we have discussed the idea of moving out of the country to somewhere Central America-ish.   Where you could live comfortably on little money.  Where Face the Nation and political ads aren't shoved up your ass 24/7.  Where 1500 cable channels are unnecessary and unheard of.  When I mention the idea to people I'm always met with the same sckepticism and comments, you know you have to worry about being kidnapped and they don't have phones and you would have to do without all the comforts.  Somehow I feel those comforts are part of what wears me out.  Shit man, tell me I don't have to do without the non-stop social media updates and pictures of what someone I went to high school with ate for fucking breakfast.  Once I spent a week on a 32' Hatteras, coming up from Key West to Miami.  Most of my time was spent on the back of the boat, straddling the deck box facing backwards watching the trolling lines, rocking to the waves lost in thought.  On one particular night we docked in Marathon and went into a bar that I now know was Sparky's (may or may not have been at the time).  Above the bar was a tv, the first I have seen all week, and they were reporting about where all Reagan's body would be on display.  I remember thinking, damn Reagan died and I didn't even know it and how nice it was to be so out of touch.  How incredibly nice would it be to have no idea about the shit show of Trump or Clinton or Bernie Sanders...to be able if the subject came up to go "Trump is running for President?? Are you fucking kidding?? Wow."  Then go back to planting your orchids or making yard art out of crap you found on the side of the road on your daily bike ride into the village. 

I have opinions on politics and candidates, and for that I feel a bit ashamed.  Ashamed that I have been exposed to enough to have formed opinions.  I really would like to be blissfully unaware.  I fear or actually know that it is all too far gone. The political scene, the justice system, medicine and insurance and doctors, social security, disability, lawyers.  It's all fucked up.  "Fuck Martha Stewart...she's polishing the brass on the Titanic.  It's all going down." A line out of my favorite movie Fight Club.  We live in a society without consequences.  But I'm the weird one for wanting to drop back and punt.  

Yesterday I took a pile of serial killer books and traded them at the used book store for a pile of Carl Hiaasen, John MacDonald, Randy Wayne White and Tim Dorsey books.  I had ran out of such reads and had resorted to the bookcase of hand me downs which lead me to 2 or 3 back to back serial killer/ cop / they get away in the end books.  I need Travis McGee in my life and crazy characters that live in the Everglades and eat road kill. So about 20 unread books made their way out of my life and were replaced by just as many quirky island books.  It made my soul happy.  Distraction from the things society is spoon feeding the masses is going to come in the form of my garage projects and good books.  Thanks CNN, but I'm busy.

Impact

"The ocean and the sky will be so blue, then we all fade away" - Micah

On this day, February 9, five years ago at 10:01 am I received a message on Facebook.  It said "I cried when your name came up.  It's been too long.  Ann". I remember the last time I saw her but I don't remember what year it was.  We met for ice cream when I had an appointment in a close by town.  She had her husband take our picture together in the parking lot.  

Ann was born April 12, 1940.  I met her when I was 14 so she would have been 47 at the time...only 4+ years older than I am now.  Funny now that I am getting closer to that age, I don't recall her seeming that young.  All through high school (atleast the part of it I made it through) she was my very best friend.  She would come pick me up and haul me around with her, or just take me to her house to eat and hang out with her and her husband.  I'm sure he was tickled to damn death to have another damn teenager hanging around after he had finally gotten his raised and out of the house. We spent hours talking on the phone.  In hind sight our friendship makes no sense at all.  I had the typical teenage angst, just waiting to blow full rebellion and she was the middle aged mother, Sunday school teacher, mother of 3 grown children that had never strayed a day in her life.  Never did I feel like I was a bother or that she was hanging around me as some form of a self perceived duty to save a wayward soul.  When I got old enough to drive I spent hours wandering the country roads in the counties around my house.  I would pull to a stop sign and choose left or right, trying to triangulate and figure where I was or would end up.  Although I couldn't find it today, her parents lived out one of those many roads I roamed.  When I would come by their house with the, "damn that's where that road comes out" epiphany, I would stop in and sit with them.  They made me feel like one of their grandkids, just like she made me feel like one of her girls.  

As an angry sixteen year old I moved out of my parents and in with some friends.  She never tried to discipline me or tell me what to do, she was always there, hug of support and I love you, though her disappointment was worn on her face.  Ann may have been one of the few people, even to this point in my life, who ever knew how to handle me.  She knew that I was/am horrible with criticism and I react poorly to being pushed.  As life goes, jobs, moves, marriages and divorces pull us in different directions and locales...for me at least.  We kept in touch, but not nearly enough.  Years would pass between phone calls.  Distance made visits non-existent. After her message five years ago we talked, though now I don't recall if it was by phone or just email.  She said she still had the pillows I gave her on her bed (gifts that I don't recall) and my picture was still on her nightstand.  She told me that she was proud of my writing, but admitted not understanding some of my snarkiness...blamed it on being an old lady.   That's something I can't imagine she ever became.  Ann died July of 2013 without me ever telling her what impact she had on my life.  Without hearing that I wouldn't have became the same person I am today without her.  I can only hope she knew how incredibly special she was.  

Proper Introductions and Explanations

"If nothing ever changed, there would be no butterflies."

Realize I must, all the changes that have come about since the begining of my writers block.  First and most importantly I need to properly introduce Mr. Dexter Morgan Rhew Bell.  

This is the first picture made of him...he was a tiny 6 weeks old weighing in just under 3 pounds. We had to soak his food with water because he didn't understand how to drink.  It took him probably a month before he found the condensation on my liquor glass interesting and started licking the droplets.  Oh, how I had forgotten what life was like with a puppy.  He's 1 year and 5 months old now...not that he still doesn't have crazy puppy energy, but the super challenging parts of puppy-dom i.e. Potty training and chewing are behind us now.  He actually has a very extensive vocabulary, even much more than Roger ever developed. He understands "Do you need to go poop?" And will give you an appropriate answer of either heading for the door or returning to what he was doing...this, of course, after he turns his head and looks off into the distance as if contemplating his response.  The color of his babies, whether it's because they are shaped different or if he can see color, he will bring either blue baby or red baby on request.  Giraffe is his favorite and he has certain times of day that he will bring him out to play.  Certain words, like Sugar and girlfriends and cat and camp must be spelled out in standard conversation as to avoid the Pug meltdown.  Dexter is Velcro's first dog as an adult and first inside dog ever.  I doubt he could have ever anticipated the love that comes from furry four legged kids.  

This is his mostly grown-up self.  He dresses out just under 20 pounds now...judging from his appetite lately he will be putting on a few more lbs.  

As far as the Homefront is concerned, we have relocated a few miles down the road, or up the road as the case may be.  You know my feelings when it comes to things being meant to happen...if you feel like it's a struggle or there's a lot of effort going into it, then it's probably not meant to be.  But if shit just flows and there doesn't seem to be any real decision making going on, then it's supposed to be happening.  Somehow I looked up inexpensive lots and we decided to drive by a few...no real reason.  Most of them had obvious reasons for being so cheap...like a couple of them you couldn't even park a car on, much less build a house because of the almost shear drop off of the land...and we don't even live where there are hills.  Others where in super sketchy areas that back up to woods frequented by homeless tents and what not...no thanks.  One particular lot looked absolutely perfect.  It was level and without a transient tent community next door and as a bonus, walking distance or stumbling to all kinds of cool bars and restuarants.  So we throw an arbitrary low ball offer, half expecting it would piss the folks off, only to have it accepted.  We look at each other sharing a response of "Well shit...I guess we're building a house..."  And that's how life takes on changes.  It took us about 10 minutes to pick a house plan.  I googled raised beach cottages 1500 sqft and 3 plans popped up.  Both of us pointed to the same one...house plan picked.  About 5 months later we moved in.  My minimalist side went into shock/overdrive and it took me the better part of a month to be able to actually sit down in the house.  I have scored free furniture and free all new kitchen stuff...blenders, utensils, glasses, knives and even a full set of 8 fancy plates.  The Junior Soprano plates that I paid a quarter a piece for were sent along to a better home.  Now I'm a complete homebody verging on recluse.  In the garage I have project tables and fill my time painting junk furniture from thrift shops and gluing wine corks onto shit.  Still the bathroom houses my ratty bathmats that Dexter chewed the corners of when he was a puppy...as a way of keeping my minimalist tendencies alive and well.

Sometime in the early 90's I went to a boat show at the Convention Center in Charlotte.  It was there that I climbed aboard and all around a little sailboat that cost I think about $30,000.  Begin my infatuation with the idea of something that you could live in and move around.  I don't have any specific memory of when I became enamored with the VW Bus.  I would do Internet searches of buses for sale and pour over the pictures and save them, then look up more sites and compare Junkers to full restorations...pretty much a classic example of a pipe dream.  The thoughts of coming to a point of actually being able to buy one were so far out there.  Mostly you are limited to purchasing through EBay Motors and having a car hauling company go get it and haul it clear across the country, everyone I had looked at was somewhere on the west coast, costing additional thousands of $$ and buying site unseen. You can see the concern and logistical nightmares.  I happened to find one for sale by a small antique car dealer in mid state SC.  It was a 1973 (the year I wanted) orange VWCamper, mostly restored...meaning in decent shape and with a new engine for $18,500.  Being the first and only real chance that I have had, I sent the guy an email.  I got a reply right back from him...he had sold it almost immediately, but he had a friend in Florida that had one almost exactly the same and included his number.  I left him a message to send pictures, a little info and let me know what he wanted for it.  As things go, it all fell into place and we now have Old Hippie as a family member.

When trying to come up with a name, I was having trouble deciding whether it was male of female.  Several mornings in a row I woke with song lyrics bouncing around in my head...an old Bellamy Brothers song.  It was my sign that the bus had chosen to be gender neutral and "Old Hippie" it was.  Hippie is currently in the body shop having the little bit of rust taken care of, new paint and the camper top refiberglassed.  I went by to check on Old Hippie last week to see the progress and found it ironic that my gender neutral bus now says "PAT" on the window.  We are looking a bit naked with all the hardware stripped off.

I believe that should pretty much catch up the changes the last year and half have brought about...all the major ones atleast.  

Break From The Hiatus

I feel I have things to say again, atleast judging by the amount I talk to either myself or the dog.  When Roger got sick it kicked the shit out of me.  The job, that I had been working so hard at getting off the ground...I just walked away from.  Writing, or even expressing myself much at all came to a halt.  After I lost him, I couldn't walk into my house without breaking into sobs.  I only stayed at home 2 or 3 nights in 3 months and those nights I cried myself to sleep.  To me, It was so much more than just "loosing a dog".  It took opening my heart to a little furry wad of pug to be able to go home again.  Even now that Dexter is almost a year and a half old, he hasn't come close to replacing his big brother, but he has definitely notched out his little place in our lives.  

I suppose I decided to try a few changes and it just so happened to coincide with the new year...let's not call them Resolutions because that will be cause of their demise.  I am going to write again.  And this will likely be the place that my random thoughts and photos surface, as opposed to social media, where we look to others for acknowledgment and support and a sense of self worth via likes.  I recently purged my "friends" list.  In doing this I found one friend had died... almost 3 years ago...and I had no idea.  The worst part, I suppose, is that this is what we equate to having friends.  How very little do we actually interact with people?  You know that crazy idea of hanging out and actually talking instead of hitting a little thumbs up icon and feeling like we are involved.  Don't get me wrong, at one point this girl and I had been rather close.  But time and distance and moves and job changes had pulled us apart.  That part is called life.  I will be the first to admit that I have few people that dabble past the line of acquaintences and I'm ok with that too.  When it comes to conversations, I prefer to get out of the shallow end of the pool.  My lack of ability or care of small talk limits my friends...be it a character flaw or whatever, I don't mind it.  

The second thing on my list of self improvements is to not beat myself up quite so much.  To say I'm a little tough on myself is a dramatic understatement.  I have never been a competitive person at all, always having hated when someone wants to push me to compete and try to win against me.  I fucking hate it.  I've been known to tee off on a putt-putt course like Tiger Woods, knocking the ball three holes over to throw a game because someone was taunting to win.  Could be called a poor sport, I couldn't care less.  When it comes down to it, I am in an extreme competition with myself.  I have fleeting moments of being proud of my accomplishments only to catch a glimpse in a full length mirror and start picking apart flaws.  My attempt is going to try being a little more accepting and forgiving of myself.  In all honesty, I think I will have better luck with the writing.  

Today, the day that most grown-ups and people I know went back to the grind.  First day back at it after the Xmas / New Years vacation hiatus.  I started the day with the gym, then the used bookstore to exchange for a few new Carl Hiaasen and John McDonald paperbacks.  Came home...showered...read 5 chapters of a new book...colored in my coloring book...made some lunch...worked on gluing wine corks to a styrofoam ball to replicate an idea from Pinterest while the dog played in the garage...and I started writing again.  No emails to catch up...no conference calls...no new looming deadlines. It's the benefit of being a bartender and having worked through the holidays.  Seems like a pretty decent trade off to me.  Now I'm off to a dog walk with this guy....and possibly a nap.

Chicken Wing Debacle

It was the winter of 2007-2008. It was a ridiculiously cold winter, but a warm day.  We were living in the tiny apartment that backed up to Battleground Park in Greensboro.  It was a ground floor one bedroom on the backside of the building.  By we, I mean me, Roger and Carletta cat.  There was just enough space for the three of us and my little belongings, check that, there was enough space once I removed the foot board from my bed so that I could open the drawers to my dresser that sat facing it at the end of the bed.  It just took me major brain searching and staring into space to recall the name of the park and I'm still not a 100% sure about it.  I have an uncanny ability to completely block, forget or misfile entire years of my life at time.   Not sure whether that's a good or bad thing.  Anyhow...that day I decided to cook me some wings in the oven.  In case you don't know, that shit takes like 2 hours or something.  With my immediate gratification needs this combination can lead to much frustration.  I was already starving by the time the process started so smelling wings for hours and turning them over and over a 100 times and staring through the oven door at them...you can see where I was with this.  My porch/balcony over looked a small grassy area then the woods.  There I had a sheperds hook with a birdfeeder on it.  I could see it from my big chair in the livingroom and it made me happy.  Earlier that day me and Roger spent quality time in the yard filling it with bird seed.

FINALLY the damn wings were done and I grabbed my plate full and piled up into my chair.  I no sooner get started eating when I look up to see a big fat squirrel in my feeder with his cheeks stuffed full.  "Oh FUCK NO!"  Drop my wing plate to the ottoman run out onto the balcony, do some livid hungry girl acrobatics leaning waist deep over the top of the rail and down to the ground to grab a handful of rocks and start slinging them like a crazy person and cussing at this rat in a cute suit eating my bird seed.  I finally bing one off the feeder and he flees.  When I turn back around I see Roger gulping down the next to the last wing from my plate.  OH MY GOD!!  I don't remember exactly what I said but I'm sure it involved his full name of Roger Goddammit.  About a split second later I realize my dog just ingested a whole pile of chicken bones and then proceed to freaking out status.  Luckily he never chewed a single piece of food in his life so I knew they were all in there whole so there should be no worry of splinters or bone shards stabbing in his belly.  I decided to watch him and see if anything looked amiss instead of rushing him to very expensive vet visit.  Before the apartment I had never been privy to doggie waste bags and the picking up of poop.  As often I could encourage it we walked into the woods and away from places that ones poop may take up an undesired residence in the tread of a bitchy neighbors shoe and also where the poo bags weren't necessary.  That night no poo.  Next morning, next afternoon...no poo.  I was starting to be concerned because if there's one thing I know, it's the poo patterns of my furry offspring.  That night I take him into the woods and do a mexican stand off with his butt...literally.  I think he knew something was up and was putting it off as long as possible. When he finallly realized I was in for the long haul  he sniffed and circled and squatted.  And stayed squatted.  Then turns to me with this "Oh Shit MOM" look in his eye.  I can still see his face now.  He started doing these funny little squat pumps...straighten the knees....bend the knees...straighten the knees bend the knees.  As luck would have it we were in a rather dark section of woods away from the intrusion of street lights and it was well before the days of the smart phone and flashlight apps so I have no solid proof that he pooped whole chicken drummettes.  But he never was quite so quick to steal food from my plate...he honed his skill of sit and stare you into food sharing submission after that.  

I Hope You Had The Time Of Your Life

"Your life is made of two dates and a dash.  Make the most of the dash."

4 and a half weeks.  That's how long it's been since I said good bye to Roger.  I wish I could say that it has gotten easier, but the truth is that it's harder now for me than initally.  The gravity of permanence has landed on me and it's so much heavier than I knew it could be. Of the things that I believe in, I believe most in our souls being not fully contained in our human suits. That the bigger part of my soul (the part that remembers all the lessons I've learned in past lives) is somewhere else looking down, lending it's guidance through my gut instincts and intuition.  I know that Roger is now there with "her" and that he's running around healthy and happy and she is loving on him and taking care of him just like I did when he was here with me.  In that sense he is always with me and always will be. That should make me feel better...and it does but I'm just not done working through being without him.  I can't tell you the number of times Velcro has held me through my tears and listened to me saying "I just want him to come back", kinda what you would expect from a child.  He is the glue holding me together.  

Of the other things I believe in without doubt is the Law of Attraction.  Your thoughts create your reality.  There is no exception. So basically right now all I talk about is what our next dog will be like and creating  what I want our place to look like in the Keys.  To the innocent bystander I'm sure I appear teetering on the edge of delusion but it keeps me happy and that's the entire point of us being here. 

My plans are to let more of what runs around in my head out and onto paper or a screen as it is.  I know from years of experience that it's what I need.  

"Never allow waiting to become a habit.  Live your dreams and take risks.  Life is happening now."

Roger - November 15, 2000 - July 24, 2014

"Maybe the reason I love animals so much, is that the only time they have ever broken my heart is when they crossed the bridge."

Last night was the first night I've stayed at home since saying good bye to Roger.  Back in mid June he got his summer doggie hair cut and I noticed one of his lymph nodes was a little swollen.  He in general was a super lumpy guy especially as  he had gotten older.  Once when he was about 9 he had surgery to remove some of the lumps that the vet was concerned about, they were all fatty and from that point on I never worried about them again. But after about a week it had gotten bigger and the one on the other side could be felt and even though he was showing zero signs of feeling bad we went to the vet.  I was half expecting it to be some kind of infection or for them to want to take off some of his lumps.  He was diagnosed with Stage 3 Lymphoma.  Chemotheraphy was the only real choice I had to make a long term difference, meaning he could live another 6-12 months.  I choose not to put him through that at his age.  He took the news much better than I did.  I made him a promise that day as he danced all over the house  like a puppy, that I would never let him feel bad or get sick. Even with steroid treatments it only took about 6 weeks for the cancer to start making him uncomfortable and his breathing became labored.  

On his last day I woke around 5 to the sound of his breathing, leaning out of the bed I rubbed his head then crawled in the floor and spooned with him.  As he lay in my arms with his head on my soulder he panted heavily...I knew I was no longer keeping my promise to him.  So we got up and made him dog breakfast and me coffee and headed for the beach.  I wanted to make his last day special for him.  On the beach he didn't want to walk much but he sniffed sand castles and peed on them (that was his thing to do) and watched people and other dogs. We watched the sun come up together, like we've done more times than I can count. He took me into the water about 3 times and shook off as soon as he was ankle deep each time.  

I took a lot of pictures and even though I cried all day, I smiled in all of our pictures.  He made me smile everyday.  

I could tell he was getting tired so we loaded up and headed home.  He stood with his head between the seats like he always did...whenever I have to take my arm from around him to shift gears he would root under my elbow to get my arm back around him.

He was laying down by the time we go home and didn't seem to want to get out, so I stood him up and asked if he was ready to go in...he looked at me and got an excited look then went back to standing between the seats looking out the windshield as if to say "No, let's ride some more!" So we took off for the park.  Roger has always loved the woods and gets so excited when you pull into a wooded park.  He stood with his feet on the wheel wells and hung out the side the same way he rode into every park we've ever been to. 

I took his leash off, something I haven't been able to do much lately because he couldn't hear me call his name when he would wander away when a particular smell caught his attention or an unfortunate cat would cross our path.  He meandered tree to tree smelling who was there before him, then we found a swing over looking the marsh and sat and talked.  He layed his head in my lap and looked at me like he understood evey word.  

We talked and played remember when about all the adventures and mishaps we'd had together....like when I tried to take him kayaking at High Point City Lake when he was a little guy and dove off the boat before we barely got away from the launch and the fiasco of getting his flailing dog self back on the boat while trying myself to not go into the drink.  And the time I was hanging a ceiling fan unsuccessfully and yelled goddammit and he came running from another room and sat at my feet at full attention expecting a treat for his quick response time...I learned to stop saying Roger goddammit when he was doing something wrong.  And when we were hiking at Hanging Rock and a group of Mexicans were gathered around looking at a snake and Roger ran and jumped hitting one of them in the ass, pitching him forward into the snake and sending the rest of them scattering into fits of laughter...he knew what he had done and turned to me with a laughing dog smirk.  One day I look out the back window of the house and I see Roger next to a tree circling and jumping back from something.  Thinking it may be a snake I take off out the back door like a rocket to intervene.  It was a box turtle.  Afraid he may "play" with it and hurt it I pick it up and take it down to the garden and leave it.  A few minutes later I look out and see him coming up from the garden soft lipping the clammed tight turtle in his mouth.  He was so upset when I took it from him and put it out of his reach in the woods. As a puppy he loved to be held and spun around the living room dancing to Bob Marley, he would even recognize No Woman No Cry and make happy dog whimpers years later.  He only grew more awesome as he got older, he was no longer got scared and ran inside when birds screached overhead  and he learned to not bring cat terds and lie by the couch and munch them like popcorn at the movies.  He found his sense of balance and stopped rolling across the back of the car at every turn.  No longer did his leashes have knots tied in them, piecing them back together from being chewed through while I was trying to keep him from falling out of the jeep on road trips.  He never stopped playing and dragging toys all over the house or removing the stuffing and squeakers.  Once on a winter leashless walk on the beach, he got crazy excited and started running cirles around me then took off full speed down the beach,  he ran up into the dunes out of site.  As I got closer I see him poke his head up to see if I was coming then duck down again.  When I got to where I knew he was he came bounding out to surprise me then took off further down the beach and hid again...he did it over and over.  I couldn't believe he came up with his own version of hide and surprise...I figured out that when he got the idea is when he was so excited and running circles around me.  He always loved food and treats so much, for years he had his own monster sized jar of peanut butter in the fridge.  I didn't know until the last few weeks that he absolutely loved coconut ice cream.  I will never have either one without thinking of him.  

I can't even put words to how happy I am, even as sick as he was,that he was healthy enough to do all the things he loved so much on his last day.  My life was so much better for having him in it and it will never be the same without him.  Even when I cry, I smile remembering him butting his head into my chest and waiting for me to wrap my arm around him...we called it dog hugs. 

Thank you Roger Dog for spending your life with me, when I adopted you I thought I was saving you...it turns out it was the other way around. 

Dumpster Diver

"Stop buying the unneccessary.  Toss half your stuff, learn contentedness.  Reduce by half again.  List 4 essential things in your life, do these first, stop doing non-essential.  Clear distractions, focus on each moment.  Let go of attachment to doing, having more.  Fall in love with less."  - Minimalist's Mantra

Always, I'm reiterating my lack of attachment to material things and the obvious neglect of accumulating that one would except of someone my age.  In my early 20's I made very little money but some how managed to travel and see and do more than could be justified if put on a balance sheet with income vs. expenses.  I smile now because of all the things I missed about "growing up", being able to go and see different places was it...and it's worked its way back into my life.  What I make now is a laughable fraction of what I had at one time accomplished but I am the happiest of my life.  We just returned to reality after spending Thanksgiving in south Florida and before that we pulled a hastily put together 4 day trip to Islamorada. On the short trip we only packed one litttle bag and as an after thought realized we could've saved the money and put it all in a back pack.  As we waited for the baggage carousel to start up, we hear Velcro being paged.  Our luggage it seems took the later flight and was currently enroute to NY.  They gathered our hotel information and let us know it would be in later that night and they would deliver it to us.  All the quicker that we could get our little rented car headed south.  Alabama Jack's on Card Sound Road was our first "neccessity" stop.  One can not live on Bailey's and Coffee alone, but add conch fritters and beer to the mix and respectable food pyramid can be accomplished. Being that I was in jeans our next stop was at the big lobster for an $8 sundress.  Our list of things we figured we didn't want to live without follows.  Liquor, styrofoam cups, bananas, toothbrushes and toothpaste, peanuts, and some lotion from the dollar store....and a pair of flip flops for the man.  Our luggage didn't show until late morning the next day...we had decided over coffee and bananas that qtips and deodorant were the essential second day items if still no bag.  For the Thanksgiving trip I made sure the phone charger was in the backpack along with a pair of shorts and flip flops, all other "things" can be lived without.  

I have over the years found some of my coolest possessions by or in dumpsters...other's discards have become my little treasures.  Thinking back, the first dumpster score that I recall also is one of only two times that I've ever had to actually "dive" as most things are left more accessibly propped beside said dumpster.  It was a dark room enlarger.  I had a little darkroom at the time, set up in the back of the dive shop and the enlarger that I had was tiny, ragged and very limited as to what I could accomplish with it.  The one I found was the cat's meow.  Luckily there was little else in the dumpster and it was behind a strip center of businesses so no nasty stuff was in there.  Over the years I've gotten a covered cat pan, a Gamecock dog leash, a fake palm tree, a whole box of plates, glasses and knives (even an electric one), a carved african statue, a foldable wheelie cart, and a surfboard that was signed and painted by a what appears to be a group of college kids that were on a bus trip with a surfer driver named Rich.  He made quite the impression, judging from the things they wrote on the board.  It now hangs in my living room as my main piece of "art".  There are more, but I just can't remember them all right now.  My plates came from the Habitat Store for a quarter a piece and they look just like the ones Junior Saprano had, thankfully I don't have his wallpaper.  I have, had several very nice and probably decently expensive sets of dishes.  Someone else still has them.  I am accustomed to dropping everything and walking away.  It's just what I do. I am a runner. When things start going south...I run.   I would be lying if I said I never try to figure out why I am... how I am.  I can't pinpoint any one thing but as with all of us life as a process is what makes us what we are.  My dad was a preacher and when I was a kid we moved about every 5 years.  The house was provided furnished so all we did was box up our stuff and throw it in a truck.  I remember that they had a bedroom set for me that got moved along each time.  When we left we were instructed to "make a clean break" so that the new preacher and his family could form bonds.  Basically leave, don't stay in touch and don't come back around.  Now it doesn't take a rocket scientist to see the collation between that and how I am now.    

Since loosing my little girl, Roger may be getting just a bit spoiled.  We celebrated his 13th birthday on November the 15th.  I'm not really sure about the date, but I got him when he was 8 weeks old and that was mid January so I picked a date and it stuck. For his birthday he got a beer and  a treat puzzle.  The beer was stretched out over 2 days... he burped like a shirtless pot bellied man at a Nascar race, then started barking the top of his lungs while cirlcing us...drunk talk.  The puzzle was an attempt of giving him some entertainment along with his snacks.  It has 4 little trap doors for kibble and it spins around inside...pretty challenging.  He had it mastered inside of 5 minutes, my dog is obviously a genius.  He takes after me.  For a 91 year old he is amazingly busy.  His hearing kind of comes and goes...most times I come in I have to go upstairs and nudge him awake...then it's on just like he was a puppy.   I spend time with him on his bed...it was in the closet and once lying in there with him,  I figured out he has the best room in the house.  It's small and confined and dark...something my bedroom isn't since it's a loft and  the living room skylights double as bedroom skylights. I considered pulling the cushions off the couch and taking over the closet.  When I come in at night I sit in the floor beside my bed on his bed with him and read or watch netflix on the ipad until he falls asleep.  The problem was even with his little doggie tempurpedic bed my ass was making it to sleep before the dog.  After a few vodkas, it occured to me that I had an airo mattress in a closet so dragged it out and pumped it up for him.  Now in my bedroom there is my queen size bed with a queen size airo bed in the floor beside it.  Some nights I sleep down there with him...he is a bed hog.  

I am in a good place.  Despite all of my quirkiness, I have someone that likes me just like I am and humors me when I stalk Iguanas or when I want my picture made doing the Heisman pose with a coconut that I found on the street.  Everyone should be so lucky.

(No Iguanas where harmed for this photo op)

My Little Girl

Carletta - April 1995-September 30, 2013.

"Being a Mother doesn't mean being related to something by blood.  It means loving something unconditionally with all of your heart."

The back cushion of the couch is still dented from where she would jump off the counter after eating.  She would run wild and bank off the furniture...dig on the corners like she was shreading the couch even though she had long been without claws...lucky for Roger.  I would hear a squeaky sound from another room and come in to find her scratching on the tire of my bike, making cat music.   Sometimes her meows would get stuck and last for atleast 10 seconds. She bailed off the second floor balcony twice... one time she was gone for 2 days.  Just when I called Scott over to help me find her (I was convinced she had hidden and died in the house) he opens the front door and calls me to come see who was sitting on my porch.  She came running in demanding some food.  She could punch roger in the face from standing underneath him, which is where she would wind up most of the time as he danced excited all over and around her.  I wonder how many times he got slapped by her....and still never understood the look she was giving meant an ass kicking was headed his way.  As much abuse as she dealt out to him he always watched out for her.  One time she got outside and Roger was going nuts running from me to the car and barking like crazy...he had hemmed her up under the car and was freaking out cause he knew she wasn't supposed to be outside. She would stand on her back feet and dig at your waist to be held and as soon as you would pick her up she would drop her head to butt it into me...it was her way of kissing...I would make the clicky sounds on the top of her head and she would wrap her little paws around my shoulder like a hug.  That clicky sound is how I called her and Roger when they were little and she never would respond to anyone using "kitty kitty" on her.

Carletta came from a neighbor of a friend...they had a calico kitten they wanted to get rid of but when I got there to pick it up they had changed their mind to keep that one but wanted to give away the little black kitty.  They told me the calico was a bit bitchy but the black one was a sweetie, so I took her.  She was named in the drive thru of the Kentucy Fried Chicken in Kings Mountain.  I remember leaning upside down to ask her if she liked Carletta or Carlitta better.  She was under the back seat of the van hunkered down...she never did like being in the car.  I can see her just like it happened yesterday...its funny how our minds freeze certain moments for us.   She opted for Carletta because Carlitta sounded a little trashy and a touch hispanic.  I can't even fathom the number of times over the last 18 1/2 years of everydays that I've said that name.  I called her Leetle Gurl and picked on her about her dangle belly as she got older...when she would run it would swing side to side.  She has been the only constant thing in my adult life outside of her little brother.  She was with me through all the good times and bad stuff and moving and breakups.  She never got nervous when boxes started packing the way Roger does...she would raise hell from the kitty carrier on the ride to the new place but as soon as I opened the door she would scout out the new place for sunny nap spots and locate the closest heater vent to lay on. She loved laying on the balcony in the sun or in front of the sliding glass door looking out.  one time she had a relationship with a lizard that would come hang out on the glass door everyday with her...she would put her paw on the glass where he was then fall asleep in the sun.  We use to  living room dance when Roger was a puppy...Carletta and Butthead and him...the two waiting for their next dance would sit patiently around me while I spun and sang to whichever I had in my arms.  She thought that if you were sitting she had to do her best to hold you down in case gravity wasn't enough.  She was the lovingest sweetest little girl I could have asked for.  Roger was the only one that could ever bring a grump out of her...she would look at him like he was a big dumb dog but would make biscuits on his fur when he laid down.  Her biscuits were brutal for no bigger than she was...I use to rub her little shoulder blades and it would make her ease up on the spastic biscuits.  She made her last biscuit on my arm a few days ago.  Her last day she didn't pur...I use to say to her..."I hear that little motor boat running"...she had the loudest purs.  I would wake at night to a pur on the left ...next time it would be on the otherside and the next down at the foot.  She loved to be held in my crook of my arm for naps...she would fall so hard to sleep that she would be limp and you couldn't make her move, I've even stood her up and she still stayed asleep...or it could've been a ploy.  I spent her last night with her in the closet floor, I  slept beside her on Rogers bed.  I wish I had held her more and loved on her more and fussed less when she meowed at the top of her lungs for more milk.  As I held her at the vet's office for her last few minutes, I cried into her fur and told her I loved her and breathed in her smell...I hope she knew that she was so loved.  That night she sent me the most beautiful sunset...it was as if she wanted me to know she got there ok.  I got her ashes back and a card with her tiny little paw print and some of her fur...it smells like her.  It feels better having her back home with me and I will forever talk to her like a crazy old cat lady.  Her little milk bowl will go back to being my salsa dish but Carletta will always have a little sunny corner in my heart all to herself.

This is from sometime around 1995 when both of us were babies.

Carletta giving me one of her head butt hugs on my 30th birthday.

This is how they woke me up every morning...it would reach a level of near frantic if I tired to ignore them.

Carletta being the lap cat that she loved being.

Things I'm Beginning to Figure Out

"In the end we conserve only what we love.  We will love only what we understand.  We will understand only what we are taught." - Dioum

I made a list of the things I say on a regular basis.  Sparkyism's if you will.  

- There are 2 things you can't hide. Money and stupidity..they both eventually show up.

This one is normally used in response to someone flashing around expensive stuff or being a moron.

-Timing is essential.

The biggest and smallest things in life happen when the time is right.

-Perception is reality.

This plays into the next one.

-There are only 2 things in the world that you can change - Your mind or your situation.

On an old cork board that I've hauled around forever I have a little push pin holding this up "I made some studies, and reality is the leading cause of stress amongst those in touch with it.  I can take it in small doses, but as a lifestyle I found it too confining.  It was just too needful...it expected me to be there for it all the time, and with all I have to do, I had to let something go.  Now, since I put reality on the back burner, my days are jam-packed and fun-filled..."  I have no idea who wrote it but it speaks the truth.  If we pay attention to all the bullshit thats available for us to focus on, it's easy to stay less than happy.  Our thoughts create our feelings.  Change your thoughts or get up and pack your shit and head to an island...the choice is all yours.  We are victims to no one.

-Denial is a strong pill.

Normally this is in response to someone turning a blind eye to a blaringly obvious situation in order to maintain a lifestyle of accumulation.

-If you don't feed them or fuck them...don't worry with them.

That really narrows down the people and things that we  have right to worry about. It takes it down to Velcro and my fur babys that I need to be concerned with.  Everyone else is an adult and I believe should have all the same rights to bad decisions.

I'm learning that maybe we don't have to "figure life out".  The simple of it is this, we come here alone, we leave alone...the shit in between is called life.  Life ends when our body decides to tap out.  In our existence we are only given one human suit and we alone are responsible for it.  I don't believe that we are only allowed one trip around and get stuck listening to choirs of angels or exposed to mass heat and damnation begging for a drop of water... or whatever.  But I do understand that we only get one shot in this lifetime...with these people and this hand of cards.  I am not one that wants my trip to end early because I forgot to take care of the ONLY FUCKING THING keeping me here.  Now I'm sure there are those who would argue about my drinking, but as I see it Vodka takes the corners off of life's coffee table so that I don't bang my shins.  

All the 20 some yr olds seem to know what they are doing. From being there I can only beg to disagree. Actually the 60-70 some year olds I know are still very aware of not knowing what they are doing. The difference is with age we can admit not knowing what the fuck is going on. Of the people that think they know where they are, I'm afraid they are blissfully unaware. Much like politicians they are liars regardless. They either lie to us or lie to themselves.  I wrote that when we were in Charleston a few months back, more specifically at the Shem Creek Inn and found our way to the tiki bar that sits next door.  It was full of kids.  By kids I mean anyone mid 30's and under.  The ones that are still trying to find their way via over dressing and over spending to impress people they either don't know or don't like.  Why I have always felt so unattached to people around my age range is yet to be determined.  It's like me not being able to hang out and be one of the girls.  Most women talk about whoever leaves to go to the bathroom. Me... I forget about whoever left and am somewhat surprised when they come back.   

Perpetual Mid Life Crisis

"The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why" - Mark Twain

Clearly I have one of the two figured out, but that second one is eluding me in a major way.  I heard the other day that women typically hit their mid life crisis at age 34 and it lasts for 5 years.  Men at age 43 and it normally lasts for 10 years.  The signs that you may be having a mid life crisis include the sudden and overwhelming need to simplify your life.  The list went on from there but I stopped paying attention.    I guess since we can't count my lack of giving a damn in my 20's then its pretty accurate for me. I was 34 when I threw in the "fuck it" towel on my marriage and walked away from all the tethers of possessions and real estate.  Then I bought and filled up another house only to feel suffocated and get rid of all of that stuff too.

On my 40th birthday I went to the gym with my pants on inside out and a tag the size of Rhode Island hanging out the crack of my ass...I know this because some old lady came up and pointed it out to me.  I thanked her for the information and finished my work out and walked my ass and tiny state dangling from it home.  My right boob currently has second degree burns on it from the curling iron (I have no idea how the fuck it happened but it just typical of me. Surprisingly I was sober. ) And I still make a habit of boiling eggs for half an hour.  I've struggled lately with failure or my perception of it...perception is in fact reality.  Velcro has hugged away more tears in the last few weeks than he has likely ever seen from me before.  The grown up day job, I've walked away from and gone back to bartending for now.  All hope isn't lost but the wind was knocked out of me to with the admitting of defeat.  Like the car sick feeling you get when the world is spinning out of your control.  My footing feels to be regaining and I'm working on letting go of the feeling of needing to be in control of my life.  The illusion of control.  I am proud of my cat like reflexes that always seem to get my feet back underneath me before I smack the ground.  This time though, I must admit I didn't do it entirely on my own and that's a good feeling too.  In the past, the last few weeks would have triggered the packing my shit and an exit stage left, but running isn't on my agenda anymore.  I have though taken 2 loads of shit to Goodwill, so I am positive I'm not settling into an accumulation stage.  The balls of my 40's may not be in my death grip yet but I'm working on it.  

"Know you're not the only ship out on the ocean. Save your strength for things that you can change, forget the ones you can't.  You gotta let it go." - Zac Brown

Purple Bathrooms

"The world of the Pirate is thought to be radically different from Kings and Warriors.  While Kings and Warriors are exalted more, the Pirate is envied most by the King." - William Corinthus

That was written by a friend almost 20 years ago.  I went in search of it after in a conversation with Velcro I brought it up but couldn't remember the exact words.  It seems the less we have and the happier we are with it, the more others take notice of our minimalist approach.  I've always wanted people see life a little bit differently from knowing me, but lately I've noticed it's more him being that example to others. 

I've been intrigued by the idea of house boat living for longer than I can remember.  Once I found John MacDonald's Travis McGee novels it only fueled the fire.  In case you are in the dark, Travis McGee was the main character of a series of novels that he wrote from the mid 60's through the mid 80's.  I think there were 20 some books.  He was Magnum PI ish and lived on a houseboat name the Busted Flush (that he won in a poker game) at the Bahia Mar Marina in Fort Lauderdale.  Slip F18.  Our never miss bar in Ft. Lauderdale, Bahia Cabana, sits on that marina and I never sit there that I don't think about Travis McGee....even if he was fictional.  I wonder if there is some kind of marker on F18, or if that slip even exists.  One day I intend to walk those docks to find out.  All this came about from seeing a handful of house boats last night.  I guess that's more of a Florida thing because you seldom see them in these parts.  It reminds me of a trailer with pontoons and I'm pretty sure I'd be a good candidate to live on one.  I'd like it if a car wasn't necessary and one could exist with just a bicycle and a kayak and a floating trailer.  A bar within walking distance would be a necessity as well. 

Dog just farted.

I finally upgraded my tired Droid and got an I Phone.  Although I love the little notes screen so I can jot down all my random thoughts, me and the phone are still on a get to know each other first date.  It keeps auto correcting me.  If I type pussy that does not mean I meant pussyfoot...and not for nothing, I thought my dad was the only one that used that word.  Shit is not shot...and hoohah is not hookah.  Your next question may be why me and my phone were making notes about pussy.  First I must point out an obvious.  Our skin is basically the same all over our bodies...with the exception of the elbow...and the nuts.  Why is the elbow make out of the same stuff as "the boys"?  That leads me to tell the story of a woman I worked with many many moons ago in Charlotte.  She had one of those big brown flat moles on her forearm, right close to the elbow.  That in it's self wasn't really the problem.  Problem was it had black hair growing out of it ...like a lot of it.  It creeped the shit out of all of us in the office.  One day I asked my buddy if he thought she might have an elbow "down there" since her pussy was apparently on her arm.  Twenty years later I'm still laughing about it.  The folks in that office use to tell me I was driving the bus to hell.  When I left, one of my going away presents was a set of keys. 

To update on my most recent egg boiling ...as I predicted I forgot them again.   It wasn't quite 30 mins but the house smelled like an omelet.   By a similar token I've noticed some asshole turns my clothes inside out and when I do laundry I have to reverse...every. single. thing.  There is never one thing turned right side out...socks...tshirts...shorts...nothing.  The only thing separating me from being a teenage boy is that I do put most things in the hamper and there are no playboys or stiff tube socks shoved under my bed.  I'm fucking awesome.

Trying to think back, I can't exactly remember if have had purple bathrooms in 3 or 4 of my houses, but it was always the thing I wanted...my purple bathroom. It also always went hand in hand with moving almost immediately.  I'm not sure why as soon as I redid a bathroom purple I felt the gig was up, but it has always gone in that order.  Not very long ago I made a list of all the places I've lived and times I've moved.  When comparing that extensive list to my 3 or 4 purple bathrooms there probably is no collalation to the color of my bathroom walls making me move.  My spare bath, better known as, where I keep the cat pan, is one of the last rooms that I've tackled in my condo.  I've had purple paint swatches wedged beside the medicine cabinet since a year ago when I had tile put in.  I also have not had a mirror in there in that amount of time.  Divine intervention in the form of a $13 mirror this week got me back on track.  I opted to fore go the purple paint and landed on a funky muted kind of Caribbean blue.  I feel like I am where I'm going to be for a while and didn't want the strange vibe purple bathrooms seem to carry with them. 

How To Boil Eggs

The Truth in 13 words - "Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what the fuck happened."

How to boils eggs, or at least how I do it, put eggs in pot...add water...put on stove...wait for water to boil...note time. Go about your business for a minimum of 30 minutes or until you start asking yourself why the fuck your entire house smells like an omelet.  Recall vaguely something about eggs.  Cuss.  Run to kitchen.  Cuss again.  Run cold water over them.  Put them in fridge and eat as normal.  Actually they were much easier to peel than the last batch that I cooked for the "right" amount of time.  Now I'm out of eggs and the whole bizarre process will start all over again and I already know I will completely forget them and cook the water out of the pot.  On a more adult note I've discovered how to get the same bad egg cooking 40 year old to take vitamins...they have grown up chewables that taste just like Flinstone vitamins. Only problem is that they don't have purple ones shaped like Dino and now I'm over vitamining myself cause there is no one to stop me from eating them like candy. With all the wrong stuff I manage to consume I'm thinking a few extra vitamins is really the least of my worries. 

It's been just under 3 years since I decided upon moving that there just wasn't enough room in my car or my life for an iron much less an ironing board.  At some point late last year I broke down and bought an iron.  The only reason I bought it was because I found it super cheap at the Ollie's store.  I wondered why it was in a brown box and not the kind you normally see in the store.  When I got it out there was a sticker on it something to the effect of "refurbished".  This mattered little to me since it took me probably 5 more months to pair it up with an ironing board.  The newly formed couple sat propped against the wall of my bedroom for another month or so before last week I finally took the twisty tie off the iron cord and rubbed this strange hot metal thing across my wrinkled little Harley shirt. Don't get too excited I'll always be more of the "turn the dryer back on girl" than I will the iron wielding domestic goddess. 

Right now I'm sitting on my balcony listening to my neighbors argue.  Not that I'm "listening" but its hard to ignore.  One of the best parts of the Velcro and my relationship is our ability to talk to each other.  I know that my clamming up has been the demise of most of my past relationships.  I've gotten old enough and smart enough now to recognize patterns.  It came up while we talked on the balcony one night this week, that I question why it's "shaming" to have had several substantial relationships that didn't work out.  And in the same breath no one shames people for over staying an unhappy marriage by 25 years.  Why do/should I feel bad that when things started going the wrong direction I choose to move on.  Is that not fate's way of getting you to the right place at the right time?  You have to wonder how many people are missing out on their true destination because they are doing what we've been raised to think is right.  Rules are bullshit...and living by imaginary ones has never been in my cards.  

"No matter where you are in life right now.  No matter who you are.  No matter how old you are...It's never too late to be who you are meant to be."  Jerry & Ester Hicks