Swings (Temperature and Mood)

I was out of town last week - hence, no new posts. I trust you all survived the devastation of not having fresh content from me.

I imagine you all looking just like this.

Full disclosure: I could have written new posts last week. Yes, indeed. I had my laptop with me, and jeebus knows I had time to write, even though I was technically on vacation. It's not as if my days were filled with fun activities that had me gamboling all over the place during the day and falling, happily exhausted, into my bed each night.

Here's the thing. I was staying at my parents' house last week. A house I left exactly twice during my visit. Once was to grab lunch in the McD's drive-thru. The second time was to meet the family at a restaurant to celebrate my Dad's birthday. We all had a nice dinner, did presents, chatted and reminisced, and then we bundled up against the cold and headed out into a full-on freaking snowstorm.

Mind you, just a couple of hours earlier, the handsome, smiling weatherman on TV had told us all that absolutely no snow would be falling that night. The handsome, smiling weatherman on TV flat-out lied. But maybe, technically, he didn't lie. Because very little snow was actually falling. It was instead being driven pretty much horizontally behind a gale-force wind directly into our faces.

It looked a lot like this. Really.

I was driving that night. I was driving a rental car, with my elderly parents in the back seat, on roads with which I'm only marginally familiar, in the kind of conditions that, here at home in Texas, would have literally shut down the city. 

It was an absolutely terrifying drive through a near-solid wall of white. I think my hands finally unfurled from their vise-like grip on the steering wheel two days later.

But that's not why I didn't leave the house again until it was time to go to the airport. The snow, as fierce as it was, was dry and powdery, and the whipping wind blew it all off the roads by the next morning. What kept me inside the rest of my stay was the temperature, which dropped like a manic Plinko ball in the wake of the snowstorm.

Do you want to know how many degrees it was outside?

One. It was one single, solitary, frigid degree.

Shown here: WTF degrees.

I'm not built for that. I'll admit it, I'm not proud. And while I'm amply equipped with protective body fat, it's not rated for one degree above zero. It's rated for "I think I can turn the heat down to 70, as long as I wear wool."

But I'll say one thing for the single-digit trauma I endured. It enabled me to experience a truly impressive temperature differential this morning when I returned to work.

Let me just say that my place of work has never, for a single hour, maintained an appropriate temperature. For most of the year it's abysmally cold. Even in the middle of August, when you'd think a hyperthyroidal air conditioning system would be a good thing, it manages to be so unpleasantly cold that you actually enjoy going out in the Texas heat for a few brief moments before sanity returns.

The one time of the year when it's warm at work is during the unpredictable months of autumn, when you may want a sweater in the morning and a bucket of ice to pour over your head in the afternoon. The HVAC in the building doesn't know what to do in these changeable circumstances, so it just sort of blows out the most random, least appropriate temperature it can manage, as if thinking to itself, "If you can't please everyone, you should please no one."

Also my personal mantra.

Anyway, when I got to work the door to my office was closed, probably to signal to the cleaning crew that the slob who normally occupies it had given them the week off. I opened the door and was greeted by the warm currents of a Santa Ana wind, localized inside my office. It was seriously balmy in there.

I checked the thermostat. Eighty-two degrees.

That is not a comfy indoor temperature at any time of year. Fortunately, by mid-morning the a/c had remembered itself and resumed being an asshole on the cold side of the spectrum.

But I had achieved something pretty remarkable: I had experienced an 81-degree temperature difference in the space of a couple of days. It was a new personal record, I'm guessing. I mean, it's not as if I track how often I'm subjected to utter nonsense like an 80+ degree swing, both extremes of which were exceedingly uncomfortable and annoying. But I think I would have remembered such a ridiculous occurrence, right?

For the record, 1 degree is not nearly as cold as it gets in Wisconsin during the winter, and I've experienced much colder temperatures. Just not two weeks before Christmas and combined with a blizzard that Handsome McForecaster promised wasn't going to happen. Also for the record, any desire I may have harbored to return to my hometown and live in the Midwest again froze to fucking death last week.

Think of Someday. Because It Will Be Here...Someday.

 Let me just say: Genetics are a strong thing in my family.

LOL, I love random image searches.

I resemble my family. Like, I look like my parents, and my Precocious Daughter looks like me, to the point that Facebook has actually tagged photos of her as me. In other words, if any generations of my family engaged in hanky panky, you wouldn't know it by looking at us. 

Baaaaa.

So today, I took a shower, and then proceeded to do...nothing. I didn't do my hair or makeup or anything. I put clean clothes on my clean body and said "good enough for a Saturday." As one does.

Then, an hour ago, I wandered into the bathroom and caught a look at myself.

And I noticed that I resemble my late grandmother.

I've noticed this before. It's not a big deal. I do resemble my father's mother. As I said, there's a lot of shared looking-like in my family.

But today I noted something else. I'm not sure why, but you know, the universe puts stuff in our head sometimes, right?

My Gran, I randomly thought, was 55 years old when I was born.

Guess who will be 55 years old in just under three months?

Guess who?

I'm going to say this again for those in the back: IN THREE MONTHS I WILL BE THE SAME AGE AS MY GRANDMOTHER WAS WHEN I WAS BORN.

And I saw that in the mirror. I saw the woman who is me who looks like her own grandmother.

I'm, uh, not about to become a grandmother myself. I have but the one child, who is in graduate school and as far as I know is having as much unprotected sex with male humans as I am (that would be none).

Yet when I look in the mirror I see someone who has Gran's eyes, and her naturally pursed lips, and her soft round cheeks.

And it's me.

I'm neither happy nor unhappy about this. It just is, you know?

But for those of you who are younger than I am, this is a thing that might happen to you in the future.

And it's OK. 

It really is OK.

Harry Potter and the Craft-Beer Family Reunion

 You guys, I got to enjoy a pretty amazing night out this week.

Turns out I like enjoying stuff.

Well, we finally had a meet-up this week, and just in time, as it looks like the Delta variant and the large numbers of vaccine-resistant morons may be tag-teaming to put us all back in isolation. Never has a single virus so accurately identified the lowest common denominator of an entire society. Well done, SARS-CoV-2. If only you hadn't taken so many good and wise people while you were at it.

No, it's right in front of us.

I've missed my family soooo much. Other than my Precocious Daughter, I hadn't seen any of my relatives in person since before the pandemic roared to life in early 2020. I spent over a year having to encounter potentially infectious total strangers in grocery stores and at work - OK, my co-workers technically aren't strangers, but I don't know what any of these people do outside the office, and for all I know they bathe in Covid juice every day - but out of an abundance of caution I declined to expose my loved ones to any of my secondary contacts.

But I digress.

A group of six of us (seven, if you count my niece's very good doggo who is in training to be a service dog) grabbed a bite to eat and then went to a local craft beer place. Not my usual scene at all, but it had the advantage of having a huge outdoor seating area. It was quite crowded - even in non-pandemic times, I would have been twitchy at the sheer number of people jammed together, because people, ugh. Fortunately, we grabbed a table in the farthest backest corner of the place. The nearest people were eight feet away, and the majority of the crowd was considerably farther than that beyond an empty grassy area. Other than the bit where we had to weave through the sea of humanity to get to that table, I felt quite comfortable in our remote spot.

I didn't have anything to drink, because beer is not my thing. I did have a sip of what the others were having, and let me tell you - creamsicle-flavored beer is not a thing that should exist, in my opinion. Sometimes, when I wonder if I have a drinking problem, I remember the episode of "Family Ties" in which a young Tom Hanks portrays an alcoholic by chugging a bottle of vanilla extract to satisfy his craving for sweet, sweet, booze, and now I can honestly say that if I were crawling across the desert sands dying of thirst while simultaneously in the throes of the DTs, I would pass on creamsicle-flavored beer, so no I don't think I have a drinking problem, thank you very much.

This run-on sentence is brought to you by all kinds of 
questionable choices.

Anyway, we all sat and talked and had a great time being together. We also very much enjoyed the fact that we happened to be there on "Harry Potter Trivia Night." We actually had walked over to this particular watering hole because we'd heard they were doing trivia, and we thought that it might be fun to wander over and maybe participate in a few rounds, even though none of us are exactly Potterheads.

Uh, no.

This was serious business. This was a highly organized, team-based tournament of very competitive nerds. In fact, we learned that the Harry Potter trivia was the sole reason for the large crowd, and on a typical Thursday night there would have been only a small fraction of the people in attendance. So instead of being casual participants, we got to be spectators at a vastly entertaining spectacle.

This was not "What was the name of Harry's owl?"-level trivia. Oh, no. I am not kidding when I say that one of the questions required one to know that in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Harry's personal prophecy orb was located in exactly the 97th row of shelves in the Hall of Prophecy. I could have gone happily to my grave not knowing that bit of information, and I'll probably forget it long before I do, but there were people here who knew it and were deadly serious about knowing it.

On a good day I can name upwards of three Weasleys.

Now, such a dedicated bunch of half-drunk wizarding fanatics deserves an exceptional master of ceremonies. And the lady running the trivia tournament was that and more. Imagine Roz from Monsters, Inc., only spouting Harry Potter trivia and berating teams for their choice of names ("'Snapes on a Plane' is not nearly as clever as you think it is!'"). The best part is that she seemed to truly consider her role a sacred responsibility and was not having an enjoyable time at all. At one point I realized I probably sound a lot like her when I'm trying to run a lunch meeting at work. It was glorious.

At the end of the night (early, because most of us had to go to work in the morning) we all promised to get together again in August. I hope it happens. PDaughter starts her senior year of college in August, and my nephew starts a new job, and we might all be wearing masks and washing our groceries again by then anyway. But I'm hopeful, because I really love my family.

Maybe next time there will be a few more Muggles at the bar.

Actually in the Ring

First in a series.

What do you think about this as his-and-hers wedding rings, Drunkards?

Source here: http://bit.ly/2FQ8tDQ

Or this?

Source: http://bit.ly/2IASXJz

Or this:

http://bit.ly/2DH1hE0

Full disclosure: This is not something I've discussed with my putative fiance, Drummer Boy.

I just think these would be amazing wedding rings for our probably-eventual wedding, you know?

DB's dad is needing surgery, so I doubt he's even paying attention to my silly fucking blog tonight.

But I hope he knows that he and his family are foremost in my mind right now.

Love to all of you.

Wedding rings later, if ever.

Drunkards, your most healing thoughts to Drummer Boy's family are most appreciated just now. Post them in the comments, OK?

Thank you. <3

The Last Jedi...Sure.

I'm seeing The Last Jedi tomorrow.

Love you, Carrie.

Oh....Seeing it with my daughter...

and my ex.

That's good...right?

I mean, sure, that's normal. 

We're still a family, I guess, despite the whole divorce thing. Right?

I mean... It's not like it matters, you know?

Tell me if that's just too weird.

Thanks.

That Family

There's a payoff to tonight's winding tale, you guys. Stay with me.

Precocious Daughter's Fine Arts Trip, her last one as a high school student, is next April. The band, orchestra, and choir from her school are going to Colorado Springs. And it sounds like they're going to get to do some amazeball things, from touring the U.S. Olympic Training Center to visiting Garden of the Gods Park to performing at the U.S. Air Force Academy.

The coolest thing I did in April of my senior year was meet Douglas Adams and have him autograph my Hitchhikers Guide trilogy.

Not gonna lie, that was pretty damn cool.

PDaughter is very excited about this trip, and I've already promised her she could go. Possibly by selling a kidney. I mean, it's not an exorbitantly expensive excursion, considering that the price covers transportation, lodging, several meals, and all the fun things they have planned. But for me personally, it's almost three payments on Benedict Cumberhatch.

Eighteen more payments and he's mine, you guys.

Now, the band is doing a fundraiser that, if successful, will help defray each family's cost to send their little Snooky-Wookums on the trip. It involves a program called Shop with Scrip. I'm not going to dwell on it, but basically Shop with Scrip provides rebates to school programs every time participating members shop at any number of popular retailers, from Amazon to Target to Walmart.

(If any of my Drunkards are interested in participating in a fundraiser that costs them zero dollars and helps support PDaughter and her totally deserving school, let me know and I'll help you sign up. Beyond this brief plug, no pressure. Sincerely.)

Anyway, considering how convenient and rewarding the Shop with Scrip program is, a shockingly low number of families of Fine Arts students are actually signed up. I admit, I'm among the slugs. I'm a slug, what can I say?

Me, IRL.

So at tonight's Trip Meeting, we parents/families were treated to an entirely deserved guilt trip about why most of us were too goddamn lazy and selfish to participate in an easy-peasy means of funding the Fine Arts Trip.

While the handful of families who have embraced and used the program all along were acknowledged,  thanked, and given a pass from the WTF Is Wrong w You 101 lecture the rest of us (totally legit) received.

By the time we left the meeting, PDaughter and I were both fully fired up about registering to use Save with Scrip.

We signed up tonight, yo.

Because basically the Band Booster Mom (who is a lovely person) effusively praised those families using the Shop with Scrip program and guilt-tripped the crap out of the rest of us.

Not going to lie, I'm more than happy to participate and reduce my own (and everyone else's) out of pocket costs for this trip.

PDaughter is also happy. On the way home from the meeting at her school, she said to me...

...and I quote...

"We're going to do this. We're going to be That Family."

Guys.

We've never been That Family.

That Family that organizes the school carnival, Literacy Night, and/or any Show That You Love All the Children activity.

That Family that gives more than its fair share because it has piles of The Contributions laying around waiting to be donated.

That Family that is recognized as Making a Difference, as opposed to the slackers that just clapped and smiled when the real contributors were recognized.

That Family that is immune to guilt trips because we already form the backbone of our children's (and all their friends') Positive Secondary and Post-Secondary School Experience.

PDaughter is excited at the prospect of being That Family for once.

And if participating in this program will help, then dammit, we're all in.

Because...That Family.

Again, I'm not going to push, but the program is Save with Scrip, and PDaughter's high school is an easy and deserving subject of help.

Or help some kids local to you. That would be just as good.

Goddamn kids deserve all the help we can give, is what I'm saying.

Thanks, Drunkards. You rawk.

Pre-Empty Nest Syndrome

Next Monday, Precocious Daughter will fly to New York to spend two weeks with her grandma, aunt, and cousin on her dad's side.

Two weeks.

Absolutely not ready for this empty nest
thing, thanks for asking.

Now, her aunt has very, very generously offered to drive PDaughter up and down the East Coast to visit any colleges she may be interested in. This is a fantastic opportunity, because there's no way I would be financially able to offer a similar tour around New England universities.

A tiny, petty part of me whispers that my ex-sister-in-law is well aware of that fact and happy to one-up me in this area.

But for PDaughter's sake, I happily and graciously accept this generous gift.

Anyway, PDaughter will tour seven fine universities in four states during her trip, and will also spend time in New York City (which she loves), time on the beach (ditto), and time with her dad's side of the family (ditto ditto).

It's all good.

I'll be without my kid for two weeks.

Nest, whatever.

You guys. I know damn well that in just over a year, my only offspring will begin college. And while there is a small chance that she'll choose a relatively local school, she is very very interested in attending an out of state university. Because she can turn the world on with a smile, and she damn well knows it.

She got the results of her latest AP tests a couple of days ago, and she's saved herself many dollars in tuition by testing out of English, History, Physics, and other classes.

That's awesome.

I hate like hell that in 25 years of marriage, her dad and I weren't able to save for a new washer/dryer, let alone our daughter's post-secondary education.

I hate that I allowed that to happen.

But what's done is done.

And what's coming is that my beautiful PDaughter is about to start her senior year of high school. And I want it to be magical for her, in a way that my senior year never was. And I want her to receive great news about paying for college, the way I never even sought because my parents said they would pay my way if I would simply attend.

I'm not in a position to tempt, bribe, or guilt my child.

I'm a single mom.

I chose that role, and sometimes I love it, and sometimes it sucks big old rocks.

Truth.

But my sole focus right now - more than my love life, more than my stupid fucking job - is making sure my PDaughter is able to attend the university of her choosing, without becoming bankrupt.

I know she assumes everything will work out.

I know because when I was her age, I felt the same way.

Except that my parents are very different from her parents.

Sometimes I wonder if I should have stayed with her dad, just because it might have made some slight difference to PDaughter's prospects.

I don't know.

But a week from today, PDaughter leaves for two weeks in New York.

I hope that when she returns, I'll still matter.

Scene from a Mall

Precocious Daughter and I went shopping today.

Here we are. Really.

We drove to our local regional outlet mega-mall. The last time we were there, we were shopping for PDaughter's junior prom dress, which was a stress-filled nightmare.

But it all turned out fine. And hell yes,
I had this lunchbox in grade school.

Today, though, we were just looking for cute summer tops. I found three, she found four, and we spent seventy-five bucks for the lot. Outlet mall for the win.

Having successfully bagged our limit, we walked to the food court and bought a couple of slices from Sbarro. Pizza: Literally nature's perfect food.

Kale can go fuck itself, tbh.

So the food court was hopping. Most of the tables were occupied. We found a couple of spaces at a long table between two families. 

All we wanted to do was eat pizza, you guys.

But on one side of us was a family consisting of mom, dad, and two boys under the age of six. The younger boy was crying, apparently because he wanted to get a sample from one of the food vendors but was unable to do so.

His dad's reaction was (direct quotes here, you guys):

"Grow up."

"Be quiet."

"I've had enough of you."

"No Legoland for you."

"I'm tired of your shit."

Dad O' the Year eventually left the table, saying "I've got things to do" while plastering his phone to his ear.

On the other side was a large Asian-American family, who were mostly enjoying their food court fare. At one point, a young woman holding a fussy baby came by, and when her presumed husband said, "We should have brought in the car seat," she answered, "Well that's a fucking brilliant idea."

In a really loud voice, I might add.

PDaughter and I were like

Sure, yeah.

I was so basically glad to have had only one child.

PDaughter was glad to be only one child.

We've discussed this many times before.

I never meant to have only one kid. But that is how life turned out.

PDaughter for her her part enjoys being an only child and would have protested any other way of being.

So...no matter my intention, I have one love, and but one love, of my life.

I also have three really cute new tops.

Sometimes life lessons are hard, but sometimes they kick ass.

Happy Fathers Day to all my Dad Drunkards. You rock.

And all of my non-Dad Drunkards... you rock, too. Whether you have a day or not. You rock.

Let's kick ass this coming week, OK? I'll be doing it in new tops. But you do you.

Memorial Day 2017

Scenes from Memorial Day 2017:

You guys, my mom is making a spectacular recovery from heart surgery. Yesterday she was moved from ICU to a regular room. Probably she'll be going home Wednesday or Thursday. A week in the hospital following open-heart surgery...the 21st century kicks ass. She sounds great on the phone, she's able to walk around, and all of her readings are where they should be.

I tear up every time I think about this, or write about this, or talk about this. Guys, my mom is going to be OK. And your good thoughts and good wishes have helped me more than you'll ever know.

Me, with my Drunkards behind me.

Of course, me being me, I have another story to tell. I spent the afternoon of my Memorial Day replacing Bene's battery after he refused to start.

I've known for several weeks that my boy needed a fresh battery. He's been sluggish in starting, and I actually had to get a jump start from Katie's music teacher not long ago when he ran down after I played the radio on accessory for an hour.

I was supposed to get a new battery on Saturday. Somehow that didn't happen. (Somehow being code for I got super-lazy).

Fortunately, Bene has Roadside Protection, so I was able to get a jump-start and go get a new battery at...Walmart.

Karma.

When you let your battery die on a national holiday, you go wherever is open. In my case, that meant Walmart. And to be fair, they were friendly and reasonably quick and didn't destroy my bank account.

PDaughter and I spent an hour wandering around Walmart while waiting for the battery to be replaced.  They have fricking EVERYTHING there. Rolling ice cooler? Check. Paint? Check? Pope John Paul II prayer candle? Check.

Customers screaming at their children, "You get your ass over there and keep quiet"? Yep.

Anyway.

On Friday I received the most beautiful floral arrangement from my corporate boss, along with a note of appreciation. Literally no one in my office could believe I had been sent flowers for no other reason than being appreciated for the work I do.

Ironic, seeing as how the real reason my corporate boss sent them was that I had earlier in the week vented to her about how no one in my office seemed to give a single shit about the work I do every single day.

Actual comments received:  Are they from your boyfriend? Is it your birthday? Did somebody die?

Never once did I say, "No, I just work with a bunch of unmannered jackasses, and she was expressing sympathy for my being treated like a potted plant day in and day out."

I'm classy, yo.

The flowers are so gorgeous, and I'm a thousand times appreciative of them.  Here are a few closeups of the bouquet:

Needless to say, the pictures don't do them justice. But they are beautiful and made me feel so good.

Finally...my love and respect for all those who have given their lives to protect and defend their country.

War is terrible, and the governments who start them are mostly terrible.

But the men and women who respond to their country's call and serve with honor and bravery...

They deserve all our respect.

Thank you for your service, whether or not I believe in the cause.

You deserve at least one day to be honored in our hearts.

Peace, Drunkards.

What did you do today?

Mom, Daughter, Blogger: Somehow I Am All of These

First.

My mom had heart surgery today.

Her surgeons were able to repair two leaky heart valves and also somehow magically shock her afib back into normal rhythm.

The whole thing took a little over four hours. She's in ICU now, and will be for the next couple of days. But she's sitting up and responding to nurses.

Drunkards, you can't possibly know how much your support has meant to me during this period of waiting and worrying. You're the absolute best.

I got you this rave-ready Maldives octopus to say thank you.

Because I don't want to sit here and weep tears of joy-slash-guilt-because-I'm-not-there, I'm going to write something silly and non-consequential instead.

My coping mechanism IS a Rube Goldberg machine, thanks for asking.

So.

Precocious Daughter is 17 years old. A junior in high school. An honor student. Just found out that next school year she'll be Band co-president and principal clarinetist.

And I still make her a bag lunch every school day.

What can I say? She doesn't like cafeteria food, she isn't (technically) allowed to leave campus for lunch, and I'm a creature of habit. She started brown-bagging in middle school, and I've just gone with it. Every morning, no matter how tired, late, or hungover I am, I pack her lunch.

Obviously I'm Donna Reed. Only divorced
 and overly fond of vodka.

For a number of years, PDaughter carried a succession of reusable thermal lunch totes to school. Then teenagerism took hold of her brain, and she began to lose them at regular intervals. I finally decided, fuck it, I'm buying good old brown paper bags instead. And I've been using those ever since.

I'm not sure exactly when I started drawing on them every day.

One of my first drawings was of Steven Tyler. A quick Google search tells me he began his stint as an "American Idol" judge in 2011, so that is likely when the tradition started.

Honestly, I only ever watched AI while he was on.

That's six years ago. So for six years I've been picking up a Sharpie five days a week to doodle on my kid's lunch bag.

I've drawn animals, celebrities, cartoon characters, inanimate objects, political figures, commentaries on current events...you name it, I've amateurishly depicted it on a paper bag.

Today, she was complaining that she couldn't find her black leggings, so I actually drew a pair of leggings.

That's how I roll.

But yesterday...ah, yesterday.

I don't typically photograph my brown bag creations, but I did yesterday.

You see, earlier this week I had drawn a Basset hound on PDaughter's bag.

It possibly was not one of my best efforts. When she saw it, she said (and I quote), "Oh, I thought it was a mole."

Yes, I made this soulful-eyed doggo
look like a blind rodent.

So yesterday, I endeavored to make up for my artistic transgression by drawing not one, but THREE moles on one brown paper bag.

And I was sufficiently pleased with the results to take a photo.

Check this out:

Add caption

I drew three moles, you guys.

Do you get it?

Huh, do you?

I DREW THREE MOOOOOOOLLLLEEEEESSSSSS.

Maybe not. Whatever.

But my child took this lunch to her high school.

That makes me kinda proud.

I may need to adopt another kid when she's grown, because I can't imagine not being a terrible mom any more.

MOLES, you guys.

P.S. Thanks again for your good thoughts. I can't say that enough, ever.

Musicals and Growing Up and Stuff

Here's an amusing anecdote, I think.

Precocious Daughter is playing in the orchestra for her high school's production of "Beauty and the Beast."

She's been working so very hard for so many weeks, you guys. Her dedication amazes me.

"High School Musical" isn't just a Disney show, you guys.
It's life, and love, and feels.

So...I attended tonight's performance. And in the two seats to my left were my ex-husband and my ex-mother-in-law.

Yep. Really.

My ex and I regularly meet up at functions involving PDaughter. She is our child, and we both love her, and it's totally not her burden to bear that we no longer exist as a couple.

But this.

My MIL hasn't visited  since her only son and I split up. That should be fucking awkward, right?

Except it's not.

Because I've grown the fuck up since splitting with my ex. And because his mother, bless her soul, is a loving and forgiving person who is willing to accept reality. Bless. Her. Soul

Ha. Ha. Fuck you, Internet.

Anyway, I'm really happy to report that "Beauty and the Beast" was absolutely amazing. How do high school students (and their extremely hard-working faculty) pull off something like this? I'm in awe, frankly.

Me, in awe.

I'm also happy to report that my ex-MIL and I had a blast at the show. We chatted, we laughed, we had a great time.

My ex was, I think, quite discomfited.

Vexed, one might say.

Guess what, Drunkards? I'm more mature than I was when I was married.

I'm more able to love and appreciate my extended family.

And I'm more grateful for the people who love my daughter, even if technically I'm not related to them any more.

I've grown up.

It took getting divorced. Huh.

I know that makes me neither unique nor special.

Just older and wiser than I once was.

You can perhaps relate.

I'm happy that PDaughter is happy.

And that, at long last, I'm in a good place with her family, even though I'm divorced from her dad.

Yeah, that seems weird.

But it's reality.

I love my girl, you know?

And I appreciate her kin. 

Happy at that, I am.

A Post on December 24th

Merry Christmas, you guys.

From where I sit, it's Christmas Eve. It's a big deal, even for non-Christians like me, because even heathens enjoy the holidays.

George Bailey is the reason for the season, you guys. Totally.

I still haven't finished shopping. I haven't even begun wrapping. I'm not sure what I'll be doing on Christmas Day, as Precocious Daughter will be with her dad and I haven't yet heard from my sister.

It's not that I mind spending Christmas Day on my own.

I just need to know that no one is expecting me, so I can spend the day in my jammies drinking vodka, you know?

I like that kind of stability.

I'll post again on Christmas.

In the meantime....I love you all.

In keeping with the season.

Just a Bit of Good News

My mom was released from the hospital tonight.

Regular readers know that she's been in the hospital twice since Precocious Daughter and I visited my parents the week of Thanksgiving.

And it's been hard, you guys. Really fucking hard.

But tonight, Mom is home. Reunited with my dad and their precious elder cat Tiger. Everybody seems happy and optimistic.

It's been a difficult fucking couple of weeks.

I don't like confronting the fact that my parents are old and increasingly frail. That sucks, you know? Some of you know, some of you will know eventually. As we age, our parents age even further. And death awaits us all.

Yeah, Merry Christmas and whatnot.

I just want my parents to be OK.

I Don't Ask for Much. But I'm Asking for a Bit of Love Now.

You guys, my mom is in the hospital. For the second time since Precocious Daughter and I visited my parents just a few weeks ago.

I don't want the timing of that trip to end up being providential.

She was admitted to the hospital about a week after Thanksgiving. Long story short, it turned out she has a leaky heart valve. After a tense few days, doctors determined that it could be treated with meds rather than surgery.

And there was much rejoicing. And relief.

Pdaughter and I Skyped my parents just yesterday. Mom seemed energetic and in great spirits. She was raised German Lutheran, so she does a very poor job of faking happy. When she smiles and laughs and chatters, it's for real.

But apparently, later on she had a dizzy spell. And complained about pain, then numbness, in her leg.

She already had a doctor's appointment scheduled for today, fortunately. But getting out of my dad's truck, she fell. After a few tests, she was taken to the hospital.

We still don't really know what's going on.

We know they've ruled out a stroke. Frankly, that was my greatest fear. I have a terror of strokes. I know that medical technology has greatly improved the chances that stroke victims will survive and thrive. But still, after cancer there's nothing I fear greater than strokes.

As of a little while ago, when I last talked to my dad, that's about all they know. They're going to run more tests...always more tests. It could be a spinal column issue. Related to her earlier problem? A complication? A totally unrelated, coincidental malady? We don't know at this point.

My mom is in the hospital, my dad is beside himself with worry, and I'm stuck in Texas, dreading the thought that I might have to make an emergency flight to Milwaukee in the near future.

Here's an unrelated anecdote:

Tonight I attended PDaughter's Holiday Band Concert. It was really fun. She was recognized for having advanced to All-Area Band, which is the final step before All-State (that tryout is in a few weeks). Afterwards, I ran into her dad - you know, my ex - who had also attended the concert.

Guys, the very first thing he said to me (after, Hi, how are you?) was "Do you have fifty cents?" He wanted to buy something from the band's bake sale table but only had two quarters on him.

AND I FUCKING GAVE IT TO HIM.

I'm not yet woke, Drunkards.

Anyway, I want my mom to be OK. I love her. And I'm not sure my dad could cope without her, to be honest.

I don't really pray...but I'm keeping good thoughts, and maybe you could keep a few good thoughts, too. If you can spare them, you know.

I love my mom

I want all of our moms to be well.

Vacation 2016

I'm back in Texas, you guys.

Precocious Daughter and I flew into D/FW on Wednesday night. Because it was Turkey Day Eve, I was deathly afraid we were going to encounter traffic, long lines, security nightmares, flight delays...Nope. The trip went about as smoothly and as easily as you could wish.

Kind of like the entire vacation.

I had the best time in Milwaukee. I needed this trip. It's not just that I needed a vacation (which I really, really did), but I needed specifically this vacation. I needed time with PDaughter, time with my family, time in my hometown. Because I'm not the same person I was the last time I lived there, and I felt I had to find out just who I had become since then.

I'm pleased and relieved to report that I did, and I'm happy with that person.

First things first: Yes, I got my picture with the Bronze Fonz.

Unfortunately, Henry Winkler was not in attendance,
but it was still coolamundo.

Shout-out to the parking lot attendant with the beautiful Irish brogue who collected our $2.00 so we could roam the Milwaukee Riverwalk and pose with the statue. Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to state that every single person we encountered on our trip was friendly and nice. Well, except for maybe the hostess at Tenuta's Italian restaurant on Clement Ave., who is probably the only person on Earth to return PDaughter's big, bright smile with a sneer. Maybe she was on the rag, I don't know.

Anyway, I was able to show my girl a lot of my city. I'm proud to say I still mostly knew my way around after all these years, and when I needed help, PDaughter was right there to help me navigate via cell phone. We make a good team.

We went to the Mitchell Park Domes, you guys.

Again, bucket list. You won't regret it.

The Domes are a county park/horticultural conservatory housed in three giant geodesic domes built between 1959 and 1967. They consist of a Tropical Dome, a Desert Dome, and a Show Dome that houses exhibitions throughout the year. When we went, the Christmas display was up, and it was beautiful. PDaughter loved it, as I knew she would. Everybody loves the Domes.

Her father and I lived just three blocks from Mitchell Park when we were newlyweds. We used to throw Frisbees on the big green lawn just outside the Domes, taking care to avoid the 3,568 Canada geese that seemed to occupy the space at all times. Of course, I showed PDaughter where we lived, in the first-floor flat of a house built in 1909. The neighborhood didn't look much different from the way it did from 1989-1991. I don't know if that's good or bad. I don't know if 48-year-old me could be as comfortable there as 21-year-old me was. Probably not. But I'm glad 21-year-old me lived there. It was awesome.

I also drove PDaughter past the house I grew up in, the schools I attended, the corner stores where I spent my allowance, the movie theatres I went to (many of which closed, decayed, and then were restored and reopened since I was I kid), and the streets I roamed. Bless her heart, she feigned interest in all of it. Still, I know she genuinely enjoyed the Domes, and the Milwaukee Art Museum, and my friend South Side Shelly's very eclectic home on the edge of Bay View.

The Milwaukee Art Museum is a must-see. A treasure inside and out.

I got to spend time with my brother and his wife (who was a childhood friend). That was really nice. PDaughter thought my bro was funny and cool, which made me happy. We've had very different lives, but we still fell into our old sibling banter as if we hadn't spent the last 20 years apart. Because family.

My parents seem to be doing well now that they've moved from the woods of northern Wisconsin to the relative civility of Oak Creek. They're old now...that's a bit of a thing for me. They're healthy, and independent, and certainly as mentally sharp as they've always been (thank goodness for parents who have challenged me intellectually my whole life), but still, they're in their 70s. I love them, as I've always loved them, for raising me and worrying about me and helping me out when I've needed help. I hope that when PDaughter is grown, she sees me half as favorably as I see my mom and dad.

Yet...they've been married for 52 years, and they act like it. They act like the old married couple of which I will never be a part. They bicker, they argue, they purse their lips and furrow their brows and give each other the silent treatment when the only other alternative is to shout, apparently.

It makes my heart hurt a little. Because I don't think they're happy. Yet I don't think they could live without each other. And I feel a bit guilty that I terminated my own marriage before I could get to the same state. And I'm so much happier for that.

But...we're all adults. And we make our choices.

And among my choices is that I spent five days in Milwaukee with my Precocious Daughter. And I'm so glad I did.

This Thanksgiving, I'm truly thankful for what I have. And for what I've lost.

By the way, we had a non-traditional Thanksgiving. There was chicken, pork, beef, meat loaf...but no turkey. That seems appropriate.

Still, I'm happy. And I feel so strong, you guys. I feel I owe some of that to you.

So thanks.

I hope you're all thankful, too.

Let me know, yes?

Because if nothing else, gratitude is the reason for the season.

Hello, Milwaukee Part II

Day 3 in Milwaukee:

My parents and Precocious Daughter and I went to Grant Park in South Milwaukee and walked the Seven Bridges. Even though it was 30 degrees out, the beach on Lake Michigan still made me oh so happy.

Make it a bucket list item. You won't be sorry.

Then we toured my ancestral home town of South Milwaukee, seeing the apartments I lived in from ages two to five, the homes of three of my aunts (and uncles and cousins), and the cemetery where my grandparents are buried. You guys, I don't want to be buried in the ground, but there is something somber and touching about walking amongst the gravestones of the dead and wondering about their stories and honoring your own relatives. With PDaughter at my side, I felt I was finally able to present her to her great-grandparents. Yeah, I got a little choked up. I miss my grandparents, and I know they would have loved her to death.

We spent the afternoon chilling, and then PDaughter and I visited my dear friend South Side Shelly, who proved to be exactly as smart and funny and eclectic as I remembered her from high school. She and PDaughter hit it off really well. We had dinner at an Italian place in Bay View called Tenuta's that was really quite wonderful. I love you, Shelly.

Tomorrow PDaughter and I will drive around some more, visiting landmarks and whatnot. Definitely visiting the Mitchell Park Domes, which happens to be just a few blocks from the house her father and I lived in as newlyweds. Maybe going to Kopp's Frozen Custard, even though the temperature will be in the thirties (spoiler alert: not optimal frozen custard weather).

In case you can't tell, I'm having the best time in Milwaukee. PDaughter and I are having an experience we'll share forever. I'm cherishing this time with my parents.

This is my Thanksgiving.

What are you thankful for?