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This is my very dear niece, Megan. She stopped by on Sunday afternoon. We had a lovely visit. And went out for coffee. Isn't she adorable? If I had a daughter, I'd want one just like her. Auntie is an easier job, though, and a great deal of fun. Oh, and the raspberry cream cheese croissant at The Cottonwood is to die for. It was the best Sunday afternoon in ages. 
Minding my own business on a Saturday morning, drinking coffee, sorting the laundry. I always check the pockets, I absolutely hate when a stray kleenex in a pocket, invariably in a dark load, leaves its shredded aftermath all over the inside of the washing machine. So I check. This morning I found kleenex, two shopping lists, a dime, a worksheet, five bucks and a condom. The kleenex and lists I tossed in the trash, the $5.10 I pocketed in the pants I was wearing, the worksheet I set aside to ask the 17yo about, and the condom...the condom!. From the jeans pocket of the 21yo. He claims it was forced on him by some liberals in Nebraska. I decided to keep it. I felt a little racy all day carrying it about in my purse. It's kind of cute in its crinkly little package. Oh, and it's a friendly shade of bright green. The package is stamped with an expiration date of May, 2013. With any luck, maybe I'll get to use it before it goes bad. Until then, if you see a woman with a wild gleam in her eye, it might just be me. Just your average condom-packing goddess.
Isn't it silly how we label and measure and quantify things? Illusary and comforting at the same time. Then again, many illusions are comforting. This morning at 9:09:09, on 09/09/09, I looked up to see if a lightening bolt might pierce the roof and smite me. Nope. Do people get nine lives like cats? I wasn't dressed to the nines nor did I feel as if I were on cloud nine. If something magical or miraculous took place, it was beyond the range of my senses and I was not aware of it. On a completely different note, Garrison Keillor is in the hospital after suffering what was said to be a minor stroke. I hope he is well, I cannot imagine a world without A Prairie Home Companion. Nor do I want to. I would like him to be around until well into his nineties, if only just to entertain all of us. And it may be presumptuous of me, but I would guess that he's happy to be here, too.
The 17yo's bedroom is now a lovely shade of red. Olympic Satin Apple-a-Day red. One more coat of black spray paint to the curtain rods, wait an hour, and, voila!, the curtains will be up. Then if someone will pick up all the drop cloths and put the switch and electrical plate covers on, shove the bed back in place and make it up, he'll be able to sleep in there tonight. And I accomplished the job with only minor injuries, all to my right hand. Two blisters from the paint roller ratchet and one major skinned area from finding the corner of his headboard with my index finger whilst rolling on paint in a confined area. Several colorful epithets and metaphors and a band-aid later I was back on the job. It took five coats of paint!!! The first I brushed on to get into all the nooks and crannies of wall texture, the following four rolled on. I was warned about the translucent quality of red pigments and how it takes more coats, but did I listen? I did not! I wanted pretty red walls in the family room two years ago. I ended up buying an extra can of paint because I didn't listen. Then when the 17yo expressed interest in having his room painted the same color, I foolishly said, sure! And now that the job is completed and is absolutely gorgeous, all I have to say is, they don't call it Labor Day Weekend in jest.
I've been immersed in Thirtysomething. It's funny the things I remember, like complete lines of dialog. And the things I forgot, like how beautifully the scenes are lit and composed. Then there are the new revelations, things that stand out to me in light of my own life experiences since I last eavesdropped on the lives of Hope and Michael, et al. One striking realization is how much Michael Steadman, played by Ken Olin, reminds me of my brother Cullen. At the time, twenty years ago, Cullen was a twentysomething, and I never saw a resemblance. The passage of time, though, allowed me to experience my brother as a thirtysomething, and it is in that retrospective view that I see the similarities. Startling as well, since Cullen died not quite four months ago. It's oddly reassuring at the same time, in a way I can't quite explain. In watching the episode where troubled married couple Nancy and Elliot go to therapy, there was something that I found very interesting. There were three therapy sessions, and in the first two, they sat in the same chairs. In the final one, their positions were reversed. This detail sent a little chill up my spine. As a veteran of couples counseling prior to the end of my own marriage, a very similar situation occurred. We had been to a number of sessions over the period of a couple of months, and each time we followed our therapist down the winding hallways to her office, we went directly to the same chairs. Never varying the routine. For what would turn out to be our final session, I very deliberately headed for and occupied the other chair. I don't know why I did it. But I do remember a frown and a bit of a pout from my husband as he settled into the chair I had resided in up to that point. At that moment I felt something akin to exhilaration. Freedom. Some little crick that had resided in my neck for maybe as long as ten years loosened up and melted away. I didn't know anything else for sure, really even if that defining moment represented anything greater. Except maybe that I was ready to move on and he was still focused on staying precisely and rigidly where he was. Was switching up Nancy and Elliot's seating a visual cue for us to interpret? I only know that I noticed it tonight for the first time. What they did twenty years ago was captured on film and remains the same. That scene both echoes and foreshadows an event in my own life. Like Billy Pilgrim, I feel a little unstuck in time.
Houseguests are like fish, after three days they begin to smell. Is that how that goes? And what kind of fish? What sort of houseguest? There would seem to be more variables here than tuna and the occupant of the extra bedroom. What about three weeks rather than three days? Because that's what I experienced this summer. A houseguest. For one week in July and nearly half of August, which would add up to three weeks. And if he began to smell like fish, well, that would explain why the cats took to him. John was here doing archival research at the library at SDSU. Which means for hours each day he was delving into near-century-old periodicals mining them for information for a book he is writing. He is pretty low maintenance, and he showers daily. Meaning that he did not begin to smell, at least not in a literal sense. And in the two weeks since he has returned home, I have realized something. That I miss having another adult in the house. The companionable presence of a grown-up. To watch a movie with, share a bottle of wine. Go out for dinner, or to visit friends, or meet other adults for over-21 beverages. I had forgotten what that is like. Nothing fills up your life quite like a significant other. Not kids, not work, not girlfriends. Not pets, not hobbies, not even fabulous shoes. For three weeks I had a glimpse into a world that had become foreign to me. I have wondered of late if I have become less generous or if I have simply been single too long to tolerate the near constant proximity of a man. The anticipation of so much time together made me feel a little ambivalent. I've grown into solitary new habits and I like having my space and quiet. But it turned out to be fun. Enjoyable even. But as much as I enjoyed it, I realize I'm not desperate enough to jump into being a couple with just anybody. Not that jumping into it with John would be desperate, he's not just anybody. We dated a couple of years ago and for various reasons, it didn't work out. But in the process we discovered we really do like each other and have remained friends. And friendship is valuable. Especially when it still smells good after spending three weeks together. What did you do this summer?
Isn't she gorgeous? Well, she oughta be, it's her name. Happy Birthday Gorgeous, Pink Label Collection Barbie. Just scored in the Wal-Mart clearance aisle for eight bucks. Eight bucks! She retails for $24.99 and is priced at various Barbie Collector sites from $30 to $55. I'm not a serious Barbie collector, just dealing with a minor childhood abandonment issue. Since we moved frequently, our belongings were regularly sorted through and what wasn't kept was either given away or tossed in the trash. I'm not sure which move it was, but the major Barbie stash my sister and I had amassed was just gone. Gone. We had dolls, pink kitchen appliances, carrying cases, oodles of clothes, and my personal favorite, a totally bald Barbie that came with three wigs. A short, red curly one, a long brunette pageboy, and a shoulder length blonde flip. Why do I remember this so clearly? Why is this detailed information taking up precious space in my already clogged-up perimenopausal brain? At any rate, possibly to ease this Barbie-less pang within, I started buying Barbie dolls and accessories again a few years ago. Always on sale or at clearance prices, naturally. I currently have seven dolls, including Happy Birthday Gorgeous, Halloween 2008, and Mariposa Fairy Barbie. The other four are lounging around the pool. I never identified with Barbie as a role model, nor was I intimidated by her humanly impossible-to-attain figure. She was just a doll to play with who had a lot of shoes. And seriously weird feet. That's it! I felt a kinship with her over her painfully perpetually arched feet! Having flat feet with congenital bunions, I was oddly out-footed as well. We're social outcasts, Barbie and me, due to our podiatric anomolies. No wonder I love her.
