Tag: friends

Puterbaugh Popcorn


Did somebody say “popcorn?”

Back in February when MGH and Lisa visited The Compound, we had movie nights with great snacks provided by David. I was supposed to post specific photos from one of those evenings, but other things happened and it slipped my mind. (Much like those before and after photos of my kitchen remodel–maybe I should do that on the one-year anniversary?)

Tonight I received a strongly worded e-mail about the popcorn pictures from a certain demanding someone whose initials are Mark G. Harris.

so here they are

Independence Day

In between helping Tom grill and prepare enough meals to take us through the weekend so I can finish my copy edits, I took a trip through my photo archives to see what photos might relate to July 4. Most of these were taken by me, but a few were taken by my mother, Lynne, Tim, my nieces, and a couple of other folks.

My stint as high school Color Guard Captain may not be a great claim to fame, but it’s mine. That, and the fact that I’m an Army brat, mean I’ll always honor the U.S. flag. Many of these photos show Margot, Guinness, Rex, and EZ posed with a particular flag. I call it the “rescue flag.” In December 2001, when everyone was flying flags, Tom and I were visiting my sister. She saw this one blowing down the street and had no way to find its owner. When I asked for it, she gave it to me. Because all The Compound dogs, including the late River, are rescues, this is their flag–and no dogs or flags were harmed during the making of this video.

Happy Independence Day weekend. Peace.

ETA: Embedded video has now been made private on YouTube. Sorry.

Cookie Killer Strikes Again

Way back in the day when I first met, in an AOL chat room, the men who would become my writing partners, Jim baked some cookies and sent them to me. Since we’d never met in person, I asked him why I should believe those cookies were safe. He could be the AOL Cookie Killer, for all I knew. He agreed that he could be, but he was fully aware that cookie lust would override any reservations I had about his trustworthiness. Also, I got Tom to eat one first.

Jim’s sent many batches of cookies in the years since then. Once he sent Tim some, and as I recall, Tim made a tepid offer of them to Tom and me, and after we each took a cookie, he vanished with the box o’cookies and we didn’t see him or them again until the last crumb was gone. I can’t hold it against him–they were his cookies, after all, and they’re just that good.

This morning I was awakened by the thud of a Priority Mail box on my front steps and the subsequent hysterical alarums of two dogs who know they’ve missed their opportunity to warn me of the Dangerous Mail Carrier before the fact. The package was from Jim and contained:

And I can’t stop giggling because there are three bags and I know that not long after Tim sees this post, I’ll hear the key in the back door’s lock, and then there’ll be only two bags on the counter. And that’s just as it should be.

In my virtual mailbox, I got an e-mail from Timmy with what may be a story attached. I’d say this is a banner day for knowing my writing partners.

“The shopping was all for her.”

People sometimes do strange things when they grieve. The stories I could tell–but I won’t, because I save the really juicy stuff about my friends for novels.

I think I’ve said on here before that I began adding Barbies to my collection after my friend Steve R died in 1992. It made perfect sense–I even KNEW what I was doing and why I was doing it. When politics and faith and hate and love and injustice and death all collide, and you lose the last shred of your innocence, it’s not so crazy to start spending your money on something that harks back to a simpler, better, less complicated time–and Barbies were a perfect symbol of that for me. A few years and a few losses later, grief finally loosened its grip on me, and the Barbie-buying compulsion stopped just as suddenly as it began.

I’m grieving now, but I’m aware of other friends who are grieving (you know who you are; call me when you’re ready), including Lynne. Monday marked the second anniversary of her husband’s death, and I’ve always contended that seconds are harder than firsts. We mentally prepare ourselves for firsts. We know they’re coming long before they get here, and we’re probably still a little numb. By seconds, we’ve stopped constantly guarding ourselves against the shocks and jolts of memory–so when those anniversaries come, not only are our defenses down, but we’re back in full-on feeling mode. Hopefully, if we’ve allowed ourselves to grieve, and we’ve channeled some of our grief into positive outlets, thirds are not as sharply felt–that doesn’t mean the sense of loss isn’t still there, but it’s not as cruel to our emotional systems three years later. As the years go by, time softens our memories, taking the edge off the painful ones and shining more light on the happier ones. This is all part of healing.

Some people actually say grief is about a two- to four-week process. I think these people may be alien life forms, but that’s not the point of this discussion. I’m not big on judging how and for how long people grieve. We do what we need to do. In my own life, I’ve found that when I emerge from my first haze of stunned loss and start feeling things more intensely, I feel ALL things more intensely. If I’m prone to cry more, I’m also inclined to laugh more. The lines between mourning and celebrating become blurred. Fortunately, although my friends are as diverse a group as I can imagine, they all have one thing in common: a sense of humor. Laughter is one of the best healing forces of all.

After Lynne took me to Mark’s on Monday night (which seems backward, as most people would have treated her; just call us rogue mourners), when I said, “I need to go Barbie shopping,” I caught her raised eyebrow and added, “No, no. It’s not like before. I want them for a wedding photo shoot, and I’ve already got plans for all the other bride-and-groom dolls I’ve shot.” Then she said, “Well, at least you’ve already had your kitchen remodeled,” and we both started giggling. That was her big pricey project after Craig’s death–though I contend that putting money into updating a home is a more sensible reaction to loss than, for example, buying a 1970ish Datsun 240z. Not that I’m saying anyone did that.

Behind the cut you can see a bit of our Monday night in photos.

for foodies and architecture admirers and doll people

Houston Pride

You may remember this shot from last year’s Parade.

Here’s this year’s version (“Where’s Rex?”):

It was a great day of Pride, starting with my breakfast at Baby Barnaby’s. I wish they were open all day, because I’m rarely out and about early enough to eat breakfast there.

I have three small stickers on the back of my car which are badly faded. I decided it’s time to replace them, so I went to Hollywood Video/Books to see if I could find duplicates. I got a new PFLAG sticker no problem. But when I asked the cashier about a red ribbon, all I got was a blank look. He honestly didn’t know what a red ribbon is for! I’m still trying to get my head around that.

However, their former manager had bought tons of our books for us to sign. After all these years, there’s one lone copy of The Deal remaining. I thought about buying it–it’s out of print and I only have a couple of copies myself. I decided it’s just waiting for the right reader and left it there.

For the rest of my Pride photos, check out my Flickr set. If you do a slide show, you won’t see titles and captions, but if you go through them individually, I’ve tried to identify most of what I shot.

Button Sunday

Saturday morning, a friend I hadn’t seen since 1988 was in town with her husband and four sons for a family member’s wedding. I was a little nervous about seeing her again. Our lives went in such different directions, and even though I always loved her, what if I wasn’t the person she expected me to be? What if we didn’t have anything to talk about?

A few minutes after we met up, we were riding down the escalator to the Starbucks in her hotel. She said being at an event like this (the wedding) without having control of everything was unusual for her because she’s a control freak. I kind of glanced back at her and said, “YOU?” in a tone that made it clear I remembered this about her. Then I said, “My friends say that about me now.” And she grinned and answered, “You always were.”

Five minutes later, we were drinking the same Starbucks drinks (mocha frappuccinos), catching up on family news, discussing politics (her older brothers helped shape my political views way back when), and just being with each other. Later, when the valet brought my car while she was waiting for her husband to bring their rental from the garage, she walked toward it as if she knew it was mine. I said, “Oh, there’s my car.” She said, “I was about to get in it automatically because I have the same car at home!” The only difference is that mine is one year older than hers.

Maybe our lives did go in different directions, but in all the ways that matter–much more than our choices of coffee and cars–we’re still connected. I was as comfortable as I’ve always been with her, as if it hadn’t been twenty years since our last meeting. When I mentioned that to Lindsey on Saturday night, she said, “That’s a real friend.”

Yep. Some things can’t be controlled. They just are.


In 1975.


And now.

My week in words and pictures

Someone asked me recently about a post I did that “disappeared.” A lot of times when I write about something private–especially having to do with my family or friends–I’ll keep it public long enough for it to be read by them. Once I know they’ve seen it, I’ll make it private, which means it stays in my archives for me to see, but it’s no longer accessible to the public or even to my LJ friends. I can’t make those posts “friends only” because–weirdly–not everyone has a LJ account. I know; it mystifies me, too.

This is one of those “Dear Diary posts,” so I’ll put it behind a cut and y’all can skip the boring minutiae of my daily life because honestly, I know it’s not that riveting. It’s just my chance to include far-away family and friends in things they’d normally be part of.

my week in words and pictures