Today, the self-professed hardass dictator endured me ranting about one thing or another for about an hour in instant messages. Then he reduced me to silence by pointing out how I’d been misspelling ChloroxClorox™.
Tag: friends
rainy day
I’m so very tired. I really hoped to get a good night’s sleep last night. I can’t believe that today, I have to watch my friend bury her husband. I want to say we are too young for this, but sadly, so many of my friends lost their partners even younger.
Still… she is too young for this.
We saw some of Houston’s fireworks as we drove home from the suburbs last night. I couldn’t really appreciate them since I was trying to wend my way through parked cars ON THE INTERSTATE. I don’t think that’s legal, but hey, when people make a parking lot of three lanes of a major interstate in the fourth largest city in the country to watch fireworks, chances are the police can’t get to them to make them move.
One reason I didn’t sleep enough is because sometime after five a.m., we had our own fireworks. To the accompaniment of much thunder, the transformer in front of our house sent off an impressive array of sparks and left us without electricity. I called it in, but I was afraid to go back to sleep because I had to get up and out of here this morning. It only took them an hour to get it repaired, and by then, I was permanently awake.
So…off on a rainy, dreary day to say goodbye to a friend.
Around Our Necks
Guinness reflects on the meaning of her beads from Houston’s recent Gay Pride Parade.
Margot seems a little weighed down, but she’s a Virgo. She worries a lot.
Rex is just proud.
On a recent trip to San Diego, Lynne bought this hand-painted silk scarf by artist Carol Gardyne for me because of its rainbow colors. Check out Carol’s site for more of her work.
Hi, y’all
Hope to get caught up and post again soon. I’ve spent the last few days with my friends–the ones whose dogs Tim recently cared for–in the suburbs. These are the friends who took care of all The Compounders last year during Hurricane Rita. I’m sad to say my friend Lynne’s husband, Craig, died today. So I may be quiet for a while.
Thanks to everyone who already knew what was going on and has sent e-mails and other messages.
Confidential to David P
My in-laws are in town. They, and the rest of us at The Compound, gave your ziti with two cheeses all thumbs up. Thanks!
Waxing Rhapsodic
For several days now, Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” has been a constant refrain playing through my head. In hopes of ridding myself of this earworm–even though it’s a good one–here’s one of my few posts that actually reveals personal information about my past. I’m sure I’ll only leave it up for a day or two before I become horrified and make it private and inaccessible.
One thing about Tom and me having no kids… There’s no captive audience for our longass boring stories. And you are free, too–you can save yourself by not reading:
Bears, oh my
Have I put this photo in my LJ before? No matter. I’ve been inspired by a brilliant writer, Mark Harris, who just sent Tim and me a copy of the children’s book Corduroy, which Mark calls “the most compelling love story ever.” He’s right.
The photo below is Dr. Neil. Dr. Neil is the brown and…er…dirty bear. He was a gift to me when I was three years old and in the hospital. He came from my Uncle Gerald, who was the first person who ever called me “a writer.”
Uncle Gerald was a writer. He was a frequent contributor to a newspaper column. He wrote essays and poems. He wrote wonderful letters. He encouraged me to write letters to him, pored over them for any evidence that I had talent with words, and encouraged me in every way possible. NEVER doubt the positive effect and influence your praise can have on a child, because Uncle Gerald changed and shaped my life. Along with my parents, he taught me to call myself a writer long before I had the right. (So, Mark, if you’re reading this? Any encouragement you feel you’ve gotten from me? There’s a direct line back to Uncle Gerald.)
Uncle Gerald died when I was sixteen. But he’s alive to me every time I write. I owe him so much. And when I look at Dr. Neil, I smile at the memory of this man who, even with three children of his own and dozens more nieces and nephews, took the time to show one little girl that he loved her and wanted her to get well.
In this photo, Dr. Neil has a friend on his lap. That friend is Oscar, the battered, barely there bear of my San Diego friend Steve (the one who visited us last fall). But Oscar’s story is Steve’s to tell.
Dr. Neil, named for the man who got me well, and Dr. Neil’s friend Oscar.
Just because
Lindsey made me think of it, and I want to be able to look at it sometimes, so I’m posing a link to a photo of artist Georges Braque’s painting Fishing Boats.
road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs**
Last night I went to bed between nine and ten. I wanted to sleep through the night and get a lot done today. Instead, I woke up at 2 a.m. to some great news in an e-mail from Tim regarding a project we’re working on. I’ll be glad when that’s at a point where I can speak more publicly about it–but that’s not yet.
Of course, I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I got a few things accomplished through the night, then went out early this morning. Sent my galley changes to Kensington for A COVENTRY CHRISTMAS. Got some birthday cards in the mail. Yesterday was James’s birthday, so in his honor, I had breakfast at our favorite Baby Barnaby’s. I love that place, and it would have been better except for the very tall woman sitting at a nearby table who was showing two inches of butt-crack. Why does anyone think the rest of us want to see that while we’re eating breakfast? Stupid low-riding jeans.
On the way home, with all kinds of plans in my head for work on TJB5, I realized I was getting a migraine. I could barely see to drive. Instead of having a wonderfully productive day, I took drugs and went to sleep until four p.m. So much for my good intentions.
**Bonus points for anyone who knows the source of this entry’s title
he’s also been playing with colors
