Lobster On My Shoulder …

September 17, 2020 … Thursday night (The base of this post was originally written October 15, 2014 when I was a blog writer for Whidbey Life Magazine … 2014-2016)

I had an anxious day. Anxious because we are still in covid-stages of reopening and our restaurants are not yet open here on the island … and the thought of facing (and cooking) another dinner solo/that I myself had to put together was upsetting. I know – first world problems. But, you need to know something. I like to eat.

Each of us has our own gift, that thing we are good at without too much effort: baking the perfect pie, writing the perfect song, painting the perfect picture. You get the idea.

My gift is eating. Yes, I am an eater.

It’s not to say I don’t excel in other things. I make a mean box of Kraft dinner, I can cut-in a beautiful ceiling/wall line, I can tie my shoelaces without them getting undone. But one of the top things I excel at is, well…eating.F

I’m not a food critic. I am not a gourmet nor am I a gourmand. I don’t cook like Julia (though wouldn’t that be something?!). I just like to eat. And, more than anything, I like to eat something that I don’t have to make myself.

Which brings me to this anxiety I have over dinner. I’m tired of making stuff. I want to go OUT. I want to go somewhere and have someone WAIT ON ME. I want someone to bring me a glass of wine and something yummy to eat and I don’t want to have to think about it, cook it, or clean up after I’m finished. That sounds glorious.

So, tonight while I was thinking about dinner … I was inputting my writing portfolio (still) into my computer and came upon this blog post – about food on the island. It was a nice little jaunt down memory lane and while reading, I figured out I had enough leftovers to make a tasty fajita. So, dinner solved but oh, how I miss eating out!

Usually by the time I realize I should eat something, I want food NOW. As in right this minute. Immediately. Do not pass GO. If I had to pull out a cookbook and look up a recipe, I’d end up eating the book. And, on occasion, I have been known to eyeball the dog’s dish. So, yeah … I don’t take the time to pull out my Dutch oven and whip up something yummy (though on occasion that does happen). I simply throw together something easy, on-hand and quasi-tasty and call it good. Or, at least, I call it dinner.

That is why when I venture out, I want it to be FABULOUS. I want the trifecta of dining experiences. The establishment must have some sort of notable ambiance—cute, classy or charming—but always clean. The wait staff has to be personable and know their food and want to be in the service industry. And, lastly, the food should be tasty, attractive, and sufficient.

In other words, I don’t want to be served a dot of lemon-basil cream next to one seared scallop with an accompaniment of foam by a snotty waiter while sitting next to the back door. I want to be pampered and I want it to be pleasant and attractive. And, I want to EAT.

In other words, I’m kind of picky.

Someone once said, “Il cibo si mangia prima con gli occhi.” Or if you don’t know Italian, “Eat first with your eyes.” That is so true, and I am such a visual person, that the plating and presentation and eatery surroundings are almost as important to my experience as is the food. I don’t want to be seated next to the bathroom or the kitchen or any wait station. If the place has a window, put me there. If it’s got a fireplace, I am practically sitting on the hearth. If it’s tiny and noisy, put me smack dab in the middle of it all and let me dine on the noise and the aromas and the atmosphere—along with the food.

I’ve been here now over six years … and a lot of things have changed since those early days. Oddly, all of my favorite eateries have gone bust. Gone. Closed. Too bad because I could really go for dinner at any one of them about now! What we have left is pricey and mediocre and not worth my time, money, or risk of a public outing. But, pre-Covid and when I wrote this post, I’d only lived on the island for three months and somewhere along my new path I had decided to eat my way around the island. I had a long tasty road ahead, and had many meals at these favorites places.

Plentiful Penn Cove Mussels from the Knead and Feed in Coupeville (photo by Sam McCarthy)

Knead and Feed in Coupeville (up island from me about 40 minutes) was a hidden gem. It was lovely! My daughter and I would have missed it had we not stopped in the bakery along the main street (for a sniff and a cookie) and were told about the restaurant around the corner and down the stairs. The place was very tiny (seating 34) and reminiscent of an old-time schoolhouse: white walls, heavy wood, thick mouldings and a wall of windows that opened to the Passage. We sat at our rustic wooden table looking out onto that beautiful waterscape. Sam enjoyed every mouthful of the succulent Penn Cove mussels that arrived piping hot to our table. Again, I’m not a food critic but the mussels were enormous (and from the waters on the other side of our window), the serving was huge (47 … we counted!) and they were served in a large bowl with a fragrant wine broth and a side of French baguettes. I am not a mussels fan, so I opted for the Reuben sandwich which was really so good. The rye bread was chewy and toasted perfectly with a good amount of lean corned beef and a palatable ratio of sauce to kraut. It was simply divine and a lovely, charming place for a tasty and inexpensive lunch or dinner.

(Knead and Feed has since changed hands. I’ll give them a try once the cafes are open again.)

Café Langley in Langley was soothing and wonderful. I don’t know if it was the window seating, the music, the well-dressed and pleasant wait staff or the Mediterranean cuisine (or perhaps all of those things), but I had dined there a few times and oh, how I wish I could go back again.The place was along main street in town and was another small cafe. Maybe 12 tables. It was “old world charm” in the Village by the Sea. It was cozy and welcoming and always a good meal. It had tables and booths tucked into the window alcoves and was just perfectly snug and charming and the food was simply delicious. The first time there I dined with my son and daughter and let’s just say all conversation ceased when we started in on the mussels (again, Penn Cove natives) in the garlic and saffron infused wine broth and the pasta with the chicken, mushrooms, artichokes and caramelized onions in an aromatic white cream sauce. The only sounds emanating from our table were mmm’s and ohh’s. It was quite embarrassing (and so tasty). 

CL was owned by brothers and sadly one became ill and passed away. The restaurant changed hands but went downhill immediately and closed soon after. I really miss that place! It has since reopened as a seafood restaurant/bar … but they fall into the very pricey and not very good categories. Disappointing as we need a good place in town.

Whidbey Pies and Cafe in Greenbank was like eating lunch at Grandma’s. Known mostly for their pies, this cute little place was settled on the oldest Loganberry farm in the country – until the farm changed into a dog park. Some of the farm buildings remained and WP was housed in one of them next to the pond and gardens. Again, out with my daughter, we shared the huckleberry, glazed pecan and Gorgonzola salad (with warm huckleberry vinaigrette) and the turkey panini with cranberry chutney, Havarti and baby greens. It was like eating Thanksgiving – in a sandwich – in October. The salad and sandwich were equally fabulous. It was a wonderful split. The wait staff was always friendly and welcoming. The café was always so darling and farmy-charming with small wooden tables and some outside for garden seating. We ate there several times … and sadly, usually not remembering to leave room for PIE!

WP Cafe is under new ownership, a new name and is in transition. When reopened we’ll see what they will be serving. The place is just so cute, I hope to be back!

And then there was the Glass Alley Cafe in Freeland (up island about 12 minutes). This establishment had it all. I loved this place and it was definitely my favorite place to go. The name was deceiving (better fit for a stained glass studio) but it was the cutest, small Italian bistro. It was simple, it was cozy, it was fresh. If I wasn’t going to go there and heartily enjoy their bruschetta, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, Caesar salad, complimentary breads, tomato bisque, or cheesecakes, I’d go just to sit and have a glass of wine and a small plate because there was a fireplace, walls of windows and a little seating area that was off to the side and private. Just so nice. But I’d go for the food because it was (for lack of better words) to die for! And, Andrew (think Johnny Weir without the ice skates) – the maitre d’, was nothing less than exceptional in his position—he got it. He treated diners like royalty and made each of our visits more than special.

Sadly, this place closed all too soon after I found it. The owner became ill and had to move and the space was taken over by a real estate office. So sad.

I miss those places. I’m not really fond of anywhere else on this island (other than the pizza place in town). Call me weird, but I’m not too keen on forking over a lot of moolah for a ho-hum dinner. Pricey and mediocre we are known for. I prefer some place special.

And that is what dining out should be—special. It should be that trifecta of goodness: ambient, pampering and oh-so-yummy. And that same dining experience should leave not only your stomach full but also your soul.

September 13, 2020 – Sunday evening (covid raging, fires in the west raging, tempers raging … patience and tolerance flagging … 50 days until the election of our lifetime )

I am tired. Aren’t we all?

I just read a post that basically said what I’ve been thinking for a LONG time now … and it’s true. You are bombarded by so much (mentally, physically, emotionally) that you get to the exhaustion point and you stop caring about X, Y and Z.

It’s a good tactic because it works. Bombard your opponent with so much chaos that exhaustion sets in … and when exhaustion sets in one’s focus is honed to survival … water, food, shelter. Everything else is extra. And when you’re exhausted – there is no time/energy for anything extra.

I think that is the “tactic” (if they have one) of the Trump administration … bombard us with so much SHIT, on a daily basis, for months and years … that eventually we will stop caring what he and those that support and enable him do.

We are tired. But it’s time to rally. We have roughly 50 days until the election. Keep talking to your neighbors, family, friends, co-workers. We have to have everyone turn out and vote this election. Sanity, decency and our democracy are what we are voting for and what needs to be chosen this November. I BEG of you to keep on keeping on.

And, while you are doing that … I thought we could all use a little humor. And in “little” I mean a gigantic amount but I’ve got just a little here for you.

Whenever I would gift my dad (in the past), it was usually a food basket of selected goodies that I thought he’d enjoy (and not buy for himself) and a goofy t-shirt that he could wear to the gym. Yes – even on his 90th I got him a silly t-shirt. He was a chemist so I got him one that spelled out, using the periodic table of elements, “I (Iodine) Na (Sodium) P (Phosphorus) Periodically”. Ha ha. I thought it was clever. The day after his 90th, Dad passed away while taking one of his periodic afternoon naps. He was not wearing that shirt.

I’m just glad I refrained from getting him the one I was really wanting to … “My last chance of having a smoking hot body is cremation.”

Even though it would have been appropriate, I’m glad I went with the other. I’m thinking I should order that one for myself.

Anyway – I’m always, still, on the look-out for silly t-shirts with good slogans or a play on words. Here are some I saw in a catalog this week. I hope they relieve a bit of your weariness …

My body is a temple – ancient and crumbling – probably cursed or haunted

I just did a week’s worth of cardio after walking into a spider web

I’d grow my own food if I could only find bacon seeds

Drummers can’t be beat

LLamaste

The universe is made up of a lot of “ons” … protons, neutrons, electrons and morons

If history repeats itself I am SO getting a dinosaur

Zombies eat brains – you’re safe

Ambitchous – the desire to become a better bitch

I disappear into books. What’s your superpower?

So, apparently I have an attitude

A moment of SCIENCE, please!

Make lies wrong again.

Enjoy your day. Keep on keeping on …

August 29, 2020 … Saturday (end of Covid – nowhere in sight/Autumn right around the corner)

It’s late August. How did that happen????

I’m biding my time. I want to get off island but told myself I can’t until I mow the lawn (but I don’t want to do it). I need to vacuum – I don’t want to do that chore either. I have five other things I should do so I can get them off my today’s “to-do” list – and yup, you’ve got it – I don’t want to do any of them. So, here I am.

It’s the Saturday after two weeks of political conventions, marches, racial unrest, political disrespect and criminal activities, a bad eyeball, lots of dogs, a no-care doctor and Mom Nature being ugly again. And that’s not mentioning we have surpassed 182,000 Americans dead due to this virus and a projected death rate of an additional 140,000 by Thanksgiving. It’s been a bit much.

So, I thought I’d just kind of ease into the to-do’s and ferry lines and get this off … a little something lighter for us all … before I get busy.

Nearly two weeks ago my neighbors found a little chihuahua in the street in town. Because of their dog, they couldn’t keep her; I said I would until the parents came and claimed her. Well, she’s still here.

I immediately contacted the police and local shelters, went back and put up signs/rang doorbells/talked to neighbors in the area. NOTHING. Put my info on all alert websites for dogs/our island. NOTHING.

So, here we are – 13 days later – looking at each other. I wonder what she’s thinking? I know what I’m thinking … I’m thinking she’s MINE!

Last Friday I took her to the vet to make sure she didn’t need meds (that she wasn’t getting) and to get a tooth pulled that was grossly rotten and dangling. She was checked out and that snaggletooth pulled – and a molar came out while they were in there poking around, as well. The rest of her teeth, what she has, are black or green. A mouth of moldy decay. Super nasty. It’s like kissing a sewer pipe … and she is a kissy girl. Yuck! We are getting that fixed this week – cleaned or extracted – it’ll be better by Tuesday night!

The vet thinks she’s been dumped – for whatever reason. My heart breaks a little over that possibility. She’s scuttles along like an armadillo. She is tiny (8 lbs) and old (12-13), deaf and her eye-sight is failing and she might have a little incontinence issue. But – aside from her geriatric nature and dental work needing to be done – she’s healthy and good. She’s gotten along with a houseful of dogs all week. And she is very sweet.

I was looking into her cute little fox face the other night, trying on name 231 for size … was she Hazel, Wilma, Delores? Was she more of a Bella or Bea or Gladys? Or maybe she was Sweet Pea, Violet or Kitty? I sat there as she looked back at me and told her that I just wanted her HOME. Her old home … or this home … I just wanted her safe and secure and home cuz … there’s no place like home!

And then it hit me … she’s DOROTHY!

And if she’s Dorothy – lost and far from Auntie Em and home … maybe that makes me Glinda! I could go with that!

So, we’re trying that name out on her. It’s a bit old-fashioned (as I wanted), I’ve known a few good Dorothys and it is nick-nameable (as I wanted = Spotty Dotty). Also, the name Dorothy means Gift from God. So, maybe she was a divine gift for me … to ease me back into having another dog.

Last fall I had a pug guest and wrote this …

I’ve left the warmth of my bed and the soft purr-snuffle of a sleeping pug with stenotic nares. The heft of his body nestled against my back has been comforting.

I’ve been visited by an angel-pug this week … and it was both glorious and so painful. I miss my dog. 

Pugs are similar in looks – for the most part. Their bodies are similarly shaped. Coloring of the face is pretty much the same. The eyes and tongues might be different … but all in all, they’re pretty similar. 

I was blessed with taking care of Iggy this week. A sweet first-timer, Mr. Kisser, and wow … talk about a pug-clone. Yes, pugs have similar attributes but, this one could have been my sweet Gert … with an add-on.

So, all week he was called “Gertie-with-a-penis” … at least in my head.

Grief is weird. I know she died. I held her in the sunshine as she did so. It was a year ago. And yet … my head was trying to tell my heart that she had come back. That this little male clone was actually her. 

And in the right light or angle or from above … or in shadow or when walking … it was her. He was HER. 

I have cried all week. My heart, not quite sure whether to laugh or cry when I looked at him or snuggled with him – decided that tears were what was best. So, we had some pretty soggy moments. 

I know he is not her … but this has been the strangest week with having him here. He is just so similar in every way – coloring, head/body shape, sounds, face – esp. his left side/profile… he is Gert! His right eye is a bit different and there is an extra wrinkle on his face and his nostrils are tighter (after all, Gert did have a nose job to enhance her air flow!) … but otherwise, it was eerily Gertie. 

And for all those years I tried to get Gert to kiss me (she rarely did) … I had to practically fend off this little guy. I had a hard time stopping Ig from kissing my skin off! He was always kissing me/licking any exposed skin! I’ve never been cleaner! 

So, if this was you, Gert … it’s been a lovely week. I miss you so much. And if this was just a sweet pug named Iggy, thank you for all the love and joy you’ve brought to me this week. You’ll forever be known to me as “Gertie with a penis”. xoxo

I lost Gertie and Clara a month apart almost two years ago … right after my dad. Cumulative grief is hard. I always thought I’d get a baby pug or a frenchie or a rescue lab (by now) … but that has not been the case. And then this little bundle of chihuahuaness shows up and … who am I to not accept a gift?

August 26, 2020 – Wednesday (RNC week/177K US dead from Covid/hurricane looming/fires burning/civil unrest/BLM marches and riots/election woes/political absurdities/economic downfall/jobs and lives lost/isolation/uncertainty…)

Maybe if you just read what follows the date (above) you’ve had read enough. Me, too. I feel like I have waded through enough upheaval and strife to have lived 1,000 lives since January. Don’t we all?

And, still I can say that all this has affected me minimally. Except for the stress part of it. And the loss part. And the isolation and uncertainty … and the political absurdities and the economic downfall. But, otherwise, I’m good.

Aside from my empathetic nature which pulls me down and makes me feel as badly as if this were all happening to me … as if I had lost my job/partner/home/security.

But, in a way – haven’t we ALL? In some fashion – this year – lost so much? Think about it.

I watched a movie last week and it made me so nostalgic. I sat there and rued about sweeter times … the good ol’ days … when people shopped without masks, gathered together hugging and laughing … loving faces, with disposable incomes, enjoying life in scenarios that seemed from SO LONG AGO. Even the commercials were carefree. No masks, no agendas, no political nonsense or campaigning. And then I realized I had only recorded it a few years ago. Yeah, the good ol’ days!

I used to sell cosmetics/skin care … (one would not know that by looking at me now) … and even if it’s neutral – I wear lip gloss. Well, I’m a slow learner! It’s been months of mask wearing and what do I do before I put on my mask? Put on lip gloss! So, I put the mask on and with my first inhale it immediately sucks onto my lips! It’s like I’ve used Super Glue!

So, this week … I finally learned … NO lip gloss before the mask. So, off I went to the vet’s office (another story) and was proud of myself that I didn’t have my mask stuck to my lips because I hadn’t put on any gloss. Kudos for me! However, when I got back in the car, I looked in the rearview mirror (apparently it had been HOURS since I looked myself over) and I had itched my left eye – smearing my eyeliner from the my eye to mid-cheek in a nice, somehow lovely, curving arch. If I had added a diamond teardrop, it would have made for a good sad clown face.

Maybe it was a subliminal display? It’s been a rough few weeks … months … year.

I watched the DNC last week … four nights. I found the first two boring, depressing, and dismal. Disappointing at best. The third night was GOOD … liked all the speeches. Felt better about even the people giving them and saw a human side to Kamala Harris that I needed to know about. That was a good thing. The last night struck me as a church service. Not being a church goer, it didn’t resonate with me – except negatively. Where’s the separation of church and state? I didn’t like it. But, I felt more hopeful after Joe’s speech than I have in some time. I think that was what resonated with everyone I talked with or email chatted with in the days afterward … we felt a bit of HOPE.

And I don’t care what your political stance is … who doesn’t like HOPE? Even if it’s a glimmer?

This week I vowed to watch the RNC … I had it on. I passed by the TV gathering snippets of the speeches. I couldn’t stomach it. I wanted to smash all their faces with their fake Barbie-doll looks and perfection and lies. I watched MSNBC to gather clips and their takes on what was said. And I came away with gut feelings of despair.

It made me wonder why during speeches aren’t there fact check statements running along the bottom of the screens – like captions or sub-titles – so that people can see if what the speaker is saying is true or not. EVERY speaker. EVERY time.

Better yet – have each speaker wear a shock collar. Whenever someone would say something a lie or offer some promise they knew they wouldn’t keep – they’d get a shock. It works for training dogs or keeping them in their yards … why not use it on politicians and political speech givers? I laugh thinking that most would get some jolts … discomfort at best. Trump would be on the ground as if he were tasered within minutes. Before the end of his speech he’d have electrocuted himself.

Think about it.

If you told ANY lie to your boss/family/neighbors/community … they’d think less of you. There would be repercussions. Trust would be lost. Maybe your livelihood – maybe your family and/or friends or community standing/position. Why is this not so with our leaders? Why do we give them carte blanche … when really WE are their bosses. We hired them! If they’re not doing a good job … or are not honest, trustworthy people who are decent and capable … why keep them?

It made me think that we need stricter rules or people with a backbone in these offices. How does a President use the White House as a backdrop for his political campaign? It’s not allowed. Yet he did it. How does anyone use a federal building for the same? And yet he did. How did he hold a funeral for his brother with 150 attendees – in the White House – when no gatherings of over 50 are allowed in DC? How does the Secretary of State take a political stance? He is a public servant. When he took that oath of office, he relinquished his personal viewpoints on politics. He cannot speak on behalf of a political party or nominee. How does anyone with any empathy or decency, use people in a naturalization ceremony for his political gains? Especially someone with his history regarding immigration. And that was the tip of the iceberg. I don’t know why our president and his aides/appointees get away with all this. WHY? HOW? Are all the watchdogs dead?

And, again, it should matter to EVERYONE that he/they are doing this. Regardless of your political affiliation as it’s an affront to us as Americans. If you don’t see this as a problem – maybe you should look deeper. Perhaps you need to look into Trump still having active businesses that have funneled millions of dollars from his campaign, foreign governments and the US government (our tax dollars) to his personal bank accounts from expenses paid at his personal hotels, clubs and holdings. One small bite of this complex, messy, illegal as hell meal we’ve been served.

Think about it. Would you do that? If not – then why should we stand for the leader of our country doing that?

We have 68 days until the election. MAKE THEM COUNT. Do something. Hang a sign. Encourage your neighbors to vote (and early). Contact a campaign office and offer your time. I implore you to help get out the word that this country is in trouble and we need to act NOW.

I sit here and think … Wow, that sounds pretty dire, Les!  And then I realize … it is.

If for no other reason (and we all know there are MANY) … we need change. This administration is not working as WE THE PEOPLE need it to be. All of us need help. The Covid virus is still running rampant and until it is squelched, our economy will suffer, businesses will remain closed, people will not have jobs and kids will not be safe at schools. And, personally, I need a HUG! This is not a partisan problem – we are all in need, as Americans, of help and a new way out of this mess. Trump just can’t do it. He doesn’t have the capacity and is too wrapped up in all things DJT to worry about you or me or anyone else.

I’ll be the first to say I’m not a huge fan of the choices this year … either side. But it’s what we’ve got and there is only ONE choice that is clear and shows us a better tomorrow. I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking for decency and empathy … for diplomacy, courage and responsibility. I’m asking for experience, selflessness and love of country. I’m asking for respect … for science and health, for all people regardless of where they are from, the color of their skin, who they love or what they are capable (or incapable) of. I’m asking for leadership. And in saying that is what I’m asking for … that means I’m asking for change. Change from what is.

I didn’t start out writing this as a political blurb … far from it. I started out thinking that there has been so much stress and strife and upset in the past few weeks that surely, today, I could come up with something funny to chat about. I’m thinking if this were my stand up comedy routine, I’d surely get boo’d off the stage! I’m thankful there is no big hook on my computer!

We’ve got a changing climate … our country is heating up/burning up and in line for a deadly hurricane season. We can’t do much – immediately – to change those things. Mom Nature is going to run her course. But there are things we CAN change … we can change the political course we are on. In fact, we are the ONLY ones who can do that … and we do that by voting. Make your voice heard!

I heard yesterday that UW’s mapping of the virus projects another 140K deaths in the US by December … bringing us up over 310,000 deaths by that time. If that’s not enough to make you want change – I don’t know what is.

Wear a mask. Socially distance. Be responsible and caring and respectful. Be good. You might just save a life … and it may be your own.

Think about it.

August 14, 2020 – Friday (still in covid/things are not improving/no end in sight)

I lost a good friend yesterday.

It’s been a tough week. A brutal week at times. And the one thing I kept telling myself was … Give it a day.

I seem to say that a lot … this year, especially. Friend’s parents have died of Covid-19. I lost a brother-in-law to ALS. A few of the dogs I have taken care of have passed – one is on his way to that bridge. Our country is a mess. Our President is inept and scary. We are still in the middle of a health crisis that, seemingly, is never going to go away because our leaders are idiots and the American people, at large, are selfish and confuse rights with respect. I’m no closer to moving than I was a year ago.

And it seems every night before I go to bed, I say to myself … Give it a day.

I said that on Tuesday when I sat next to my good friend and neighbor, a lovely man whose fight with cancer had run its course. He was losing ground. Every day for the past two weeks we saw him slip further and further from himself. I sat with him as he struggled to stay with us … fought to stay by his beloved’s side … whispered, “Bye-bye, honey” to my tear-stained face.

I cried all day and went home that night hoping he’d go forward and leave that emptied body and be free.

But Wednesday dawned and he was still there … still struggling … still fighting the fight. It broke my heart. But that night, as I sat with this man that had come to mean so very much to me, I knew he was slipping away – painfully slowly – as he was unresponsive … away – somewhere else – while I regaled him, again, with my renditions of Heaven.

Tuesday I told him that all who went ahead before him would be waiting at the gate for him – welcoming him home … his two kids, his brother, his parents, a multitude of friends and his beloved fur babies. I said a parade was starting to get into formation … he was the Grand Marshall and it was in his honor – so when he was ready, they’d start to march … confetti and ticker tape. To that he cooed, “Wonderful.”

Unlike the NW, I told him all days were temperate and the sunsets were pink and golden. And he could fly around the world seeing everything he wanted to that he hadn’t – or revisit places he loved. No plane or passport required.

A buffet with everything imaginable would be on a long table and he could eat black cod – his favorite – and have as much as he wanted of that or ice cream – or both.

I told him he could do anything he wanted in Heaven. Heck, if he wanted to kiss a walrus, he could kiss a walrus. He smiled at that. My heart ached as I knew it would be my last “Jim smile” – slightly crooked/full of wonder.

That “Tuesday night face” – that “Jim smile” is the face I want to remember. Not the face of Wednesday night – when he laid on the bed, me by his side, so little breathing. He was fighting so hard … to stay? to leave? How do we know?

Hospice up’d his morphine when I voiced my concern about his comfort. I was glad for that. This man had been through so much. Too much. In his last hours I wanted at least more comfort for him.

I met Jim and his wife, Jo, five or so years ago. They were my parents’ age … Jo a few years younger … Jim two days younger than my mom. My dad was a year older. Jim and Jo had an old, black pug dog, Duke. I had an old, fawn pug dog, Gertie. They were buds. When Jim and Jo were having some health issues and thought they’d have to put Duke down because they could no longer care for him – I brought him to my house. He and his diapers settled in for a few months. Jim and Jo rebounded and Duke went home to be with them for another year or so. They were so grateful to have him back and I was more than happy to have helped.

And that’s how our relationship was. Jim would come down and fix a gate for me. I’d go down and fix them lunch. We’d go see the spring tulip fields – his car/I’d drive. We’d go as a group with another neighbor and the four of us would stop for lunch or dinner or a snack … those little field trips were such fun. When something was going on at the local arts center – they always asked if I wanted to join them – knowing I would be less apt to go solo. If any of us had a hankering for Chinese food – we’d get the Mu Shu Mobile up and running and go to dinner. Jim cut the spindles and helped me drill the holes for my fence and told me what screws to get to put them in. Along the way we shared stories of our lives … and I grew to love them – both of them – but Jim especially.

He built their homes, fathered two children/raised four, carved statues of seals. He gave of his time, talents and money and touched the lives of thousands with his countless hours of volunteering and help in the community. He was a good friend and neighbor and a fine man and a decent human.

And yesterday, in the morning, he left us. I want to say, “Finally.” but that catches in my throat and my eyes and lips get tight and the tears start anew.

During one of our last conversations he said he wanted to walk the bridge again (Deception Pass). I remembered the stories of their kayak adventures under that bridge (crazy people – way too dangerous) and the smile on his face as he told me about them.

I popped in to see Jo, knowing Jim was gone – body cold but still at the house, spirit free and flying over the fjords of Norway, no doubt. She was being cared for so I left knowing where I was going and what I needed to do. I drove north an hour up to the pass and walked the bridge for Jim. I was hoping to see a dove or an eagle or something that I could pretend was him … but nothing. There was construction on the bridge and one side’s sidewalk (the best side) was blocked from pedestrians. I had to chuckle. Jim would have loved seeing what they were doing. His friends called him “911” cuz there was nothing he wouldn’t drop and rush over and help fix.

So, I walked the bridge and gave a shout out for Jim as I faced the west and watched the sun sink lower in the sky … it was pink and golden.

I stopped at Taco Bell and picked up some comfort for Jo … two tacos. Her favorite. I brought them to her – cold by the time I got back (but reheatable) … and told her she’d be okay. We’d all be with her and she had good support and we loved her and knew this sucked so badly but that we’d make sure she was never alone or scared or wanting. Her family and friends would make sure of that. I told her I knew all too well that she was thinking this was not how she had envisioned it … that she couldn’t make it without him. And that as cliche as it sounds … time does help heal the broken heart.

And as I kissed the top of her head good-night (through my mask) … I said to her, “Give it a day.”

August 8, 2020 – Saturday

More writing portfolio findings …

The Acquisition of Oscar – 10/12/2004

The cat is sitting on the stool next to me – staring into my soul – willing me to understand his intentions/needs/thoughts. I look up at him and ask, “Do you need food? A hug? Got a new idea for this novel of mine that is going nowhere?” 

My brain is certainly clogged as I am not even open to cat brain waves this morning. I grab him up in a big hug, hoping that was what he was needing. It did me good.

He is a big boy … black and brown tabby – 18 plus pounds – and all of it love. I’ve had a few cats in my life but Oscar will forever be my baby. He was mine. And he was special. And I can’t imagine my life without this one-of-a-kind feline. 

I came upon him before the holidays a few years back. I was on my way home from a holiday luncheon with good girlfriends and being near the local shelter, I thought I’d stop in – take a peek – and give a donation. 

Our lovely cat, Emmy, of 14 years had passed away three weeks earlier and with another cat at home and an aging pug – I really didn’t need another cat. I didn’t even want another cat. My heart was still broken over Emmy. 

So, I was not prepared when I opened one of the cage doors and peered inside. All I saw was a huge blob of fur huddled at the back of it. I swung open the door and clucked to him and out ventured the largest cat I’d ever seen! He stretched his paw out to me (as if introducing himself) and then climbed onto me, wrapping each front paw around my neck and then burrowed his face into my chest. I could not have pried him off of me even if I had wanted to.

And … I didn’t want to. My heart had already melted and I was his.

I’d like to say I gave the shelter my money and that Oscar and I went home that day. That would have been nice and easy – but nice and easy was not the way he ultimately ended up with us.  

It was instant love at first sight for us both. But, I decided I’d best go home and get my daughter for her ultimate approval. I did not want to show up with a “replacement cat” if she wasn’t ready. Emmy had been like her little sister and the cat’s passing had been a difficult loss, especially for her.

An hour later, just before the shelter’s closing, Sam was holding Oscar. She was beaming … and if possible, I think he was, too. I left the two of them hugging in the back room and went to fill out the adoption paperwork. After filling out all necessary pages, which were many – I handed them over to the gal at the counter. She rifled through them (ever so briefly) and looked up at me (ever so politely) and told me they “would never adopt to the likes of me.”  

WHAT??? Me??? The animal lover of all animal lovers? The stray dog rescuer? Queen of the Tadpoles? I had even stayed up all night once with a rescued pinky squirrel that had fallen from its nest in our tree – who I then transported two hours north to “Squirrel Rescue” the next morning. 

Me? They wouldn’t adopt to the likes of ME? There must be some mistake. Had I said we were satanic or used to doing animal rituals? That we had a nice recipe of Stew of Cat at home? That we were involved in cat fighting? WHAT!?

I didn’t go ballistic. I didn’t throw a tantrum, get indignant or yell. I did what I always do when I’m angry, confused, hurt – I cried. Through the tears of my daughter’s and my own I heard that we were not a good “fit” because we already had a cat at home. We had a dog and a dog door and heaven forbid, that the cat should “get out” that door and be able to enjoy some fresh air! I should have lied and said I was the only one at home, no other pets, I’d never let him outside, blah blah blah. But nope – I told the truth and was sent home.  

Sam and I left, our faces tear-streaked and before we even got our seat belts buckled, “Operation Rescue” was in place.  

My sister and her daughter were our accomplices. They followed us to the shelter the next day. We parked half a block down and told them what he looked like/the name (Rufus) on his cage and what to say to “pass” the adoption process. After searching half an hour for him – they were told he was being “fixed” and he wouldn’t be available until the next day. Undaunted, we made a plan to return.

Day three of “OR” dawned and as much as I wanted to go back as soon as they opened, we needed to wait until school was out for the girls. So, at 4pm, back to the shelter our two cars went … determined to get Oscar and bring him home. We were on a mission! We arrived there – my sister and her daughter went in … Sam and I were parked, again, half a block away. I didn’t want anyone to recognize my van! I was taking no chances! 

But, alas … NO CAT! 

My sister was told he had been part of an ADOPTION DAY promo at a local pet store across town. As in … WAY across town! Frantic, Sam and I sped off, through the Friday before Christmas rush-hour traffic to the pet store miles and miles away… trying to get there before they closed. We parked and practically flew into the store. We walked directly to the adoption area and sweet-talked the dorkiest 17 year old worker I could find. I didn’t want ANY trouble.We asked about any tabbies they had. The kid opened up one of the cages … and there he was … OUR (soon-to-be) CAT! Hallelujah!

Pointing at Oscar I said (heart racing but as cooly as possible), “We’ll take that one.” I filled out the paperwork – all incorrect information, of course – my middle name as my first, last name something else, a made-up address. I was beyond panicked that they’d ask to see my license – thankfully, they didn’t. (Phew!) As I was doing that, I gave Sam the keys and told her to take the cat OUT TO THE CAR – (90% of ownership is possession, right?). I could feel every single second ticking away – interminably – while I waited in line to pay his all-cash/non-traceable adoption fees. I thought I’d faint. Was it hot in there? Transaction completed – I was wished a happy holiday and I, as nonchalantly as possible, walked out. My heart was still racing. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I felt like I had just robbed a bank! 

And that is how Oscar came to be our cat. 

Footnote: The above was written in 2004. Operation Rescue took place just before Christmas 2002 and we had my sweet kitty until the Spring of 2013. We think, from the vet’s determination, that he was over 18 at the time I had to put him down. As he grew older he got into a number of fights along the way … with a raccoon … with a fox … other cats. He was a monster – always protecting us/the house/the other animals. I watched him chase a coyote from our yard, even. We had an old pug, Yoshi, whom he adored. She was paralyzed and he’d sit with her and groom her for hours … and then when I put her in the yard in the sun or shade … he’d go sit with her and look after her. He was a doting boyfriend!

He never liked a display of emotions. Always biting or swatting if someone was too rowdy, crying, or otherwise upset. When I moved across country from Denver to Chicago, I had four dogs and two cats in the minivan with me. Yoshi, Oscar’s girlfriend, was not doing well and I made a pit stop at the local vet before we even made it to the highway. She was dying and I had to help her to that bridge. I got back in the car – sobbing my eyes out, thinking what would I “tell” the cat – I had just “killed his girlfriend”. He walked from the back of the van and put his little paw on my shoulder and just mewed. It broke my heart but I think he was telling me he knew and it was okay. I cried all the way to Omaha.

We nicknamed him “The General” because of his stoic nature, courage and display of punishment. If the dogs were being too rambunctious – barking at a passerby or the mailman – he’d go over to them and smack their butts! He kept them in line. He often chased (unsuspecting) dogs and people off our sidewalks – including one little girl on a tricycle! He was ruthless – but he was also a sweet and loyal guy … and a loving, comforting friend and companion for many years. He was lovely.

August 7, 2020 – Friday

(Day 14 billion (or so it seems) of Covid-19. As of yesterday there were over 4.9 million cases in the US with over 160,000 deaths. We are losing ground and hot spots are now in 28 states. Worse than ever. Globally there are over 19.2 million cases and over 716K deaths. The US has 4.25% of the world’s population and yet we also have > 22% of the the world’s covid issues. NOT GOOD! This is not a drill! Mask up, people! Mask up!)

Still working on my writing folder … here’s another tidbit from the past.

Porcy and Minnie … (12/11/2004) 

It’s mid-December in Denver and 64º outside ~ our weather is bizarre. It snowed 14″ in the mountains yesterday and we incurred such high winds that, overnight, practically the enter contents of our pond blew out and away.

We have a pond in our backyard – not a nice, natural “Mother Nature” pond … just a small pond we put in for aesthetics. And when I say “small” ~ I mean … SMALL! As in smaller than a bathtub but it serves its purpose. Over the years it has housed dozens of fish and tadpoles and temporarily had one errant Cocker Spaniel that fell in, one playful Malamute that dove in, one Lab that thought it was her private spa, and a very large raccoon who decided it was a diner. 

So, here I am filling the pond and thinking back to my favorite tenants … Porcy and Minnie … our tadpoles. 

We’ve had a LOT of pets over the years and our fair share of tadpoles in that mix, as well. I’ve since lost count of their lineage number – calling a squiggly creature Porcy XVI is a bit pretentious anyway. But there were MANY!

When the kids were little we (as in me, myself and I) thought it would be fun to “grow frogs”. Hence – our first acquisition/generation of tadpoles.  

The kids were in charge of naming them (still have NO idea where the kids thought these up from) and hence, Porcy and Minnie came to be and were promptly given a prominent space on top of the kitchen peninsula’s counter. (I look back and surely some of my friends must have thought I was crazy and/or been grossed out!) Their abode was a nice little fish bowl – complete with a pretty colored rock bottom and ceramic mermaid to keep them company. (I do NOT miss cleaning those fishbowls!) 

Sadly, Porcy and Minnie (I) didn’t quite make it to frog-hood. I’d forgotten to put the screen back on top of their house one night after cleaning … and well, when I came into the kitchen the next morning, I was horrified to find the bowl – empty. There was NO sight of them anywhere … and the cat was giving me NO clues of their disappearance, either.

I went back upstairs and as I passed my daughter’s room, I noticed something on the carpeting next to her bed … and sadly, yes, it was Porcy and Minnie! Their little, chubby bodies were laid out, in perfect alignment, side by side (our cat was VERY precise) … I presume as a gift for my daughter. Thankfully, she was at a sleepover and not in her bed (phew) … and as I left the room to get a towel for them … the cat sat close by looking so proud and happy. I think she was actually smiling. 

Not wanting to face the DEATH issue (and all that that entailed) – I did as many parents have done when a pet has died … I raced to the garden store and replaced them. And, as I’d hoped … no one (but me and the cat) was any wiser for my efforts.

(Side note: this is not advisable … but you can do this and get away with it with tadpoles and goldfish… maybe a hamster, mouse or gerbil but anything else your kids will know the replacement is an imposter!)

So, that’s how the line of Porcys and Minnies started. We had P and M II until the next spring – whereas, by then, I was pretty sick of having tadpoles on my kitchen counter and they hadn’t yet so much as sprouted ONE little froggy leg!  

I decided that releasing them in the creek, across the way, would be the nicest act of kindness to bestow on these fair and loyal creatures who we had incarcerated for far too long. I felt like Jeremiah Johnson – communing with Nature – being one with the Universe. I’d release those babies from captivity and all would be well in the world. 

That’s not exactly how things went. 

The kids and I carried these tadpole treasures to the creek. We said our good-byes and plopped them into the water. Now this COULD have had a very happy ending with us watching them swim away in the calm shallow water – in and out of the reeds – enjoying the sun on their now freed backs as it filtered through the waters. But noooo – we had to release them the day after a heavy rain … the day when our little, trickling creek had transformed into a raging river – rapids and all!  

Without giving it a second thought (why?) we plopped them into the water and their little bodies shot forward at lightning speed – they were probably pummeled to death before we even turned our backs! I was horrified (again) – what had I been thinking??? 

My kids, however, thought it was FABULOUS! As if we’d just strapped these little life forms onto a rocket ship or a wild roller coaster! Wheeeeee! They giggled and chattered all the way home about HOW MUCH FUN Porcy and Minnie must be having on their wild ride. My thoughts were more along the lines of … RIP. 

We continued, for whatever reasons (which now totally elude me – other than I’m a glutton for punishment), to have tads over the years. The kids, obviously, now knew that these were NOT the original P and M – but the names stuck and all tadpoles henceforth would also be named Porcy and Minnie.  

Somewhere nearing the Porcy and Minnie XX generation we had THREE make it the froglet stage. (And yes – they were all named P and M/even if there were more than 2 tads! Kind of like George Foreman’s family.) These tads had actually sprouted little, chubby, froglet legs! Hallelujah!!!! Success! We were ecstatic!

We gave them larger accommodations. They lived in the pond in the summer but cold nights, frost and snow made me feel really guilty and I eventually put them in an old fish aquarium (another pet disaster story) in the laundry room – next to Charlie, the guinea pig. (I nicknamed him Tuna and I loved him dearly. But, eventually felt sorry for him being in a cage and gave him to a neighborhood family with lots of kids and other guinea pigs and they all (children and pigs) had free-range of the fenced yard and Charlie Tuna lived to be the oldest, happiest guinea pig on the planet. Or he was eaten by a fox; I’m not sure.) 

Winter finally ceded to spring and warmer days arrived and the froglets were to be moved into their summer home – the pond – within the week. I don’t know who was more excited – me or the tads. Probably me. I’d been delighted and diligent in my motherly tadpole/froglet duties all winter – feeding, cleaning, talking/singing to them, encouraging them to grow more legs, etc. 

But one morning I realized one of the froglets was missing!  Uh – oh … not again!  Sadly, an extensive search turned up his brown, lifeless little body on the family room floor. Once again, the cat looked mighty happy.  

A few days later my husband walked into the laundry room (to what he could only later describe as a scene from some gruesome horror movie) to find another froglet – dead on the counter. (Amazingly enough the cat had nothing to do with the undoing of this one!)

Apparently the froglet jumped out of his enclosure and dangled his little front leg inside Charlie’s cage (I can only imagine in some sort of nice, friendly wave or greeting) – where upon Charlie promptly chomped off the froglet’s leg! I don’t know how much blood a froglet has in his body – but it was clearly enough to upset my husband and have him say to me, “DO NOT GO INTO the laundry room!”. Graciously, he cleaned up the mess. (Apparently, the poor little one had hopped around and well … use your imagination.) 
So, froglet #2 was a goner. After that I stopped calling the pig Tuna and went back to his first name … Charlie … adding Manson as his last name. Sadly, it fit. 

So, after four months of pampering these froglets we were down to ONE. We made a BIG deal (pomp and circumstance to the hilt) and we ceremoniously placed him into the pond. In preparation I had gotten a whole bunch of new goldfish and more tads to keep him company and they were already in the pond waiting for his arrival. Woohoo – finally!

We were all so excited to have this little one go to his new home. Each of us gave a little speech about this little loved froglet and how we all wished him a long, happy life and continued growth into a real frog. It was lovely. A froglet has never been more loved.  
Personally, I don’t think he lasted 12 hours! That night a large raccoon came visiting the Pond Diner and wiped us out. New fish, new tadpoles and our one lovely froglet … all eaten. Even my plastic alligator decoration had his legs chomped off! (I still have that alligator!)  

After that I gave up on tads – too emotionally draining! Kids, dogs, cats, rodents … I can handle … but it was too sad losing those little ones. After each and every demise I’d cry my eyes out. I couldn’t continue with the carnage (and in reality, I was pretty sick of all things tadpoley, too). So, that is the story of our tadpoles … Porcy and Minnie I through ????.
I haven’t had those little critters since but I somehow miss them and every spring/summer the smell of tadpoles is in the air and I get that distinct motherly pull to make a run down to the garden center. 

August 4, 2020 – Tuesday (as of today the US has >4.85 million cases of Covid-19 and over 159,000 deaths … and things are getting worse)

I am trying to focus on niceness during my days. I read yesterday that the brain tends to gravitate towards negative thoughts and things … I already knew that … but it’s a good reminder to purposely seek out the good in your day. Large or small.

As of right now the sun is slanting off the edge of this planet and it is shining on the bush/tree across the road from me and the foliage looks like it’s wet … or covered in silver glitter. It is sparkling in the sunlight and is absolutely beautiful. As I was gaping at that … two deer walked by – mom and fawn – heads bobbing in unison and then – just like that – the fawn hopped over my neighbor’s fence … and then mom followed and they were gone. Lovely. By the time I finished writing that sentence, due to the earth’s rotation and the ballet of the solar system the sun rays moved off the foliage and they were mere green again. I’m so glad I didn’t miss that sparkle scene!

I put corn cobs and some half apples out for the deer – just beyond my fence line. Just for extra mid-summer treats. It’s not like I owe them anything – they seem to help themselves to my garden bed buffet more often than not! The violets seem particularly tasty these days. But it makes me feel good to feed the little ones.

I’m still going through my writing folder and came upon a few more stories … more ideas than anything full-blown or developed. But for what it’s worth … I thought I’d share. Enjoy!

*****

Man of her Dreams … (not dated) 

There was something about a man who wore glasses. 

Perhaps it was the element of vulnerability; or the rakish, bookishness that exuded sexuality; or perhaps, yet, it was the Clark Kent/Superman mystique. Whatever that something was –Morgan Whitney liked it. 

She liked it a lot. She liked it a whole lot.  

There he was, again … the man of her dreams … walking toward her on the crowded sidewalk–tall, tousled blonde hair, ruggedly handsome, a muscular build … Adonis in glasses. 

She had seen him three, maybe four, times before. She slowed her pace, yet her pulse quickened; she looked at him–willing him to look her way. But like the other times before … the crowd swallowed them both –and he was gone. She could just see the back of his sport coat as he edged towards the street and crossed amid blaring horns. 

It was not the horns that roused her from her sleep, but the alarm clock; the furry alarm clock … Mr. Quigley (Quigs for short) –her silver tabby. Hungry, as usual. How could an 18-pound cat always be starving? 

“Morgan, get a grip.” she chided herself, “You’re late. Get a move on!”

She stepped into the sunshine from the subway stairs … nearly blinded from the light she bumped into an old woman and a poodle. Mumbling her apologies, she veered off to the right and squeezed into her favorite coffee shop glad that the line wasn’t too impossibly long this morning. She ordered her usual (a 2-shot vanilla soy latte, no foam) and waited.  

“I believe you dropped this.” 

Morgan turned around and there stood a man holding something out to her. Again, holding the paper out closer to her, he said, a little louder this time, “I believe you dropped this.” and handed her the fallen coffee receipt.  

She stood there, looking at him, mouth agape like a stunned codfish. What is wrong with me? she thought. “Um, thanks. Nice sweater.” Nice sweater? She was mortified but just stood there blinking at him. Her mind was reeling. 

He introduced himself as he put his hand to his chest, “Oh, thanks. Yeah – I love these Fisherman sweaters. A bit warm when you’re inside – but great when you’re out of doors. Hi. I’m Marvin. Marvin Davies.”  

She winced inwardly … MARVIN! Who names their child Marvin! Marvin and Morgan … that is horrendous! She had named her childhood, female dachshund Marvin! This would never work! 

He continued talking. “Family name – I know. What are you going to do?” he laughed. “Thankfully people call me MD.” 

She smiled at him and kept looking at that face. I can’t wait to tell mom that I met a “doctor”! She’ll be thrilled! 

He wasn’t gorgeous and he wasn’t blonde …but he wore glasses.

And there was just something … 

**************

Trollop! … (also not dated) 

Trollop! Of all the names she, Rebecca Ann Matthews, had ever been called this one sounded the nicest; why then had it hurt the most? 

Tramp. Bitch. Home-Wrecker. Slut. Hooker. Whore. Those words were ugly. But this word actually sounded nice–something like an amount of dessert topping. 

Oh, thanks ever so much; I’d love a trollop of that sweet cream for my pie. 

It wasn’t the word itself, then, nor even its meaning ~ which she fully gathered and assumed she had earned ~ but its delivery.  

Rebecca saw the woman far before the encounter; they were walking towards each other on the crowded sidewalk. Why Rebecca had honed in on this little woman in the crowd and why she had focused on her was puzzling to her. The intensity of the woman’s eyes? Though they were now faded with age – they pierced Rebecca’s soul. Her stature? She was small, slight, but straight as an arrow and amazingly elegant in the way she carried herself.  

What brought these two together? Was it fate, destiny or simply something else … 

*****

And, that again, is all she wrote!

August 3, 2020 – Monday night

I need a diversion.

A friend of mine is dying. I adore this man and I hate to have him gone from my life … but that is all I want right now – for him to go.

It’s hard watching his decline. This last week it’s been a slow slide … the last two days there have been gigantic changes. I don’t want him to suffer any more … I just want him to let go and GO.

2020 sucks.

In so many ways.

I’m looking for a diversion but …

I’m tired of everything. I’m tired of being home. I’m tired of doing projects. I’m tired of wearing a mask and of covid and of all of the horrible pain and suffering of so many … too many. I’m tired of the mounting deaths. I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of freaking out if I go to the grocery store more than once in 10 days. I am tired of all this political crap. I’m tired of stupid Trump and his ineptitude and excuses and moronic jumble of words that are supposed to pass for coherent sentences. I’m tired of his immature power plays and his empty promises, his lack of responsibility and I’m so tired of his voice and his orangeness and all his lies. I’m tired that he’s still in office. I’m tired that there are so many enablers in this country’s government. I’m tired of all of that crap. I’m tired of losing people I love. I’m tired of not having a dog of my own. And I’m tired of the weather.

And I laugh at myself as I write that because it can be ANY year and I will ALWAYS be complaining about the weather. It’s not warm enough. It’s too wet. It’s too dry. It’s something else. I’m sure whenever I move I will once again be able to complain about it being too hot! But, right now – that’s not an issue. Even on one of our warmest days – I’m off walking the cliff in the evening with a sweater and a coat. It’s August! WTF.

And I realize … that has been my diversion … my nightly walks and animal counting. Last night and tonight were prime nights for slugs. The roadway was mowed and that left a nice, cool, damp buffet for anything slug-like. And there were plenty of them. Last night I quit counting at 25 … I only saw 10 tonight. However, tonight I got a really good photo of one climbing up a flower stem. It must have smelled yummy to put in all that effort! These slugs I’m talking about are all brown or black and are fat things … think squishy, somewhat melted Tootsie Rolls. They all are about five-six (or so) inches long but can curl up into a fat, blobby ball when touched. Tonight I rescued about five of them from the road … putting them back into the grass. I sure hope I didn’t return them from where they were starting out if they wanted to get to the other side! If so, oops, sorry fellas! I wiped my hands on my pants and continued on … the slimy, sticky goo is hard to get rid of. But … I’ll do it again if I see one sliding along mid-road!

And this made me wonder … what are these things? Snails and slugs. I have both at my house. They appear on my deck at night, on the siding, or on my garbage can … they can be ultra tiny (and so cute) or rather fat and grotesque. The snails live on the front of the house – more by the flowers and in my gardens. They hang out on my siding and in the lattice work around the bottom wall and in my flower boxes. Sometimes after a rain I’ll find ten or so of them in the grass … like they’re having a small snail rodeo. Where do they live? What is the difference between a slug and a snail? And where do the shells come from?

So, while eating my perfectly ripe watermelon after my walk, I did a little sleuthing and this is what I’ve come up with:

Snails and slugs are gastropods. I knew that – thank you, Mr. Guthrie from junior year’s high school geology class. I don’t know why we were talking about these guys in that class (you’d think it would be covered in bio) … but I distinctly remember joking around with the guy I went to prom with in that class about said slugs and snails! (Maybe they were in fossil form!) Weird.

Anyway – they are in the phylum Mollusca … as are all snails and slugs whether from saltwater, freshwater or from land. And they are in the same family as octopus, clams, squid and oysters. Who knew?

Snails have exterior shells … and, contradicting websites say that they can/not leave their shells. Baby snails are born with their shells. Slugs have no shells. Both have two sets of tentacles … the top pair is where their eyes are located … and another set, lower down, is for smelling. They live in moist/rainy/wet areas. Since their bodies are made up mostly of water, they tend to dry out quickly. They are nocturnal and prefer to come out and feed at night or after rains. They secrete a mucus to protect their bodies over hard or sharp/bumpy terrain – as it helps them to glide over surfaces without harm. It’s also a deterrent to predators as the mucus is not tasty! A group of snails is called a rout or an escargatoire of snails … a group of slugs is called a cornucopia. Most land snails/slugs live 1-5 years but most are annual. And, if need be, they can go into hibernation (which also happens over the winter) for 3 years!

So, that’s about all I want to know right now cuz I’m envisioning what is under the siding of my house … it’s probably just lined up with thousands of slugs that come out at night and others that are hibernating or sleeping … and ew … that’s just too gross … even for me!

And, yet … I do love my slugs and snails … and they are always a good diversion.

July 30, 2020 – Thursday (Covid-19 day 3, 456,789,023)

I’m sitting here in my dining room with the windows open on both sides and the soft breeze is wafting through the screens. It’s to be 78º today. Lovely.

I’d like to be outside inputting my writing files into my computer, but I’m having connectivity issues today and my wifi is so slow inside the house, I know it would be non-existent outside … even 6 feet from the door. Sigh. So goes internet service in my location. I’m kind of in a dead zone. The locals don’t think a tower would be healthy for the locals. As in wildlife. I, on the other hand, am all in favor of making life a little easier for the other locals – the citizens of our town. I have been ruled out on this. As well as with the brighter lightbulbs in town. I’ve begun to call the lights in town “dims”. I’m all for eco-conservation-dark nights, etc … but two blocks of brighter lighting (than a nightlight) in town – even until 8 pm (because everything pretty much shuts down way before then) would be wonderful. But, it’s not like there’s anywhere to go in town now anyway.

Anyway, I digress. I told myself I needed to work on getting all this writing into my computer and it’s taking a long time to do so. I have another two inches of papers in said file. It’s been fun re-reading things I’ve written. Some I remember, some I don’t. I re-read something I wrote from last week and have NO recollection of it! Was I asleep writing it?!

This morning I thought I’d give myself a little boost … a perky “pick me up of plum” … a slight “hint of heliotrope” … a little “shimmer of lilac” … a lingering “kiss of violet “. But, no, that didn’t happen. I sit here typing with hair that is a solid, deep, intense eggplant! Entire head. No shimmer, hint, gloss, or kiss of whatever was promised. Oh well, it’s not like anyone will be seeing me anyway. Covid-19 … day 3,456,679,082 and counting …

Here is one of my stories from a while back. Wrote this one night after Tim and I had been to Olive Garden and overheard a couple’s argument. It wasn’t pretty. But the food was great!

*****

Eternity … 10/12/2004 and revisited 07/19/2020

“Loneliness washed over her like the waves that crashed upon Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster in the film From Here to Eternity.”

God! What is wrong with me? I couldn’t believe I had just written that. Like that would ever sell in a novel. I definitely was having writer’s block. My agent would throw that in the trash without a second look. My brain hurt. My heart hurt more. 

Eternity – my favorite cologne … yes. The time between now and my deadline … no. The length of some wedding vows … doubtful.  

I had been told, once again, while in the waiting area of Olive Garden (of all places), that I was “too difficult”. “Too hard to be with”. “Too hard to get along with.” “Too hard for him to continue on with … us.”

Really? This is where you choose to end our life together?

I walked out alone and dejected – leaving him, the pager, and my heart on the foyer’s wooden bench. 

Hard to be with? Difficult to get along with? ME? Seriously? Please! 

I’d give the shirt off my back to anyone. Of course, then my back-fat would show – but what’s a little fat between people – especially one in need? And for that matter, what is it with that stuff? I’ve been dieting and denying myself for years … my workout routines rival professional athletes’ for God’s sake. I barely have an extra ounce on me and yet I still have back-fat! How is that even possible?

My mind was all over the place. The clock was ticking. I needed to focus. 

I was at first hurt. Then I was steaming. How DARE he?! He was throwing this ON ME!? He was blaming this ON ME!?  

Okay … maybe I was a bit difficult and a tad hard to be with after all of this. Maybe I was tired of not being his Number One. Yeah, let’s make it MY fault that he had a string of women on the side. He didn’t even know I knew that. But, I was so in love with him, was so affixed to him … I let it pass. I always told myself he’d see his ways. He’d come around to just me. He’d choose me above all others.  

He didn’t.

We had history. We had vacations. We had parties. We had made love a thousand times and then some. We knew each other. We tolerated the little things that creep into a relationship but are overlooked because you want the other person to be happy and be themselves and you want it to just … be.

I couldn’t stomach not being with him. I thought I’d be sick.   

My friends knew. They knew all about this “arrangement” I’d let happen. They chided and scolded me. Told me that I was asking for trouble. Told me I was being stupid. But then they supported me – telling me when it fell apart, they’d be there for me and they’d wrap themselves around me and help me back on my feet. Good friends. I suppose I knew they were all right – from the beginning. 

But, I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t live without … HIM. 

He was my life! He was my everything. He was my AIR! 

God, how pathetic am I? I should write that in my novel!  

I got up from the chaise and took my laptop over to my desk and started in … letting all of what had been flow out onto those keys. Letting go of the past. Letting go of the hurt and anger and sorrow. Letting go of all the what-ifs and could-have-beens. Letting hope about the future seep in … one key stroke at a time. Wondering what would come next? Wondering what he’d do next? Wondering how he’d be? 

Wondering if his wife knew?