Tag: friends

A red balloon

Maybe you’ve read the book The Red Balloon. I haven’t read it, but I love the description of it. It’s a story about love, magic, and friendship–like all the best stories.

I’m still out at Green Acres (Tim and Becky’s remote office, and home of the snake; Greta the dowager doberman; and Sparky the diabetic dog. Sparky made a big escape while under my supervision, but fortunately, when I went after him in the car, he deigned to come home), and as Lynne and I were leaving to run errands, this floated up:

We weren’t sure what it was attached to or where it came from, but it was still at Green Acres when we came home several hours later. So we looked up the story of the red balloon, then went out and took some photos of it. When the wind kicked up, it brought the balloon’s anchor up to eye level, like this:

We decided to set the red balloon free from its monster and send all our cares and troubles with it.

I’m pretty sure the snake, however, is still around somewhere.

Darling I love you, but give me Park Avenue

I brought the dowager doberman home tonight, and she’s so happy to be reunited with her family.

However, there’s another kind of suburban drama I don’t need when I’m walking in the dark to reach into the shrubbery and turn off a faucet:


(Dramatic reenactment by stunt copperhead of my Thursday night encounter)

Listen to this entire song to hear what’s been in my head all night.

The rakish palmetto bug

Yeah, I know that they’re only called palmetto bugs in Florida, and everywhere else they’re roaches. Tree roaches, though, not cockroaches (like those that infest your home, are nearly impossible to get rid of, and fall off the ceiling into your father-in-law’s salad when you live in a really crappy apartment as an impoverished newlywed, not that that’s happened to anyone I know).

I know that these female tree roaches can fly when they’re breeding, and they stupidly fly at you, provoking your immediate urge to murder them, instead of away from you, so that you can just run off screaming uncontrollably and they’re allowed to live another day (and bear more young, bless their hearts).

Yet, over time, I’ve made a kind of bargain with them. Inside, they must die and die quickly. I no longer cringe and flee in terror (screaming for Tom at two in the morning when he’s sound asleep, not that that’s ever happened, either) when I spot them. I grab whatever is nearest and bludgeon them to death without hesitation. I don’t see them often in my house, because they’re not really inside bugs, except sometimes at Tim’s apartment, where they like to escape from the heat and look for water. But I don’t live in Tim’s apartment, so they’re his beast of burden to bear, not mine.

Outside, I just try to avoid them. After all, they’re not as big as the ones from South America that I saw (dead) in an exhibit at the Cockrell Butterfly Center (a lovely place that is mentioned in The Deal, a novel I’m sure you’ve ALL BOUGHT AND READ).

However, as I mentioned in Tim’s LJ comments, because my friend’s home in the suburbs is a magnificent showplace of trees and plants and lush foliage of many types, it is also a sanctuary for palmetto bugs tree roaches, like this one who smiled for a photo last night, just inches from where I was turning on a faucet.

for the love of all that’s dear to you, Lindsey, don’t click here to see these photos

Why do we do this?

I wrote a little comment in the new TJB book that didn’t seem significant at the time, but it must be something I’ve been subconsciously thinking about. I read a number of blogs and online journals written by women who have gay friends–more specifically, gay best friends. A common theme, sometimes even an almost-obsession, seems to be that these women are always scoping out men who could be potential suitors, husbands, or even tricks for their gay friends.

Last night, Tim and I went to Kroger’s. I was alone in Produce, Tim having gone his own way, when I saw a guy shopping alone. My mind did the rapid-fire run down “the list”: height, eye color, dental health, apparel, general demeanor, etc., all for the sake of assessing whether I wanted to say to Tim, “There was this guy in Produce that you should’ve seen…”

Later, Tim and I met up, and as we turned into a different aisle together, Guy from Produce walked past us. I did a quick glance at Tim, and saw this tiny smile play across his face. I don’t know if the smile was because he registered the guy or because he saw that I was doing it again: man shopping for him.

In reality, I would never set up Tim with anyone. Or any of my friends. Because I learned a million years ago, when I was still a teenager, that it almost never works out and generally comes back to haunt the matchmaker. But like these women whose blogs I read, I seem to take an inordinate amount of interest in the courtship habits and preferences of my gay male friends.

After thinking about it, I realized other women I know who have a lot of straight male friends are always scoping out potential females for them, too. WHY? Do we think men need help finding partners? Or can we just not stand it when they don’t seem to be attached to someone? It’s never been a practice for me to do this for the single females I know (lesbian or straight), this constant scanning for available partners. I didn’t even do that for myself when I was single, because I never had a problem being alone and never felt incomplete without a man.

And I sure never wanted anyone to constantly present potential boyfriends to me. But I have no doubt that if I were to go to Walgreen’s with Tim in the next hour, I wouldn’t hesitate to say, “Hot guy on the candy aisle…”

Other people’s dogs

Wednesday night, Tom and I went to Lynne’s. He was setting up her wireless router so Tim and I could work on our laptops even WAY OUTSIDE THE LOOP. However, his attempts to bend DSL to his will were thwarted, and he’ll have to try again. Our wireless is set up with cable modem and went smoothly, but this DSL thing… If anyone has any wisdom to share, I’ll pass it on to him though I won’t have a clue what you’re talking about.

However, I DO know dogs. And tonight I was entertained by four of them.


This is Sparky, the dog Tim has to shoot when he dogsits. With insulin shots, that is. Sparky lives by the belly, so going on a strict diet has been hard for him, but he’s a little trooper.


This is one of the granddogs, Seig. Seig would like to believe he looks ferocious, and we don’t tell him his non-pointed doberman ears make him look like a big cupcake.


This is Seig’s new little sister, Black Eyed Susan, or Sue, an American bulldog. She won’t be Seig’s little sister long, as she’s expected to weigh about a hundred pounds as an adult.


Right now, Sue’s all snoozy, pink-footed puppy. I love yelling for her outside: “Suuuue! Suuuu-eeee!” Takes me back to my Southern hog-calling days. Okay, I never called hogs, but I could have if I’d wanted to.


And this is the dowager doberman, Greta (age 15), who just wishes all of us would get the hell out of her house.