Voices from the Past

Six years ago, when my daughter went to school for the first time as a high school freshman, I opened a blog about her new adventure from homeschool to high school. The blog was deleted from the server a couple of years ago, but I kept the posts, minus comments. Recently she asked me to send them to her, so I did, and I’ve also been reading through them myself. I had no idea how I was going to get through her teen years then, and I still don’t know how I made it now, a mere six months after she left teenhood behind.* This post, I think, is a perfect example of what I mean.

Scene: My daughter and I are driving home on from a Passover Seder in Cincinnati. We pass a storage unit facility with a display of colorful neon lighted palm trees and fireworks.

Reticula: That's really cool! I wonder when they put that up.

Daughter: Mom, it's always been there. You've seen it a hundred times.

Reticula: Huh uh. I've never seen it before. We've driven by a thousand times and I've never seen it there.

Daughter (sighs heavily): Mom. It. Has. Always. Been. There.

Reticula: When the Alzheimer’s gets bad, promise you'll take care of me.

Daughter: (silence)

Reticula: Promise you'll change my diapers. Don't let anybody else change my diapers.

Daughter: No.

Reticula: I've changed thousands of your diapers. You won't change mine?

Daughter: No.

Reticula: You're won't take care of your poor demented mom and change her diapers?

Daughter: No.

Reticula: Will you help me kill myself then?

Daughter: Yes.

* The irony does not escape me that my daughter is now changing her daughter’s diapers, and someday she too could have this conversation with the same conclusion. She is now aware that her time on earth is limited, and that she too must follow the laws of karma. That’s why she has apologized to me for being such an awful teenager and why she has started praying to whomever will listen--and nobody will, we all know that--that her daughter won’t put her through the same thing. I tell her birth was the least painful part of being a mother....She'll learn that on her own though.

Why You Shouldn't Be Friends with Your Mom on Facebook: Reason #289

Click to go to the original blog post.

My child, who happens to be the mother of a child her own self, posted this status update on her Facebook. I should note that my child refused to friend me on Facebook for years, which caused a terrible rift between us didn't really bother me all that much. Every once in a while I would ask her if we could be friends, and she always said no. I finally gave up .... and then she finally got drunk one night came to her senses and friended me. I told her no because I didn't want her to know some of the crazy shit I was doing just to teach her a lesson ..... but later gave in. She has only herself to blame for the following conversation.

Reticula’s Child: I'm fine with porn, but everything PETA does pisses me off. What a terrible idea.

Hot Italian: PETA jumped the shark years ago. One would almost expect this crap from them at this point.

Reticula: I've used PETA as an example in my 101 classes when we're working on ad analysis. They create expensive ads that they have no intention of airing just to get the negative publicity. I guess it works for them.

Reticula’s Child: Did you read the part about how many animals they euthanize? And how they're going to sneak in animal abuse pictures with the porn? Fuck those people. They're awful and they don't help animal abuse one bit.

Reticula: I can imagine they only took in and then euthanized animals that were in terrible circumstances. What I don't understand is how they think a photo of a naked porn star will entice anybody to spay or neuter an animal. I think they've become publicity hounds (hee) and forgotten their mission.

Reticula’s Child: It's not the porn, that's just to get people on the website. It's the horrible pictures that are mixed in with the porn, I guess. Ugh.

Reticula: I agree with the author of the article. People who click on both porn and animal abuse photos are probably sick people who aren't there to support the vegan lifestyle. It just seems like a desperate, immature move to me. Who's running PETA these days and making these decisions? I don't disrespect them for their message. I don't respect their tactics.

Reticula: Wait. Did you say you're fine with porn? I can't believe you said that.

Reticula’s Child: I have no problem with porn. It really doesn't bother me. Umm, normal porn, that is. It's cheesy and stupid and not particularly arousing, but doesn't offend me. Unless it's wierdo porn.

Reticula’s Child: We should maybe move this conversation into a private message.

Reticula: So you're saying weirdo porn is not cheesy, stupid and un-arousing. Oh, what have I done? How did I fail you?

Reticula’s Child: Hey! No! Weirdo porn is all if those things AND I find it offensive and gross. Word-twisting witch!

Reticula: Bwah ha ha! No child should be born of an English teacher.

Reticula’s Child: Now I'm just trying to have the last word.

Too much sex is never a bad thing.

Reticula: Word.

Wordless Wednesday: Men Doing What?

Three Strikes

I've been trying to write about my recent trip to Iowa, but coming home is like trying to get back on a runaway treadmill. Between teaching and a play I'm stage managing and being a mommers/grandmommers, and too many fun things to do, and did I mention I've got a shit ton of papers to read and comment on again?.....Delores gets pushed out sometimes. She hates that, and I hate seeing her sitting there in the corner peeling the polish off her nails and braiding one strand of hair over and over and over. So I'm going to toss her a bone and tell this one short story about the single life.

Last Friday night was the bi-yearly celebration downtown that we call Urban Nights. Far too many events take place on Urban Nights to mention here, but I tried to do as many as I could. The Diplomat and I started out on a bike ride that was meant to highlight the number of cyclers in the city, but I suffered a low back tire early on and we had to abort and store our bikes in his office. We were on foot the rest of the night, but that was OK. We headed over to the dance pavilion where a bunch of local eateries were offering "tastes" of their menus for $3/taste. After we filled up on arepas, grilled tuna, BBQ pulled pork, shrimp skewers and pie, we walked down to the little hippie-ish district of town and met up with a couple of friends.

We walked around downtown, stopping here and there, picking up people and dropping others off. We wandered into a new consignment store where I bought a sexy little black dress just this side of indecent. And ran into some steampunk friends all decked out in their retro, techno gear. One of them peeled off to join our group and we headed back down to the District.

Eventually only the Diplomat, Martini and I were left. We wandered onto the enclosed patio of a deli that offers a weekly beer- and wine-tasting for a ridiculously low price. We stood in line for the wine, a generous four-ounce pour for $2 each.

Martini offered to split a flight--white for me and red for him and he was paying. How could I refuse? I couldn't help noticing the sommelier as he poured our first tastes. Mmmm. Cute, I thought. I wonder if I can get his attention even though I just walked in with two other men. I caught his eyes, gave him a little smile and made sure my hand touched his when he handed me the wine. As I moved over to the picnic table The Diplomat and Martini had staked out, I turned back once and caught him watching me walk away in spite of the line at the bar.

We talked and told jokes over our wine, and soon we were joined by a friend from the theatre world, D, and his group of friends. We took over the back of the patio, laughing and talking, sharing stories. The tasting was supposed to end at 11:00 but they kept pouring. Martini and I went back for our second taste. I asked the sommelier why he'd served me the sweet white first, instead of the dry .... although I didn't really give a shit. I just wanted to start a conversation with him, and he was willing to ignore his other customers to talk to me. I told him Martini had said the first red had a vegetative taste, but I thought he said "vaginal taste," which was true, and that I thought a vaginal wine was a good choice for a tasting. When we got back to our table I asked if it had been inappropriate for me to lead with the vagina. The men agreed it was never a bad idea to talk about the vagina. I took their word for it.

I drank the second taste a little faster and Martini, who had noticed a little something going on, suggested I might want to get a refill. By myself. So I did and ...funny thing .....that one didn't cost me anything except a little flirting. Neither did the next one, although I didn't stay up there long either time. I never want to keep a man from his work, but damn. He really was adorable. Every time I glanced over, he was watching--pouring, talking to customers....and watching. And I smiled just slightly before I looked away.

Eventually the sommelier and his helper shooed everybody else off the patio, except our group, and locked the gate. While his assistant cleaned up the bar area, the sommelier brought over the leftover bottles from the tasting and a couple of special bottles of beer for us to try. Party time!

He was on the other side of the picnic table and I was sitting on a tall bar stool with my feet on the bench, talking to a young guy I'd never met before about .... something. I don't really remember because I was too aware of the sommelier giving tastes of the beers and talking about where he'd found them, how they were made.....but rarely taking his eyes off me. I glanced over and smiled at him from time to time. And eventually I asked if I could go inside and use the facilities. He went in with me to find the key for me, even though we both knew it was hanging right behind the counter, attached to a rubber skeleton hand. He found it and stood a little too close as he gave it to me, held on to it a little too long. I pulled it away gently and brushed past him. He started to follow, but somebody else came in. I told him he could go back out; I'd put the key away.

Eventually we felt a group conscience to go somewhere else, find something to do. My favorite kilt rock band was playing down the street at a pub so we all walked down there, losing a couple of people and picking up another guy we recognized from karaoke. The band had just finished playing when we got there. I found the lead singer and the bass player, whom I've known for a while, at the bar and shared some hugs and conversation with them.

Finally I turned around and found the sommelier standing near me, obviously waiting for me to finish, but I couldn't see anybody else from our group. I asked where they'd gone and he said they'd flitted off to the wind. That didn't sound right and I freaked out a little bit. Surely The Diplomat and Martini wouldn't leave me with a guy we'd just met. The sommelier bought a wilted flower from a downtown "entrepreneur" who had obviously found a bouquet of flowers in a dumpster, hoping to sell them to the late crowd. He only paid a dollar, but he didn't offer it to me. Hmmm. I started to lose interest, so I looked harder for my peeps and saw them behind me, tucked into a booth. Of course they wouldn't leave me. I headed over there, the sommelier trailing behind. He sat next to me on the bench.

We all talked and laughed, and every once in a while I leaned closer to the sommelier and said something just to him, asked him about his job or something. I went up to the bar and got a big glass of cider. I invited him to share it with me. I'd had enough to drink, but I wasn't sloppy and I'd ridden my bike downtown so I wasn't driving. We passed it back and forth until it was almost gone.

Finally the sommelier said he had to leave. Interesting move. Maybe he still had work to do at the deli. He stood up and held out his hand so I stood too and gave him a hug .... just like I'd do with anybody else. It was a good long hug, and his hand move just up under the edge of my shirt and touched skin. I may have leaned a little closer at that .... just a little. And then he slid his hand down the back of my jeans. I pulled back. Strike one, I thought. He pulled me back for another hug and this time stopped when he touched skin. Better, but I pulled away and said good-bye.

 As he walked away, he turned and motioned and said, "Come with me." What the hell, I thought. I followed him out of the bar. He walked down the steps, where the band was loading their gear into their van, and he kept walking along the side of the van. I stopped and said, "Where are we going?"

"I wanted to see how far you would follow," he said.

Strike two. I don't follow. "Then I'm stopping here," I said. I turned to go back inside.

 

He walked back and put his arms around me, looking into my eyes. And then he kissed me. It was an OK kiss. Not the best I've experienced, and not the worst. Certainly he had possibility ..... And then he stopped and said, "I wanted to see if there was really anything there ... between us." 

I probably frowned. What an odd thing to say. "Do you think there is?"

"I'd rather know what you think," he said.

Strike three. It's your game, buddy. Wrong answer. I pulled away and backed up a couple of steps toward the pub without answering.

"You taste like strawberries," he said, still standing there.

I was already walking. I turned and said, "Of course I do," walked up the stairs and into the pub. I didn't look back.

When I sat back down at the table, D was all excited. "Well, when are you two getting together again?"

"I don't know," I said. "I didn't make any plans with him."

"But you gave him your number, right? You will see him again soon."

"Nope, didn't give him my number. I don't give out  my number."

"What the fuck? What do you mean you didn't give him your number? There was obviously something going on between you two all night. How will he get hold of you?"

"I don't know. It's a small town. I can be found if he really wants to find me."

"How will he find you? You've got to go back in there for a sandwich next week. You've got to! You should have given him your number."

"I probably won't. I don't give my number and I've been found before in spite of that. I was impressed when that happened. I don't think he'll impress me."

"Oh my god. You kissed him and didn't give him your number? Doesn't that make you kind of a bitch?"

"Probably."*

"Look at it this way," Martini said, logical as always. "Reticula just used her superpower to get us a bunch of free wine and beer. We had a lot of fun with the guy. It's not a bad thing." Nobody could disagree with that, but D was still quite disappointed with me.

I may go back to the wine tasting eventually but it won't be to see the sommelier. I'm practicing catch and release with men these days. It's kinder that way .... for me. And unlike a fish, which is left with a wound from the hook getting stuck in its mouth, my way is much gentler. No hook. No wound. Besides I always leave them better off than I found them. From the time I married Lt Col Ex at age 18 to now, only a few relationships later, I always leave them better off than I found them.** Or, more commonly as in the case of the sommelier, I leave them with nothing except one fun evening.

And that's not such a bad thing, is it?

* This is the Reader's Digest condensed version of the conversation. It went on for a while. Neither The Diplomat nor Martini were surprised that I didn't give the sommelier my number.

** The same cannot be said for me, but I take responsibility for my own feelings.

I'll Take Mine without Hair

I'm trying to win a $500 Silk'n SensEpil home hair removal system by telling my best hair removal story in the comments of a blogger who actually makes money on her blog. I promised I'd write about it here if I won.  Here's the story I posted. I have a better one, but it's probably TMI even for me. I don't think I've ever written about shaving balls here. Send me luck!

I wish I had back the hours I’ve spent trying to remove hair from below my waist. I hate shaving my legs. The nicks last longer than the shave, blades are expensive, and I feel like a contortionist trying to reach all over my lower half in the shower without washing off the foam before I get a chance to razor it away. A shave with an electric razor lasts about as long as it takes butter a piece of toast. I hate depilatories because they smell awful, take forever and make such a mess. I haven’t tried waxing for so many reasons I won’t bore you with them, I can’t afford lasers, and tweezing isn’t an option.

Don’t even get me started on trying to tame the bikini jungle. Anything I do there leaves painful, itchy red bumps that look worse than the big red bush that grows down there naturally. But as a single middle-aged woman who wants to get laid every once in a while (and that’s always another story, isn’t it?), I shave as close as I can with a little electric razor and practice my “so why do you want to fuck a Barbie?” look in the mirror.

I’ve had the shaving dilemma for decades. Yes, decades. I remember I was so excited all those years ago when the Epilady came out. I really thought it was the answer to my prayers. I wanted one so bad, but it cost about $70 and that was a lot of money. I drooled over them for two years before my husband finally bought me one for my birthday. I could hardly wait the whole week it took to grow out my leg hair 1/4 inch so the coils would have something to grab onto. I dreamed of smooth, hairless legs and a tidy, bumpfree bikini line. My Epilady was my new best friend.

Ready for the Epilady

I took it into the bathroom for some privacy and read the instructions. Seemed simple enough. Hold it next to my leg and the rotating coils would pull the hairs out. After a few times, they wouldn’t grow back, having finally recognized how unwelcome they were. The instructions warned there might be some mild discomfort. Big fucking deal. Couldn’t be any worse than razor nicks or the burning chemicals in Nair. I turned on the Epilady and held it near the side of my calf.

And oh my fucking god it grabbed onto my hairs and chewed them out of my flesh like an Epibackhoe. A little discomfort? I could have taken a weed whacker to my leg and that would have been a little uncomfortable. This felt like a million tiny razor blades whapping against my skin. And the goddamn thing wouldn’t let go. Once my grown-out hairs started wrapping around those coils, it just kept winding them in and tearing them out. Finally I turned it off and threw it across the room. The side of my leg was dotted with blood where about half of the hairs had been ripped out. All that and it didn’t even get all of the hair!

I ran downstairs crying, “That fucker hurts like hell and it made me bleed! What if I’d used it on my coochie first instead of just my leg? I’m bleeding! Look at my leg!”

My husband—who is now my ex and no wonder—said, “What did you expect? It’s rotating coils that pull your hairs out by the hundreds. Of course it hurts.”

“The directions said ‘mild discomfort.’ Look at this blood! Does this look like mild discomfort? Here. Let’s try it on your legs. Give me your leg.”

He declined. I insisted. He declined. I insisted. He offered to get “my” money back if I’d shut up. And he actually did get the money back. He contacted the company and they refunded his money and didn’t even ask for the Epilady back. I threw the fucker away.

Since then, I’ve had no hope for an easy way to get rid of the hair below my waist. I’d almost given up ......

Welcome to the Jungle

I haz your pizzed off right here

My sister's cat, Nike, slinks by and whispers, "I remember you. You brought that poodle into my house. Listen up, bitch, if I even see that dog, this time I'm leading with pooping in your bed. And it's gonna get worse from that. Fair warning. I'm going to fuck you up if I see that poodle again."

Location, Location, Location

Graphic snagged from Nerve.com.

A responsive reader sent me this article* titled "Scientists finally locate clitoris." I got pretty excited about that, although I had to wonder about the missing article (other kind of article) in the title. Did scientists find "the" clitoris ... maybe the mother of all clits and shouldn't that be captialized? Or did they find "a" clitoris .... just a random, lost clit that could belong to anybody, even Cindy maybe? Hard to tell from the title, and the piece is thin on information. For such exciting breaking news, I needed more information.

So like any good researcher, I followed the trail to a badly titled article, "Sex on the brain: what turns women on, mapped out." This article offered more content, but no critical analysis of the study--like asking if we should trust the people who did this study. I forged on. Next I located the abstract for the original study "Women's Clitoris, Vagina, and Cervix Mapped on the Sensory Cortex: fMRI Evidence."** And finally I found some criticism of the study at The Neurocritic's blog, and then found out the study's main author has written some....I'll just say interesting study results through the years, documented by Dr. Petra Boynton on her blog.  .....  sigh ...

Fucking research. It's like the telephone game, only backwards in this case. I just wanted to write about the discovery of the clitoris, per the title of the original article. Turns out the article's author didn't give an entirely accurate or complete description of the study. What's an honest writer to do?

I decided to say fuck the research. I'm going to write about the discovery of the clitoris anyway. Just imagine if you will that the title of the original article is actually true. Let's imagine scientists did just discover the/a clitoris. Here's what I have to say about that.

It's about fucking time. Granted, many of us--both male and female--know quite a bit about the little doorknob to the big O.  And then there are still some men  people who don't have a clue where it is or how to operate it. What's exciting about scientists discovering the clit though is that now so many more men people will be made aware of its existence, so they too can enjoy the pleasure of inciting the O.

The way I see it, this discovery is kind of like the discovery of reservatrol. People have known wine was healthy for centuries, millennia even. Jesus thought wine was so healthy he turned good old well water into wine. Pretty smart guy, Jesus. I suspected wine was healthy back in high school. The first bottle of wine I drank was Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. I felt great after I drank that bottle of wine. And it made sense that I would. Wine has fruit in it. Fruit is good for you, and Strawberry Hill has two kinds--grapes and strawberries. It simply had to be healthy. I drink it by the box now.

And yet, not everybody drank wine; not everybody knew how healthy wine was. Until scientists came along and discovered reservatrol. And now we know. And now lots of people drink wine for the health benefits. I'm doing it as I type. I couldn't ride my bike tonight because it was raining, so I'm drinking wine to make up for missing my physical exercise. If scientists hadn't discovered the health benefits of wine....well, you can see I might not be as healthy as I am, and neither might you.

But let's get back to the clit. Now that scientists have discovered the clit*** I think a lot more men people will get on that little button and have some fun with it. And everybody will be healthier for it.

What? You don't believe in the day and age of the internet there are still men people out there who don't know how to find the pearl of the female genitalia? It's true. I swear it's true. But thank all that's holy and sexy and juicy, it's not too late. Now that scientists have validated the clit, even those who have heretofore ignored the poor little center of the sexual universe can get in on the real action with just a few simple steps.

My advice to the clitlorn? I'm going to talk straight to you. 1. Put on your big boy pants and let the clit go first. You'll be glad you did. I don't know why you haven't figured this out yet. Maybe you don't care about your partner's pleasure as much as you do your own. Selfish pigs can change though, so don't give up. Maybe you don't know where the clit is, so you bumble around down there and then give up too soon. (Hint: it's not in the vagina. Hint 2: If you're not sure, she didn't.) Or maybe you're like those people who don't believe we landed men on the moon, and you don't think it really exists. Well, now you know for sure. Scientists have proven it. So find it and take it out for a test drive. Just try it once. If you're successful, you could even get seconds.

Yum! Cookie!

2. Start asking the right questions. Women have a quandary when it concerns your sexual experience versus your great and sensitive male ego. What do we do if subtle movements and vocalizations don't lead you to the right place and keep you there? Do we bluntly say, "Hey, I didn't get my cookie. Why did you get a cookie and I didn't?" Should we hope you find the right place and then when you stop too soon say, "Hey, buddy, you're not done yet. Keep at it until you hear me scream"? Or should we just walk away and find somebody who knows how to polish the pearl?

As a single woman who was married all of her adult life, I really do want to know. And I think a lot of women would agree it would be nice if you said, "What can I do to give you a cookie? What do you dislike? What do you like? Better yet, what makes you crazy?" Ask the right damn questions and make sure you get the right answers. Because this is a real problem, and somebody has to find the solution. I'm placing my hope on the scientists, but maybe we can get a head start by communicating.

There has to be a third ..... let me see .... Points one and two assumed anybody who engages in sexual intercourse with a woman will want to find her clitoris and take her to heaven. 3. If you don't care about that, you need to stop engaging in sexual activities with women. That's the hard, blunt truth. You don't deserve that goddess in your bed. You don't even deserve to send her a text message, much less use her sacred woman-ness for your pleasure. Get yourself a pocket pussy and leave the real women to the real men.

OK, that's three. I could go on, but I won't bore you with talk of clitorises (clitori?) and orgasms and those who do and those who don't. But before I go, let's all share one big HURRAY! Scientists have discovered the clitoris. And if you haven't .... oh, please tell me you have! If you haven't, now is your chance to change your life. Get out there and give a girl her cookie. If you owe a girl a cookie, find her and give it to her now--over and over. I promise you two things: it's never too late and you'll be happy ecstatic you did.

* The teacher in me can't help but point out that the author of this first article is guilty of egregious plagiarism right in the first sentence. This writer would not pass my class. 

** I don't think you can read the original article unless you have access to Wiley Online Library or to The Journal of Sexual Medicine through another academic data base. If you're super interested in the entire study or if you have insomnia, I could probably email you the PDF.

*** Fuck me, I can't help myself. They didn't really discover the clit. They already knew where it was and so did their test subjects. What they did was map the response to stimulating the clit, vagina, and nipples in the brains of women. Until now, only men's brain/penis responses had been mapped, and the clit had been assumed to be just a tiny penis. There's more, but the gist is that women aren't exactly like men--not their clits or their nipples.

When They Fly

Stepping off a cliff

Trite as it sounds, life is bittersweet this cool, overcast Labor Day. After a weekend of parties--so many I didn't make it to a couple I planned to attend--this day is for moving Drake and Montana to their their new duplex in a small town two hours away. His lease on his apartment here ran out a couple of months ago, so his worldly goods have been living in my garage while he crashed at his dad's and worked as many hours as he could to save money. I've been spending as much time with him as we could manage--thus the clubbing adventures--but with his 60-hour work weeks and all the other stuff we both have going on, I can't say it's been enough.

Not to put too big a whine on it though. I'm happy for both of them. Montana is going to finish her nursing degree at the small college they'll both attend for the next three years. And Drake will get his national ranger training as well as EMT and some other certificates that involve chain saws and guns and bear wrestling. If they make him sleep outside in a hammock in -10 degree weather, he'll be perfectly happy. I hope they both find their career bliss on this new path they're just beginning. It's going to be a lot of work, and even though they're not that far away, they're not home. One thing I do know is that together they're stronger than ten bundles of sticks.

We've loaded up my van to the roof, and they've gone to get a truck and trailer so we can pack up the rest of the stuff. Waiting gives me too much time to think. Time to think how glad I am that Drake will finally be doing something he loves. All he ever wanted to do was follow in his dad's footsteps in the Air Force. When Drake was growing up, Lt Col Ex was a navigator on KC-135s and EC-135s, a hero in a green flight suit who was often gone more than he was home. Drake was going to be a pilot. And he would have been, except we found out he was color blind, and his dream ended when he was five. To be accurate, we knew it ended; Drake didn't accept it for several years. Color blindness may not seem like a major handicap, but for a kid who only wants to fly airplanes, it's devastating.

He's stubborn. In spite of his many interests and talents--theater, music, history, camping, high adventuring, fixing things with amazing intuition--he hasn't, until now, found anything that could replace flying as a career. I would go so far as to say it broke his heart when he finally accepted that he would never fly. Two years of college didn't spark anything for him so he stopped wasting our money and went to work in the real world. Drake and I homeschooled for 12 years, so I know the patience of waiting for a kid to discover his passions and the drive to achieve his goals. We were never conventional. But I have to say, sometimes I worried that he would never find work that required the best of him and then gave back what we all need in a career--pride in the work, the knowledge that we're making a difference, fun. Above all fun.

My gut, my brain and my heart tell me he's found the career path that will give him all of that. I'm excited for him and proud that he's stepping off the cliff.* I'm delighted that he's found a life companion who is so perfect for him....and for me. This girl was meant to be with my son. I have no doubt of that. I wonder if he wasn't just waiting for her to come into his life and start this adventure with him.

But I'm going to miss him. And I'm going to miss them. I could say more about that but the screen is getting a little blurry. So I'll just leave it at that. I'm proud and I'm excited for them and I wouldn't want them to do anything else....and I'm going to miss them.

*Back in the day, when homeschooling was weird and not many of us were doing it, and the internet was just starting to connect us in our little pockets of aloneness, a friend wrote this analogy: "When we started homeschooling, I felt like I tucked a kid under each arm and stepped off a cliff. Imagine my surprise when I found out we had wings." For our 25th anniversary, Lt Col Ex commissioned a quilt (above) to represent those words and surprised me with it. I cried and hugged him for half an hour before he reminded me I should call my friend who made it and tell her how much I loved it.

Snippet from the Club

My son, an old friend of his and I were standing at the bar at the club. Abby had been laughing about the time she woke up on the couch in my family room, and I was yelling at Drake. She thought it was because she had snuck in early in the morning and crashed there, but then realized I was mad because he hadn't put a blanket over her. Then we segued to another sleepover conversation.

Abby: OMG, and remember that time we were sleeping in Chris's parents' basement and you were on the couch and I was on the floor.
Me: You slept on the couch and made Abby sleep on the floor?
Drake: Why should I sleep on the floor?
Abby: And I was trying to sleep and that girl was trying to get with you?
Drake:  Please don't remind me. She looked like the remains of last night's pizza.
Abby: But she was trying so hard!
Me: She had to try? Why didn't you tap that?
Abby: I was trying so hard to either sleep or not laugh out loud. It was terribly frustrating. You should have just done it.
Drake:  Wasn't going to happen. I couldn't look at her.
Abby: It went on for hours. Why didn't you just do it and get it over with so I could sleep? Pretty rude to make me sleep on the floor and then keep me up all night fending off advances.
Drake:  I just wasn't into her and she wouldn't leave me alone.
Abby: You should have just tapped that.
Drake:  Nope. I checked with the batter but he waved me off.
Abby and Me: Ooooohhhhh.
Drake: Are we done?