Puppies, rainbows, chipmunks, and Julia
Charlie is at my mother's, Paul is at home, and I am sitting in a hotel lobby loaded for bear. My overnight bag carries vodka, ibuprofen, tampons, and a large box of Band-Aid Advanced Healing Blister Block Cushions, and I am waiting for Julia to arrive. She just called and claimed to be lost in a cornfield somewhere. (She said she was planning to echolocate, driving toward the sound of my voice,
but I don't know how well that will work since her connection dropped before I could get out a single "Marco." If
you are located anywhere in the Midwest and happen to hear a ghostly "Polo" carried on the gentle soughing of the
wind, it's Julia. For God's sake stop her and give her a map.)
This will be quick, because as soon as our rooms are ready I plan to go upstairs and short-sheet her bed.
- For Halloween, Charlie was dressed as a dalmatian. As soon as he went outside in his costume, he began to disport himself exactly as a puppy would: gamboling heedlessly; rolling in the clover; yipping with glee; and running down squirrels, snapping their necks with a single spasm of his strong young jaw, and violently shaking them from side to side within his grinning muzzle until they flopped as lifelessly as any understuffed rag doll.
- This morning my period arrived unexpectedly. This year has been strange. For the first time in my long and distinguished menstrual career, my cycles have been irregular, skewed towards the short end. This month's, for example, was a measly 23 days. Now, I'm not a doctor or anything, but I'm reasonably sure it has something to do with daylight savings time. Man, I hate that fucking fall back.
- We are going to try one last cycle locally with my eggs as soon as it is convenient. At this point it feels like I'm running on pure nerve, with no credible reason to expect success. It is hard to accept that even with sufficient resources, technology, and masochistic determination at our disposal, it probably still won't work for us. I do not look forward to finding that it's harder to accept that it didn't, past tense, period.
- The quilt for Freweyne continues apace, if "apace" means "slowly but with steadiness, seriousness of purpose, and only a few sliced-off fingertips." Beth now has a travel date for her trip to pick up Freweyne, November 25, and the top will certainly be finished by then, although the quilting and binding will take additional time. Here's where it currently stands:
You can still enter to win the quilt. My most heartfelt thanks to all of you who've contributed.
It's now several hours later. Julia arrived, shook the hayseeds out of her hair, put down her valise, and immediately goaded me into drinking a great deal more than a lady strictly should. As a consequence, I am most ridiculously intoxicated and must stop writing before I e-mail each and every one of you in the middle of the night to tell you how much I love you. (I really love you, man.) And that I am grateful for your kind words of encouragement and your personal stories in response to my last few posts. And that Charlie didn't actually kill any squirrels. Please: they were only chipmunks. Old chipmunks, mangy ones, terminally ill, who'd taken loving leave of their families and explicitly asked to be relieved of the wretched earthly burden of a functioning spinal column.
And now to bed, after a quick stop to place Julia's hand in a basin of warm water as she sleeps. Oh, we do have fun.